Dumbritons Castle dolefull Commendations

To all the Rascall Rogues within thir nations.
WE your wretch'd Brethren in Dumbriton fort,
Compassions objects, now in saddest port,
Times gazing stockes, and spectacles of shame,
Mis-fortune map, the branders of our name,
To you our bailefull brethren in much ill,
Who doe remaine in Edens fatall hill,
Those lured lines in tragicke tearme wee send,
And in salt teares to you wee us commend;
Acquainting you with our most wofull cace,
And our bad entertainment in this place,
Our souls, our bodies, credit, states, and name
Are stained all with never dying shame:
Most dismall was that day, accurs'd that houre,
When first we saw Dumbritons dolefull Towre.
Our souls are by an evill conscience crost,
And for mans favour Gods love is near lost:
Hels furies night and day doe us torment,
For guiltlesse murthers, wrongs, and time mispent:
Our bodies strong, and healthfull once a day,
Now weake and sicke, weedwyne, and melt away,
Cold, hunger, thirst, and scrubies cut our breath,
And turne our corps anatomies of death,
Our carcases most ugly to behold,
Our sores, and sorrows moe nor can bee told:
Our coal-blacke faces to the world portend
Our loathsome lives, and most unhappie end;
No pen, nor pensil can our woes paint out,
Which in each place shall still be blaz'd about.
Hels-fire-brands, and unnaturall vipers wee,
Who wish'd our Countrey lost, thogh we sould die
And for the favour of an earthly King
Wee car'd not what ills on our souls to bring.
Woe to the time when first wee entred in
That hellish Rocke, where wee did act such sin:
Let not that day bee numbred with the yeare,
Nor hence into times Kalendar appeare,
Our hellish hopes which wee conceiv'd in May,
In dolefull August all were cropt away:
Our Cannon, Ball, and Powder, nought prevaile,
Sicknesse, and thirst made all our courage faile:
And in the fruitlesse hopes of new supplie,
Like dogs, not men, wee in a madnesse die.
Wee casheir'd Scots with sorrow from our soyle,
Exil'd for aye, must take a shamefull foile:
And to succeeding times must beare the blame:
As enemies to our native Countreys fame:
All lost at home, which wee acquir'd abroad:
And fighters wee'gainst Countrey, and our God,
Whose heavie hand with his verminian hoast
Hath quell'd our courage, and laid all our boast,
Wee English gallants, whose top reach'd the Skies,
At our first entrie, now full low it lyes,
And we who once threat'd earth, & heavens most hie
Some dead, some dying, some with shame now flie,
And to aggredge our shame and finall woes,
Now wee must yeeld to Covenanting foes.
Whose mercies we unto the full have found,
While as our barbarous bowtcheries did abound
When Marahs bitter waters all were gone:
At Glasgow wee found Elim streames anone,
You Heavens and celestiall powers above:
Rewarders of true pietie and love,
Let not Times-date ARGYLES rare favour smore,
But flourish still while Time shall bee no more:
When wee deserv'd most shamefully to die.
And spectacles bee made of miserie,
Hee spar'd our wretched lives, and all our fellowes
Who merit stili to hing, and rote on gallowes.
O miracle most rare, great courtesie!
Which Fame shall blaze with endles memory.
Ah! if our gracious King inform'd could be,
How Scotland honour'd him, then happie wee;
But bloudie Romists who the Court now sway,
And subtile Atheists beare the game away:
Our Governour, brave Hennirsoun, whose time
Was spent in Martiall feats in youthly prime,
By frowning Fates borne downe, diseas'd, and gone,
His Fortunes dismall lot doth stili bemone.
Our Preacher Lamount with dririetraine
Of Scots and English who on life remaine,
Doe out of sad experience sense now see,
Gods hand, not mans, made us thus dwyne and die
And with Gamaliel now wee must confesse,
This work is Gods, which no man can oppresse.
The cause is his, no strength can him gain-stand,
No humane bulwarke can resist his hand,
Truth must triumph, proud Rome in end must fall,
Gods worke must through, in despight of us all.
Then valiant Generall Ruthwen take to heart,
Those our sad ills, and play the wisemans part:
Let Sheepmen none, nor Swinzeours mad advise,
No Sutheron rogues, nor viperous Scots entise
Your martiall minde to staine your honour more,
By holding out, as you have done before:
Mixe not your honour, and renowned fame
With these base titles, and scarce honest name,
Consider your souls good, your Countries cace,
And to Gods will, not to your wits, give place.
VVhen our Armie returnes with glad victorie,
And a gracious peace concluded shall bee:
VVhen Edens strong Hold to our Countrie shall yeeld,
VVhen Truth shall triumph, and Rome losse the field.
VVhen Papisits and Atheists, Court-grandour declines.
That day you shall know who made these few lines.
Finis
quod A.B.C. Sions friend.
Quod cum Trojanis bellum fatale gerebant
Ductores Danaûm, pro meretrice fuit:
Et cum papanis bellum exitiale, quod instat,
Scotigenûm Proceres pro Meretrice ferunt.
Sed voto haud simili; Romanum Scotia scortum
Respuit at repitit Gracia coeca suum.

Englished thus.

These ten yeares warres which Graecia did indure
Against the Trojans, all was for a whoore:
These which 'gainst Papists Scots pieres have in hand,
Is for a Whoore, Iiv'd too long in their land,
Different the case [...] Greece would have home, their Whoore.

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