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THE Pope he was saying the high, high mass,
All on Saint Peter's day,
With the power to him given, by the saints in
To wash men's sins away.
The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,
And from each man's soul his sins did pass,
And all, among the crowded throng,
The holy accents rung.
At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear,
And, when he would the chalice rear,
"The breath of one, of evil deed,
"A being, whom no blessed word
Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise!
My adjuration fear!
I charge thee not to stop my voice,
Amid them all a Pilgrim kneel'd,
Far journeying from his native field,
For forty days and nights so drear,
Amid the penitential flock,
Seem'd none more bent to pray;
But, when the Holy Father spoke,
He and went his way.
Again unto his native land
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,
His unblest feet his native seat,
Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; Through woods more fair no stream more sweet
Rolls to the eastern main.
And lords to meet the Pilgrim came,
And boldly for his country still,
Ay, even when, on the banks of Till,
Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
There the rapt poet's step may rove,
From that fair dome, where suit is paid, By blast of bugle free,
To Auchendinny's hazel glade,
And haunted Woodhouselee.
Who knows not Melville's beechy grove, And Roslin's rocky glen,
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,
And classic Hawthornden?