The Echo Of The Royal Porch Poem by James Wilson Claudero

Ye Sons of Mars, with black cockade,
Who wear the gun and murd'ring blade,
Against your foes in battle hot,
And die, or conquer on the spot;
To devastation ye are bred,
By blood ye swear, and blood's your trade.
No--- (Echo then reply'd aloud,)
They do not always deal in blood;
Nor yet in breaking human bones;
For Quixotte-like they knock down stones.
Regardless they the mattock ply,
To root our Scots antiquity.
My aged arch for cent'ries ten
Hath spared been by Scottish men.
As Judah's porches, sacred mine,
Where Kings did rule by right divine.
Your antient Kings did enter here,
Tho' strangers now for many a year;
And many barons in my sight,
Were honour'd with the title, Knight,
Whose race now tamely sees my fall,
Relentless at my mournful call.
When Red-coats struck, I loud did shriek,
And to Auld Reikie thus did speak:
What is my crime? Oh! what my blot?
Auld Reikie cry'd, Thou'rt an oldScot.
What then? my Echo loud did cry,
Must Scots antiquity now die?
Yes, cry'd Auld Reikie, die you must,
For ----- at you has a disgust.
My cross likewise, of old renown,
Will next to you be tumbled down;
And by degrees each antient place
Will perish by this modern race.
My Echo then did loud rebound,
With cries which shook the neighb'ring ground;
And, all amaz'd, the soldier bands
Suspended stood with trembling hands;
While these sad accents I let fly,
Which sharply pierc'd the azure sky:
Adieu, Edina, now adieu,
Fair Scotia's glory's gone.
This said, she bow'd her antient head,
And gave the final groan.
Edina echo'd then aloud,
And bid her long farewel;
The Calton-hill and Arthur's seat
Did ring her parting knell.