Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock, Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant;— He slew and saved them from the pangs of want. Nor was his solitary lawless charm Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm; He had his moods of kindness now and then, And feasted ev’n well-mannered lowland men Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame, Nor prefaced with “pretender” Charles’s name. Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon, He loved, respected ev’n his wiser son; And brooked from him expostulations sage, When all advisers else were spurned with rage. Far happier times had moulded Ronald’s mind, By nature too of more sagacious kind. His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin, Squared well with the firm man that reigned within. Contemning strife as childishness, he stood With neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood, And whilst his father’s anger nought availed, _His_ rational remonstrance never failed. Full skilfully he managed farm and fold, Wrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold: And, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply took Delight to be informed, by speech or book, Of that wide world beyond his mountain home, Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam. Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock, He read long hours when summer warmed the rock: Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm, Even pedlars’ news had to his mind a charm; That like an intellectual magnet-stone Drew truth from judgments simpler than his own. His soul’s proud instinct sought not to enjoy Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy; Truth, standing on her solid square, from youth He worshipped—stern uncompromising truth. His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find A votary of her light in land so blind; She bade majestic History unroll Broad views of public welfare to his soul, Until he looked on clannish feuds and foes With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows; Whilst doubts assailed him, o’er and o’er again, If men were made for kings or kings for men. At last, to Norman’s horror and dismay, He flat denied the Stuarts’ right to sway. No blow-pipe ever whitened furnace fire, Quick as these words lit up his father’s ire; Who envied even old Abraham for his faith, Ordained to put his only son to death. He started up—in such a mood of soul The white bear bites his showman’s stirring pole; He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl, “O Dia! Dia! and Dioul! Dioul!”[100]