...Jacque de Molay, knowing that the pope was a pawn of King Philippe, arranged for the Paris horde (of Templar treasure) be removed in a fleet of 18 galleys from La Rochelle. Most ships sailed to Scotland and some to Portugal, but the king was unaware of this and had negotiated with various monarchs to...pursue the Templars outside of France.
In Scotland however, the story was very different; the papal Bull was totally ignored. King David I of Scots granted Hugues de Payens, (the Templar head, after de Molay had been executed), and his Knights the lands of Ballantradoch, by the Firth of Forth (now the village of Temple), and they established their primary seat on the South Esk.
A large contingent fought at Bannockburn in 1314...From the time of Robert the Bruce, each successive Bruce and Stewart heir was a Knight Templar from birth, and by virtue of this, the Scots royal line comprised not only Priest Kings but Knight Priest Kings.
....
In addition to the Jerusalem bullion, the Templars also found a wealth of ancient manuscripts in Hebrew and Syriac, providing first-hand accounts that had not been edited by any ecclesiastical authority.
In the light of these, it was widely accepted that the Knights possessed an insight which eclipsed orthodox Christianity -- an insight which permitted them the certainty that the Church had misinterpreted both the Virgin Birth and the Resurrection. They were neverthless highly regarded as holy men at this time, and were firmly attached to the Cistercian popes of the era.
Laurence Gardner
Bloodline of the Holy Grail
........
"Gunther also told me that when the Templar Order was destroyed by the King of France and the Pope, that the Templar fleet transported the Templar gold to several places. One was on Oak Island, but that gold was eventually transferred to a cave somewhere in the U.S. The major part of the Templar gold was taken to the Philippines...
"Over the ensuing centuries other members of secret orders transported sacred texts from all over the world to caves in the Philippines. The texts that were transferred to these caves were made of gold or stone. Texts from papyrus, leather or paper were taken to the salt mines near Salzburg, Austria."
Rayelan Allen
The Obergon Chronicles
...........
...According to an eye witness account from the end of WWII, a German Heinkel 277 V-1 left Salzburg, Austria, bound for the East, possibly Nepal or Tibet, with a plane load of cargo believed to include the (missing) ancient Cathar relics (from Montsegur). According to Howard Buechner, a retired US Army Colonel, on board the German plane were also "twelve stone tablets of the Germanic Grail, which contained the key to ultimate knowledge."
Mark Amaru Pinkham
Guardians of the Holy Grail
referencing David Hatcher Childress
........
The party was comfortably relaxing by the fire, scones nearly gone, when Jeanne piped up with, 'So, the huge round table, husband?' She nodded to the giant oaken table dominating one side of the room before them. 'Are ye expecting Arthur and his knights, perhap?'
A wild reddish eyebrow lifted in answer to her query. 'And what if I were, wife?' A grin hovered about his lips.
Taking a stance before the fire, hands behind back, Alex began his sermon: 'Ye might have heard that Camelot was once thought to be in Scotland!' He nodded at the surprised look on Em's face, (and Jeanne's look of, 'Ach, what noo?')
'In truth,' Alex looked down, slowly shaking his head, 'T'was Arthur who lost Britain and Celtic lands to the Saxons. I know, 'tis not what the tales would have you believe! But,' he raised a finger in point, 'deep study of history, and historical fact, will back up what I say to you; in the Chronicles of Holyrood and of Melrose, it is written.' Alex stated, and, pontificating like a Saracen quoting the Prophet, he began to slowly pace as he continued:
'Alas, Arthur became obsessed with Roman rule and Roman Christianity. This was not the Celtic Church the like of which ye ken at Iona, nor even in Eire, nay; and thus made an enemy of his own son, Mordred, who was Archpriest of the Sacred Kindred of Columba. His son was forced to oppose his father on the battlefield only to try to save the Scots kingdom from losing its ancient Druidic heritage, ye ken.'
Alex ceased his pacing and sighed. 'After Arthur, the days of Celtic lordship were done.' He raised a hand and nodded to Emlyn, 'Note well, Cambria! After more than six centuries of tradition, Cadwaladr of Wales, was, in fact: the last Pendragon!'
