The In-and-Out-of-Body Experience of Giles Corey
Featuring either directy or indirectly, Exekiel Cheevers, John Putnam Jr., Ann Putnam, Marcy Lewis, Abigail Williams, Mary Walcot, Eliza Hubert, Mercy lewis, Sarah Bibber, Mary Warren, Elizabeth Woodwell, Elizabeth Hubbaed, Benjamin Gould, Suzannah Sheldon, Elizabeth Booth, Thomas Putnam, Samuel Sewall, Dr.Zorobbabel Endicot, Martha Corey's unnamed cat and her ox, John Moulton, Elizabeth Corey, Edward Putnam, Henry Keney, Anna Putnam, Judge John Hawthorne, Bridget Bishop, Abigail Hobbs, William Cleeves, Captain Gardner of Nantucket, Robert Calef, Judge Jonathan Corwin, officers of
Court of Oyer and Terminer, and a host of various others from the village of Salem, Massachustetts.
In Salem no doubt it was bad to speak out, a mistake to speak out or to act,
In ways that might bring the attention of friends, or of enemies that was a fact.
For uniqueness of action, of speaking or thought would oft be mistakenly noted,
Then told to the law who would bring one before a magistrate fat and red-coated.
My wife was girl, an inquisitive kind, who questioned the spirits and more.
Her sceptical mind had her doubting the truth, but truth then belonged to the law.
She didn’t believe in infallible courts for she’d studied each magistrate’s story.
On witches however she pondered a lot, p’raps a little too much, Martha Corey.
Sixteen ninety-two was the year of a coup, that the Putnams, the Sheldons and Hubbards,
Exercised on my girl, sending her in a twirl and her cat into underground cupboards.
Their claim was that she, “…is a witch! Can’t you see? Afflicting our friends by the score”.
“When she bites on her lip all our friends heed the nip, then run elsewhere to bandage their jaw”.
Judge Hawthorne in wisdom divine, so it seems, one man so empowered by god,
Asked a question or two, then decided to do as he pleased, so gave hangman the nod.
September the month, twenty-two was the day that her offspring observed Martha’s gore.
But myself, I'm her gent, couldn’t watch the event. I ’d been pressed to death two days before.
My story is stranger, far stranger than hers. A prosperous farmer through life,
To my church I was loyal never wanting to spoil the parish, so stayed out of strife.
But in circles where fear, suspicion and guilt were common and easy to track,
I spoke out with a roar against Putnams and more, but soon found a knife in my back.
They said, “He’s a wizard. He’s just got to go. There’s no place in Salem for him."
On April nineteen they clapped me in chains, found a cell and then tossed me right in.
This in-carceration demolished my station but failed to weaken my will,
So as stubborn as ever I wrote with a clever instructive last testament quill.
"To my boys I bequeath everything that I leave on my death, everything that I own.
My land, Salem Farms, my tools and my arms, my cattle and especially my home.
No bastards at law will stand me on the floor announcing some wizadry status,
Nor will I deny what accusers imply, I'll say nothing and cause an hiatus.
As everyone knows any god-fearing man who is tried as a wizard will die.
For what makes a wizard is not his belief, it’s the look in the magistrate’s eye.
When asked am I one or the other I'll stand as still as a post straight and tall,
Won’t say yes, won’t say no. Just say nothing at all, at all, won’t say nothing at all.
For that it is plain I will die just the same. In this state there just isn’t a cure.
Don’t say no, don’t say yes, answer nothing at all and accept "Peine forte et dure".
Say yes you’ll be hanged, say no, the same fate, for they’ll prove you are wrong and be damned
So say nothing at all and die laughing out loud for it’s sure now they’ll not take my land.
I’ll be upwardly laid, in a pit they have made where St Peters meets Brown street in town.
The magistrate there will feign a sad stare, but the sheriff will dance like a clown.
Being free to bequeath all my wealth on this earth to my boys and their seed ever after,
I’ll keep my advice, shut my mouth like a vice and lay down underneath their damned rafter.
They’ll pile up the stones while they wait for my groans till the pressure determines my fate.
They’re loading stones now, wiping sweat from their brow. To insult them I’ll call out, “More weight”.
“Damn you Putnams to hell and Zeke Chevers as well. You left me no haven, no quarter.
You’ll feed me stale bread if tonight I’m not dead, then tomorrow you’ll give me some water.”
“More weight” I called out in a wild choking shout as my tongue was pressed out to my chin.
Undeterred by this sight the crowd watched in delight till the clown with his cane poked it in.
“More weight I demand! Don’t shirk, lend a hand, for I want a quick end to this horror
I don’t want to be stuck in this mud and this muck, half alive the day after tomorrow."
My belligerent blast got them working quite fast. The stones piled up high on my chest,
Till my ribs gave a crack and my lungs flattened back having lost this extraordinary test.
My ears and nose leaked a bloody red rose, my eyeballs had popped from their sockets,
Then one in the crowd let a cheer out loud, while others stood, hands in their pockets.
On looking back now I can almost see how, in the ignorance, fear and confusion
Set by Putnam’s faction, such a wicked distraction, could establish the common illusion
Of a humble old gent like myself, having spent his whole time living narrow and true,
Being in Satan’s fold, a chief wizard and bold, causing torment and hullabaloo.
