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 “Nay, I do not need thy sword,
Comrade mine,” said Ury's lord;
“Put it up, I pray thee:
Passive 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's1 line,
And his Walloon lancers,
Smiting through their midst we'll teach
Civil look and decent speech
To these boyish prancers! “
“Marvel not, mine ancient friend,
Like beginning, like the end:”
Quoth the Laird of Ury;
“Is the sinful servant more
Than his gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?
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