Emlyn had sat spellbound through Alex's discourse. Ah, so much for Arthur, then...but she'd a niggling notion all along that what he'd spoken of was perhaps truth. Arthur, along with Gwenivere, both did seem rather priest-ridden. Especially compared with the rest of his faery family and tutor Merlin. Also, she'd harbored a secret crush of sorts on Mordred...
If only Shannon were here to witness Alex's denunciatory deprecation of Arthur and his Roman recalcitrance...hardly the rhetoric of a true believer!
'But what of Merlin, then?' Em was curious what enigma Alex might pull out of his hat there.
'Ah, the Merlin, now!' Alex perked up. 'THE Merlin; a title, like that of The Pendragon, aye. The infamous Merlin who came before Arthur's time was Taliesin the Bard, Viviane I del Acqs' husband; a Welshman true, and Kelt in body, soul and mind. The title of Seer to the King passed to Emrys of Powys, the son of Arelius. Merlin Emrys of Arthur's time, was an elder cousin of King Aedan.'
'Ask him no question, he'll tell ye no lies!' Jeanne remarked to Em. 'However, he may never pause for breath, either!'
...A failing of many, Em noted.
Alex simply smiled at his lovely wife.
The lovely Jeanne sighed. '-- And the great muckle table, husband?'
'Ah! The table noo...' Alex pivoted and strode to the oaken monster polished to a deep golden sheen and stroked it caressingly like a favorite mare.
'Tis a grand thing, is it no?' He bent over and looked across its shining surface, one eye closed. He straightened and gave it a final pat. 'All four square and on the level, so it 'tis!' He pronounced.
Jeanne turned to Em, smiling smoothly. 'At some point in time...tonight, possibly! -- We might just learn of the table's use and the reason for it. All in the master's precious good time.'
Unruffled, Alex turned to stir the fire and then cleared away the tea things. 'Potatoes are done. More to come, along wi' the Salmon of Knowledge!' Alex slipped them a wink in his wake.
As her husband made for the kitchen, Jeanne sighed softly.
Emlyn shifted a glance her way. 'I was just wondering what Shannon would make of Alex ripping the mickey out of King Arthur the bloody papist!'
Jeanne chuckled. 'So I was, Em!' She shook her head. 'Ah, Shannon...the wee isean never stays about long enough to give the mon half a chance!' She glanced Em's way. 'And ye've seen how he does go on once he's worked up; can't get the mon to stop his natterin' on...'
Alex softly strode up behind them then, and putting his head around Jeanne's, gave his wife a bus on the cheek, and began whispering into her ear:
'-- A ceilidh. Aye? Serve some salmon to friends, an' a wee bit of ceol beag, and makin' free with fiddles and faoineas this night. What say ye, wife?'
Jeanne cleared her throat. 'This, is a surprise, I take it?'
Alex stood. 'That it is!' He looked well-pleased.
Jeanne frowned. 'Is it no late in the day to be arrangin' such, husband?'
'Ach, no.' Alex picked up more logs and built up the fire. 'Tis all arranged.' He knocked the ashes from the poker and set it in the rack.
'Sean Munroe's waggon will be bringing folk up from Emlyn's patch; wi' his lady Mrs.Murphy o'course, and, eh, your friend, Jethro, is it?' Em nodded, amazed. 'Oh, and that other friend you mentioned, Aleister; he said Jack and Homer may or may no be able to make it. Now, let's see, an' the rest o' the Bards, aye...' Alex paused, 'that's a musical group, ye ken. '
'We ken, indeed!' Jeanne stood then. 'Alex, why did ye not tell me, let me help wi' the planning?'
'You had your plans with Emlyn, luv. No matter, 'tis all taken care of.'
Alex was still grinning, knowing what his dear wife would be working herself up to. 'Ah, and!' He took Jeanne's hand and held it to his lips. 'Wee Shannon is coming as weel.' He looked quite proud then. 'She's riding along wi' the Bards.'
Jeanne gave Em a silent stare, heavy with portent. 'So I see. Well.'
She sighed. 'A ceilidh it is then!'
.......
A screeching of brakes and a sudden jerk woke Daryl from a feverish sleep. He could barely get his eyes open...or could he? His head fell to his chest and he half-returned to his dream, which soon took him and rode him like the nightmare she was...and an odd one too...
Had something to do with a volcano...he beheld not the mountain from outside, but found himself within the belly of the beast. In wonder he gazed about at the rivers of lava, magma flowing slow...yet he didn't feel the heat at all. And that wasn't the only oddity.