But time has been kind, in the books you will find that my death almost ended the flow,
Of men who without slightest proof, slightest doubt, could decide to extinguish their foe.
In Salem at least the idea of a beast afflicting young girls in their prime
Was exchanged for a host (minus wizard and ghost) of man’s real diabolical crime.
Next the law slowly grew, with fair attitudes new, to see magistrates honour their call,
In ways one might trust to be equal and just, and applied not to some but to all.
Yet being other than white still encouraged a fight until young M. L. King set the stage.
His dreamed a new day, and we've learned of his way, understanding has helped turn that page.
Now while there's still many who’d kill for a penny, and some who have hatred to go
And others whose god gives them licence to nod like Judge Hawthorne did years ago
Then still more who will ride waving flags by their side shouting, "Everyone's wrong except me!"
The world's now a place where a lot in the race can feel confident, safe, even free.
For three hundred years I’ve shed joyous tears at the changes I’ve seen. They've surprised.
In man’s requisition of this prized position make sure nature is uncomromised.
No wizards or witches, no pressing in ditches, no hanging or burning at stakes.
No fear, only knowing on which path to be going, and boy what a difference that makes.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2008
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Rob Roy MacGregor
A song about Rob Roy MacGregor and others of the Clan MacGregor who once shared some sort of right over Craig Royston, a domain of rock and forest lying on the east side of Loch Lomond, where that beautiful lake stretches into the dusky mountains of Glenfalloch.
My song tells the tale
Of an ordinary Scot
Of courage, who headed a Clan.
In the Trossachs they’d roam
Free to farm a good plot
Till their foes destroyed most of that plan.
No MacGregor would ever
Fail to stand for a friend.
Once before they’d been robbed of their land
And hotly pursued
By their foes to the end
Of the earth, near extinction, then damned.
Then the Clan called a seer,
One Pythia we’re told,
Who’s foresight being mightily clever,
Predicted “Glenfruin’s
Where deeds brave and bold
Will rekindle MacGregor forever”.
But sadly it seems
That their victory in battle
And the promise to restore the clan,
Deferred to a life
Of rustling cattle,
And a future of “catch as catch can”.
Born into this difficult
Life at Glen Gyle,
The third month, sixteen seventy-one,
Young Robert soon learned
To share handshake and smile
Undaunted, a proud Scotland son.
He stood tall
With broad frame and fiery hair,
More stunning than handsome I’m told.
His knowledge was common,
His justice was fair,
And his heart was a heart of pure gold.
His Clan was his purpose,
This Scott Robin Hood.
Some labeled him hero, some rogue.
The title relied
On where loyalties stood,
And which rules for what’s right were in vogue.
Much loved by his family,
Respected by more,
An honest young highlander, free.
Both farmer and cattleman,
Father of four,
And husband to Mary was he.
He’d married sweet Mary
At CorrieArklet farm,
Near Inversnaid (musical names).
And established fair trade,
While the girl on his arm
Raised Rob, Ranald, young Collin and James.
Supporting the Stewarts
Showed courage enough
For clansmen to praise him as loyal.
They heeded his call
To give up the duff,
And some even tilled highland soil.
Prosperity marked
These good years of his life.
The Duke of Montrose was his friend.
But tragedy struck
Both Rob Roy and his wife,
Destroying this peace in the end.
One thousand pound caused
Rob Roy’s fortunes to fall.
Being withdrawn from Montrose’s coffers
To be used to buy cattle,
Rob trusted it all
To his drover, for shrewd, frugal offers.
But spying a chance
For a profitable close,
The drover made off with the lot,
Making chaos supreme
Between Rob and Montrose
The result of his self-centered plot.
With his house and land seized
And his family crushed,
Rob had little but cunning and canker.
But that proved enough
For he conjured and brushed
A plan to hold up the Duke’s banker.
Three times what he’d lost
By his own drover’s greed
Was his profit from this bold excursion.
The first in a number
Of precocious deeds
It established financial reversion.
Inveraray became
A safe haven for Rob,
On some land near the Duke of Argyll.
He built a new home,
Took a soldiering job,
In this place where his kin lived in style.
Though raised a believer
In Jacobite ways
Rob Roy minded not changing horses.
If Argyll could promise
His Clan better days,
He’d fight to support Argyll’s forces.
Sheriffmuir was a brawl
Where for curious reason
Rob watched on, then counted the dead.
For that the crown labeled
Him guilty of treason,
And put a high price on his head.
Eight years on a young scholar
Named Daniel Defoe
Penned a tale that attracted acclaim.
“Highland Rogue” it was called
Guaranteeing to show
A King’s Pardon was owed to Rob’s name.
Three years further along
The crowd echoed this call
Demanding Rob’s case be reviewed.
Justice watched with a smile
As the pendulum’s fall
To Rob’s side, saw compassion renewed.
Now this gentleman free
Of the government’s rage
Led a life at the head of his clan.
Helping others to find
How to turn a new page
And do better than “catch as catch can”.
After sixty-three years
His friends heard him say
In December seventeen thirty-four,
“Now it’s all over,
Let the good piper play
A sad tune. We return here no more”.
The graves of Rob Roy
And his family now lie
In front of the east facing eave
Of the Balquhidder church.
If you visit, don’t cry,
Understand that he chose when to leave.
Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2008
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