Excerpt
BARCLAY OF URY.
Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of Friends in Scotland was Barclay of Ury, an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought under Gustavus Adolphus, in Germany. As a Quaker, he became the object of persecution and abuse at the hands of the magistrates and the populace. None bore the indignities of the mob with greater patience and nobleness of soul than this once proud gentleman and soldier. One of his friends, on an occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that he should be treated so harshly in his old age who had been so honored before. "I find more satisfaction," said Barclay, "as well as honor, in being thus insulted for my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was usual for the magistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on the road and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain my favor."
Up the streets of Aberdeen,By the kirk and college green,Rode the Laird of Ury;Close behind him, close beside,Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,Pressed the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl,Jeered at him the serving-girl,Prompt to please her master;And the begging carlin, lateFed and clothed at Ury's gate,Cursed him as he passed her.
Yet, with calm and stately mien,Up the streets of AberdeenCame he slowly riding;And, to all he saw and heard,Answering not with bitter word,Turning not for chiding.
Came a troop with broadswords swinging,Bits and bridles sharply ringing,Loose and free and froward;Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down!Push him! prick him! through the townDrive the Quaker coward!"
But from out the thickening crowdCried a sudden voice and loud"Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!"And the old man at his sideSaw a comrade, battle tried,Scarred and sunburned darkly;
Who with ready weapon bare,Fronting to the troopers there,Cried aloud: "God save us,Call ye coward him who stoodAnkle deep in Lutzen's blood,With the brave Gustavus?"
"Nay, I do not need thy sword,Comrade mine," said Ury's lord;"Put it up, I pray theePassive to His holy will,Trust I in my Master still,Even though He slay me.
"Pledges of thy love and faith,Proved on many a field of death,Not by me are needed."Marvelled much that henchman bold,That his laird, so stout of old,Now so meekly pleaded.
"Woe's the day!" he sadly said,With a slowly shaking head,And a look of pity;"Ury's honest lord reviled,Mock of knave and sport of child,In his own good city.
"Speak the word, and, master mine,As we charged on Tilly's[8] line,And his Walloon lancers,Smiting through their midst we'll teachCivil look and decent speechTo these boyish prancers!"
"Marvel not, mine ancient friend,Like beginning, like the end:"Quoth the Laird of Ury;"Is the sinful servant moreThan his gracious Lord who boreBonds and stripes in Jewry?
"Give me joy that in His nameI can bear, with patient frame,All these vain ones offer;While for them He suffereth long,Shall I answer wrong with wrong,Scoffing with the scoffer...?