Volundar Kane, the Order's smith, was there with him, smiling grimly.
'Back to the forge with you!'
He then brought forth a curved sword, and dipped it into the swirling hot lava. When he withdrew it, the hot mud became sparks as he swung it overhead, the embers disappearing like stars in morning light.
'Recognise this?' He asked, and tossed it to Daryl, who stepped back and watched it stick into the rocks at his feet.
Daryl felt a hand upon his shoulder then. Turning, he saw Abdul and Rashid -- they who had procured The Sword from the Toledo smiths for him.
Rashid, son of Abdul, stepped forth and grasped the sword's handle. 'We will keep this for you. When you are ready, it will again be yours.'
He sheathed the blade and then stood beside his father. Abdul spoke: 'Not yet. Sleep now. May Al-Khadir keep you.'
Then, as suddenly as they had appeared; together, they blinked out -- quickly as genie from Aladdin's lamp.
This caused Volundar Kane great mirth. His deep laughter echoed about the volcano's pit, bouncing off the walls like mocking dwarfs hiding in the crimson dark.
Daryl's dream-world began to shake as Kane's laughter continued, bubbling up from the magma; he could still hear it in his head as he awoke, gasping, sweating.
All right, old man?' St.John was sitting next to Daryl, frowning with concern. 'You slept long.'
Daryl hardly knew what to think. His head felt full of mud and magma. His mouth was dry as the Sahara. He attempted to croak a response.
'Here.' St.John handed him a water skin. Daryl accepted gratefully and drank deep.
'Merci.' He handed over the water. The train lurched forward once more and began to pick up speed.
'We're...on a train?' He enquired. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his hair and blinked about him. He was sitting next to the window, St.John beside him. How the devil had he gotten here?
What had happened to Alaska? Daryl felt utterly befogged, his head kept slumping downward.
'Coffee! That's what you need.' St.John checked his pocket watch. 'Nearly lunch time. You'll feel more yourself after a good feed.'
Daryl blinked lazily and stared out at the passing scenery, trying to catch up with himself. Mind lagged behind body by many hours, if not days.
He was going to need something far beyond coffee.
......
After his third cup, Daryl's head began to register thoughts, memories once more. Still, there seemed to be a great blank space betwixt the then and now.
'You slept.' St.John was not much help. He poked his fork Daryl's way. 'You, are the one who insisted on emptying my wee brown bottles! Not exactly mothers' milk, that...' He frowned as he ordered more coffee and baguettes from the waitstaff in the dining car. 'I assume your back is better now?'
It wasn't easy still, staying fully awake, especially with the rocking rhythm of the train, the grasses and wheat fields passing by with the hypnotic uninterrupted sameness of prairie as they headed east.
'It is better, yes. But I've traded physical ease for mental mush, it seems.' Daryl needed some fresh air, exercise. What he would give for that last stroll along the docks and bracing sea air now...
'You'll survive.' St.John assured him, pouring more coffee and tearing off fresh bread as soon as it arrived. 'We have plenty of time yet to go over plans before we embark by boat to Nova Scotia.' He paused, then slathered a goodly glob of butter on his bread before asking, 'What do you know of your country's financial beginnings?'
Sipping coffee more slowly, now that he felt more jittery than awake, Daryl forced his neurons in gear, frowning at the effort. 'Ah, let's see; well, around the time of the Revolution, you mean? That far back?'
'A bit farther,' St.John replied, leaning back, baguette in hand like a large cigar.
'Well...Franklin, and Jefferson, of course were both dead set against a central bank. England was up to it's royal ears in debt at the time, thanks to the machinations of Rothschild et al, and Bank of England.' He held up a hand, 'And, please, no anti-semitic conspiracy crap needed; Rothschild is hardly typical of the Jewish race.'
'Well said.' St.John's wee eyes flashed a small fire within. Pointing with the heel of his baguette, he continued:
'Hamilton it was, Washington's former secretary of the Treasury, who was the villain here; who had formed the Federalist party, which was nothing but a cabal of bankers eager to get their claws into the fresh blood of the new republic.'
Daryl broke his bread into small pieces and chewed thoughtfully.
