The finger rested on the scar, As if mere chance had placed it there; And hid from sight this fruit of war, And left a likeness true and fair. So let us try, as best we can, To cover o'er each ugly scar Upon the brow of mortal man, So none may see it, near nor far. "ASHAMED, BUT NOT AFRAID" O God, I am ashamed to die, But not the least afraid; Tho' death's dark shadow draweth nigh, Atonement has been made For every member of our race, And I on it rely, And hope immortal blooms thro' grace; I'm not afraid to die. But Thou hast done great things for me, And I have nothing done. To set my sin-bound spirit free, Was sacrificed Thy Son; And every day by Thy kind hand Rich blessings are bestowed; Oh, how can I before Thee stand, Or rest in Thine abode With self-respect, or feel at home With no returns to show, My whole life like the worthless foam On time's incessant flow. Oh, that in life's great harvest field, I may some reaping do; Early and late the sickle wield, And prove a reaper true. And when the summons comes from Thee, While I on Christ rely, Thou wilt not be ashamed of me, Nor I ashamed to die. DUNBAR Up to Dunbar our Cromwell went, Not to invade was his intent; But they who first King Charles sold Now turn their backs on friends of old, And principles they then held dear Were sacrificed for self, I fear. Another Stuart they receive, Who knew too well how to deceive; The most perfidious of his race, Corrupt in life, and void of grace, The menial of the Papacy; And yet content by oath to free Himself from Holy See's control, And covenant to save his soul By the Scotch Presbyterian mode, As to the crown this paved the road. But Cromwell brooked not this control; He wished man free to save his soul As conscience may to him dictate, Without subservience to the State. He saw also thro' the disguise Of one well versed in fraud and lies, And saw how England's liberties Were threatened by this scheme of his. So up to Dunbar Cromwell went; To break this compact his intent, Conserve the rights of Britons true To worship God in desk and pew As conscience may to them dictate, Without control of king, or state, Or Papal "bull," or legate's rod-- Only accountable to God. On Sunday night he reached Dunbar. From darkened sky gleamed not a star; The way he travelled o'er was drear, Made doubly so by Scotchmen's fear. At his approach like sheep they fled, Made frantic by an awful dread Of red-hot irons, spear, and sword, Of breasts thrust thro', and bodies gored, Which they were told would be their lot When Cromwell came. So from each cot They bore away what pleased them best, And to the flames consigned the rest. But now Dunbar is reached; yet he Finds himself in extremity; Midst swamps and bogs unfit to tent, By Lammermoor from hillside rent, Leslie in front defiant stands A noble army he commands Of thousands two score seven, or more, Ready on Cromwell shot to pour. Behind the sea cut off retreat;