Stanzas On Some Skulls In Beauly Abbey, Near Inverness

I In silent barren Synod met, Within those roofless walls where yet The shafted arch and carved fret Cling to the ruin, The brethren’s skulls mourn, dewy wet, Their creed’s undoing. II The mitred ones of Nice and Trent Were not so tongue-tied — no, they went Hot to their Councils, scarce content With orthodoxy; But ye, poor tongueless things, were meant To speak by proxy. III Your chronicles no more exist, Since Knox, the revolutionist, Destroyed the work of every fist That scrawled black letter. Well! I’m a craniologist And may do better. IV This skull-cap wore the cowl from sloth Or discontent, perhaps from both, And yet one day, against his oath, He tried escaping, For men, though idle, may be loth To live on gaping. V A toper this! he plied his glass More strictly than he said the Mass, And loved to see a tempting lass Come to confession, Letting her absolution pass O’er fresh transgression. VI This crawled through life in feebleness, Boasting he never knew excess, Cursing those crimes he sarce could guess, Or feel but faintly, With prayers that Heaven would come to bless Men so unsaintly. VII Here’s a true Churchman! he’d affect Much charity, and ne’er neglect To pray for mercy on th’ elect, But thought no evil In sending heathen, Turk and sect All to the Devil! VIII Poor skull, thy fingers set ablaze, With silver Saint in golden rays, The holy missal. Thou didst craze ‘Mid bead and spangle, While others passed their idle days In coil and wrangle. IX Long time this sconce a helmet wore, But sickness smites the conscience sore; He broke his sword, and hither bore His gear and plunder, Took to the cowl — then raved and swore At his damned blunder! X This lily-coloured skull, with all The teeth complete, so white and small, Belonged to one whose early pall A lover shaded; He died ere superstition’s gall His heart invaded. XI Ha! here is ” undivulged crime!” Despair forbade his soul to climb Beyond this world, this mortal time Of fevered sadness, Until their monkish pantomime Dazzled his madness! XII A younger brother this! A man Aspiring as a Tartar Khan, But, curbed and baffled, he began The trade of frightening. It smacked of power! — and here he ran To deal Heaven’s lightning. XIII This idiot-skull belonged to one, A buried miser’s only son, Who, penitent, ere he’d begun To taste of pleasure, And hoping Heaven’s dread wrath to shun, Gave Hell his treasure. XIV Here is the forehead of an ape, A robber’s mark — and near the nape That bone, fie on’t, bears just the shape Of carnal passion; Ah! he was one for theft and rape, In monkish fashion! XV This was the Porter! — he could sing, Or dance, or play, do anything, And what the friars bade him bring, They ne’er were balked of (Matters not worth remembering And seldom talked of). XVI Enough! why need I further pore? This corner holds at least a score, And yonder twice as many more Of Reverend Brothers; ‘Tis the same story o’er and o’er — They’re like the others!