'True. The colonies were doing well enough with their own script until English bankers enacted the Currency Act. We could no longer print our own money, and then King George proclaimed we had to pay in silver and gold only! Madness...' Daryl slowly shook his head, gazing out the window at golden fields of wheat.
'And, hence, soon enough, the Revolution.'
St.John smiled that dark grimace of his. 'Hamilton, indeed. It was after Franklin's death that he convinced the rest of the founders that having an American central bank would be better than doing business with English or other international bankers. But, he never mentioned that it would be just these same bankers who would ultimately control any American bank.'
'One doesn't learn this in schools...' Daryl mused. 'I wonder how many of my countrymen have the least notion of what's what concerning our underlying reality. Power in the hands of the few, the elite, is what brought our, ah, country...' Daryl paused, realising that he was about to say "world", '...to its knees. And, the cause of war. Really, the cause of all wars.'
Privately Daryl wondered how things would have gone if Aaron Burr had been a little quicker on the trigger and dispatched Hamilton before he'd allowed the cabal to get their hooks into the new nation.
Daryl wondered too where all this was headed, other than New Scotland... Was St.John trying to trip him up? -- Get him to admit to some overarching knowledge of world events in his own time? And what of St.John and his own anachronistic asides? And the Order? -- What had he to do with them, Raimundo and Sebastiao?
Was this another chess game to him? Just what was St.John playing at? Daryl knew he had better be fully awake before engaging in any battle of wits with this mini-Machiavelli.
St.John appeared rather relaxed and seemingly satisfied with how this foray seemed to be progressing. At last he pushed his plate aside and remarked, 'I wonder how things would be now,' his gaze caught Daryl's eye in a steely focus, 'if one could, perhaps, change or alter certain events of the past...'
He sank his teeth into the remains of the baguette and teared it asunder, chewing roughly. 'Hmm...'tis an enticing supposition, non?'
.......
Daryl excused himself to take some air.
Feeling more like simply leaping from the train, he contented himself with standing outside the back of the coach where he could breathe some fresher air and maybe get his chaotic thoughts in order. "Order From Chaos", indeed.
Running both hands through his hair, he scratched his skull frantically, trying to kick-start his mental motor. Then smoothing back what he could, he noted his hands shaking...from feeling near-comatose to hyperactive, he still felt more artificially awake than like someone who had rested well and awakened naturally.
So that was St.John's game then...Daryl grasped the railing surrounding the caboose and hung his head. What a bloody idiot he'd been! How did he not see this coming?
St.John needed a patsy, a dope, a minion, a fool to do his dirty work for him. Enter: Daryl.
Gad, he really was out of it. Had been for some time... Time, again. Daryl had about had it with TIME; past, future, and especially now.
He looked up and noticed a steam thresher in the fields being stoked by farmhands, its iron plate open to reveal the pit of fire and coals within...and then, as the train chugged onward, it passed...
-- His dream! That was it! He remembered now; Volundar Kane, the volcano. Flowing lava...Abdul and Rashid! And, the Toledo Sword...his prize of Damascene steel -- now gone.
That had been a warning if ever there was.
Daryl was sure they had retrieved his sword. Later, it would be returned, they'd said. He'd no doubt that he would not find that sword at home where he had left it. It was truly gone.
He frowned, finding concentration difficult...the Box, however; that, and the Cup, would still be there. And, St.John, that faithless fox, had sold him the Box. Did he know of its time-bending powers? Obviously!
And all this about Hamilton...he had put the blame for the new republic's enslavement to a central bank firmly upon the man. Was he gearing himself up to enact a coup of sorts? Daryl fervently hoped assassination was not in mind. The man would get his in a duel, later. Too late for St.John perhaps?
Daryl heard himself groan. How in hell had he allowed things to get this far? True, he'd been in a bad way at the time, what with his back attack, being grounded, and Emlyn's leaving, for good, it'd seemed. So much had been up in the air; and then he'd given in to his new 'partner's' seemingly unending supply of poppy juice, just when he was in great pain and at his most vulnerable.
Not exactly kidnapped, but near enough. Now here he was somewhere truly in the middle of nowhere or Manitoba, whichever...nothing for miles. May as well be Siberia.
'"All men that are ruined are ruined on the side of their natural propensities," so saith Burke,' Daryl quoth, noting the truth in that statement. And it did not comfort him in the least.
He'd have to play along, for a while. When he found himself back somewhere that was Somewhere, he could better effect an escape.
