First of the first, I tell it in your ear (For tho' we whisper, heaven, you know, can hear) This faultless country ne'er deserv'd my hate; Just are its pleas; unmerited its fate. When North ordained me to this thankless place, My conscience rose and star'd me in the face, And spite of all I did to quench its flame, Convinc'd me I was wrong before I came.-- But what, alas, can mortal heroes do, They are but men, as sacred writings shew,-- Tho' I refus'd, they urged me yet the more, Nay, even the king descended to implore, And often with him in his closet pent, Was plagu'd to death to rule this armament; Who could a monarch's favourite wish deny? I yielded just for peace--ay, faith did I-- If this be sin, O tell me, reverend sage, What will, alas, become of guilty Gage? _Friar_ If this be sin--'tis sin, I make no doubt, But trust me, honour'd sir, I'll help you out, Even tho' your arms had rag'd from town to town, And mow'd like flags these rebel nations down, And joyful bell return'd the murdering din, And you yourself the master butcher been,-- All should be well--from sins like this, I ween, A dozen masses shall discharge you clean; Small pains in purgatory you'll endure, And hell, you know, is only for the poor, Pay well the priest and fear no station there, For heaven must yield to vehemence of prayer. _Gage_ Heaven grant that this may be my smallest sin; Alas, good friar, I'm yet deeper in-- Come round my bed, with friendly groans condole, To gratify my paunch, I've wrong'd my soul; Arms I may wield and murder by command, Spread devastation thro' a guiltless land, Whole ranks to hell with howling cannon sweep-- But what had I to do with stealing sheep?[117] I've read my orders, conn'd them o'er with care, But not a word of stealing sheep is there; Come, holy friar, can you make a shift To help a sinner at so dead a lift? Or must I onward to perdition go, With theft and murder to complete my woe? _Friar_ Murder--nay, hold!--your honour is too sad, Things are not yet, I hope, become so bad, Murder, indeed--you've stole, and that I know, But, sir, believe me, you've not struck a blow; Some few Americans have bled, 'tis true, But 'twas the soldiers killed them, and not you. _Gage_ Well said, but will this subtile reasoning stand? Did not the soldiers murder by command, By my command?--Friar, they did, I swear, And I must answer for their deeds, I fear. _Friar_ Let each man answer for his proper deed, From sins of murder I pronounce you freed, And this same reasoning will your honour keep From imputations of purloining sheep: Wallace for this to Rome shall post away, And for this crying sin severely pay, And tho' his zeal may think his penance slight, Hair cloth and logs shall be his bed at night, Coarse fare by day--till his repeated groans Convince the world he for this sin atones. _Gage_