Daryl sighed. He wondered where Emlyn was now, what she was doing. At least she was surely in a better situation than his inescapable present. And what would St.John think, once Daryl had to confess he was grounded? Better that he simply disappear before it came to that.
'Wherever you are, Em; it's nothing like the mess I've landed myself in.' And that, at least, was some comfort to him.
.........
'This,' Emlyn declared, 'is by far the best salmon I have ever tasted!'
Alex smiled and offered more salad. 'Alder smoked,' he commented. 'I have connections with some of the local tribes here and have learned from the masters, indeed.'
'Indeed,' Jeanne echoed. 'The salmon, salad and, lest we forget, the potatoes, are all delicious, husband. But, my dear, how will this feed tonight's party?'
In answer, Alexander held up a hand, then, heading to the French doors, opened both wide. He slipped them a smile over his shoulder.
'More cider?' He enquired, returning to table where he topped off their glasses.
Jeanne sent an unfathomable look to Em, but stayed quiet and sipped cool cider a while. Soon, there wafted through the air from without, the definitive succulent scent of roasting meats and fish...
'Tis all under control, wife.' Alex looked pleased with himself as he turned to build up the hearth fire. 'Marcel and Tobias are with the salmon masters, and I have entrusted the comestibles for the evening into their capable hands.'
Jeanne and Emlyn were up from their seats in a trice, heading for the doors, leaving Alex's chuckles behind them.
'Tis a potlatch!' Em exclaimed excitedly, leaning round the door beside Jeanne, who looked quizzically her way. 'An Indian cook-out and party. Everyone brings something and all are fed. It's a way of giving back to the community.'
Alex sidled up behind them, putting an arm about Jeanne's waist.
'That's so. I bought a great mess of fish, and they are trading their cooking expertise for that...and one of the Clydes.'
'A fair trade, indeed.' Jeanne seemed pleased. Turning to Em she whispered, 'One less Clydesdale will be not an inconsequential addition of more hay and grain to the horses' larder. We've Clydes to spare.'
'Aye,' Alex sighed, 'Tha's so. I'm a collector, ye ken. Just look about, eh?' He waved a large hand, 'And Joseph Tall Bear was glad of the harse for the harvesting.'
Emlyn bethought to herself that the man must have means indeed to be a Clydesdale Collector...she also noted the grooms gathered about the large fire, now burned down to coals, with a haunch of beef above on a spit, and several chickens as well, ringed with split salmon on small upright stakes around the fire.
Close by, beneath a giant oak tree, was gathered a group of native men, smoking and talking together, who would occasionally arise and check the fire, adding wood chips and turning the meats.
'Is there anything we could do to help, in the meantime?' Emlyn enquired. 'It will be hours until supper time.'
'Nay, 'tis all arranged.' Alex shut the doors. 'We'll head out there soon enough. But, come! Take your cider and we'll show ye round the hoose, eh? There's much ye've not seen, still.'
.......
And so it was that Em at last became privy to the sights which Shannon had claimed were worthy of shock and awe.
Amazing, astounding, enormous and intriguing, all; and yet, Emlyn wasn't so...so, well, discomfited as Shannon had been, at the sight of towering statues of avenging archangels, sword or lance in hand, or paintings of Sir Galahad with angels hovering over, or a buck-naked Mary Magdalene by Lanfranco hefted aloft by wee angelic arms...
'1600s,' Alex stated proudly. 'Before the Church could bind more art with chains, eh?'
Indeed, Em's assessment of Alex's rare and eclectic assortment, on the whole, would be considered anathema to any church-goer, be they Catholic or Protestant. At the very least, heretical, and not far from being absolutely antithetical to anyone's notion of Christianity.
Finding these dissident religious icons and items cheek by jowl with cavorting Greek gods and goddesses, (Pan, satyrs and nymphs a-plenty), Egyptian statues of Isis and Osirus, Ibis headed Thoth and Jackal headed Anubis would strike most observers as being positively heterodoxical, as well as so eclectic as to be positively chaotic. A reflection of Kidd's inner being, perhaps?
'"I am for religion, against religions,"'Alex stated, quoting Victor Hugo.
'"We've enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to have us love one another,"' Jeanne countered with Jonathan Swift.
Oy, Emlyn sighed mentally, having been stunned rather sledge-hammerlike, by the opulence of it all. 'All I see here is...for me, truly beyond words.'
Alex smiled. 'Well said, Em. But, come -- ye've yet to see my study!'
Off they trooped behind Alex as he led them downstairs, down a long hallway paneled in dark mahogany. Opening a pair of doors, they entered a room walled round with dark burgundy and forest green plaid. Crossed swords, pole axes, and lances lined the walls between the artworks.
'Enter of thine own free will'!' He ushered them within, closing the doors behind. Emlyn wondered about that as she drifted about the room, gazing at the many paintings artfully framed in dark woods, not the rococco gilt that could distract from subject. That, a relief, at least. Her eyes ached from so much looking...but she soldiered on. Of her own free will, hmm...shades of the Twyleth Teg, that.
'It would seem...' she began, 'to be a profile of Scottish history in art?',
'Oh, well done, Em!' Alex shot a look at Jeanne, who rolled her eyes pleasantly, used to her husband's habit of buttering up guests, as she bethought it, and took herself a seat upon the comfortable sofa...which matched the plaid walls. Of course.
'Tis just that,' he continued, sidling up to Emlyn who was engaged in study of a battle scene. 'Robert the Bruce, of course. He'd sheltered Templar Knights who had escaped into Scotland, on the run from the king of France, as well as the pope. T'was their aid helped the Scots to win that day; the Feast Day of St.John, June 24th, at Bannockburn...
'And here, of course,' He strode farther on, noting the latter works, 'Our Bonnie Prince Charlie.'
Emlyn was of two minds regarding the prince. Such a waste of Highland bone and blood, all for this man...could it have been prevented?
'They ought ne'er to have turned back at Derby.' Alex was speaking so softly Em had barely heard. 'If only the Scottish army had continued from there, onward into London! Ach! There need never ha' been the massacre at Cullodun!'
Jeanne had arisen and joined Alex, taking his hand in solidarity as they all gazed at the painting of Charles Edward Stuart before them. Alex sighed, and turned to Em.
'Have ye never thought how things might have been changed for the better, if Scotland had won their independence back then? And how things would be now, if only, somehow, it would be possible to travel through time, and make it so!'
Emlyn returned his gaze, and although his words had seemed innocent enough, just an offhand remark...his eyes seemed to glitter with a wild intent that she found rather disconcerting.
'Yes, it does make one wonder,' she replied. But her wonder concerned Jeanne's enigmatic new husband, and his intentions...
Just how much had Jeanne told him, she worried; for, in the spirit of Triad Sisterhood, she'd allowed Jeanne and Shannon to share in her timewalking. Shannon even had a portable device.
Suddenly, Emlyn wasn't so sure about the seemingly too-good-to-be-true Alexander Kidd, gentleman pirate? Things were becoming oxymoronic fast.
She also felt the need for backup. Jethro & the Bards couldn't get here quick enough, she felt.
Kidd's hospitality gave off a wee whiff of duplicity...
....................
Scottish Hospitality:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVJIWl74Qbs
thanks to Ricky Fulton's "Scotch & Wry"
CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YEDy3vEX8Ms
Ye Jacobites by Name - ARANY ZOLTAN
Robert Burns lived not long after the Jacobite Uprising of
1745/46. Following the conflict, many songs were written, usually in
support of the Jacobite cause. But a few were written putting the
government/Hanoverian point of view. When Burns was putting together a
collection of songs he had found while going round Scotland, he found
one of these and wrote his own version. While Burns had expressed
sympathy for the French Revolution, he clearly had no liking for the
Jacobites.
Ye Jacobites by name, now give an ear, give an ear,
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear;
Ye Jacobites by name,
Your fautes I will proclaim,
Your docrines I maun blame - you shall hear!
What is Right, and what is Wrang, by the law, by the law?
What is Right, and what is Wrang, by the law,
What is Right, and what is Wrang,
A short sword and a lang,
A weak arm and a strang, for to draw!
What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?
What makes heroic strife, famed afar?
What makes heroic strife?
To whet th' assassin's knife,
Or hunt a Parent's life, wi' bluidy war!
Then let your schemes alone, in the State, in the State!
Then let your schemes alone, in the State!
Then let your schemes alone,
Adore the rising sun,
And leave a man undone, to his fate.
.......
