Patrick Gordon Poems >>
The Famous Historie: Cap. III

The Argument.
Greif haueing som what interrupt the Prince
He showes at last his caus of discontent
And followes furth with eurie tragick chance
Wheir with proud Fortun erst did him present
The wittie Count conforteth him and thence
Desires him goe where Fergus ghost him sent
 Wheron they both conclude and with a dreame
 Sleep drownes discours at last in silence streame.

O subiect sad o sad vnsolid Muse
In Cypres wreathd in murning blak attyre
Blott confort out and in your layes refuse
All mirth yea in your wofull task desyre
Sad tragick tuns the which while you peruse
In Nightes dark Inn's her dreadfull cave retire
 Tears serve for ink and if you ayme at mirth
 O sighes let all be smotherd in their brith.

But wailing Muse Ay mee why do you sho
To outward view the onlie staine of Time?
Why in rememb'raunce of such horredwo
Do you not weip to wash your wofull Rime?
O thry's Infamous! Tims Inglorious! O
That this their shame had ended with their Cryme,
 But hev'n and Time, fate, Fortun, chance and all
 Had with Them selfs decreed them selfs to fall

Where was the Conquering Arm's the valiaunt heart's.
Where was wonted Loyltie now gone
When for their faith their valor their deserts
Oure Elders mounted vp to honors Throne
When Rudelie They Opposd their Arm's and Arts
In Belgia fair, against this foe alone,
 Such prais they wan beneth those temp'red Clim's
 As maks them famous to Eternall Tim's.

Indeed such praise and Glorie great they wan
As these whoes grevous wrong's they cam to right
Ingratelie and Vnnat'rallie began
T'Invy thair greatnes and to feare their might
How soone their Suord freed them of fo's eu'ne then
Of them they make a, Massacre by night
 And as a sad Remembr'aunce of this Acti'on
 Scots onlie gwards their king for satisfaction.

O had you soght your contreies honor still,
As those for honor from theier contrey came.
Your golden praise had gilt my rusty quill,
And with perfumes, had fir'd my sacred flames,
But now my wofull song kinde Eies may fiil
With teares, and harts with sorrow for the same,
 For had the Scots trew to themselues remaind,
 Long-shanks had not soe great a glory gain'd.

But O why am I thus with passion led?
For pardon curteous Reader must I sue,
Earths brauest Prince wee left within a shade,
Who hauing made a period, did renew
His woefull historie and thus he saied,
Now doth our endles tragedie ensue,
 The Scots wee left still fighting at Dunbarr,
 Them-selues against themselues: O cruel warr!

The rest of wofull Scoots that did remaine,
Perceauing this new losse and sodaine chaunge,
They fainted, yet they fought for to obtaine
That honour which their fellows did infringe,
Each one thus by his second selfe was slaine,
While as the English smils at such reuenge,
 And thus whem nought but death to Scots ensue
 They yeald to Fortune, not to Valor trew.

Now onlie English Edward was Renownd
all yeelds to him and to his fortuns Rare
He with our Auntient Diadem was Crown'd
To him the Princes of the land Repaire
Whill Baleoll in seas of sorrows Drownd
By english Scots was broght in blak dispair
 Before great Edward when he did deny
 All title, Right and soveraguitie,

Thus Edward made a conquest of oure crowne
And homage did Requyre of all the lande
Which sundrie Lords and Princes of Renowne
Refus'd nor wold they yeeld to his demand
And while the wrathfull heavins lookt mildlie doun
They for a space wold flie his vengfull hand
 Wheirfore two hundreth yeowths he with him led
 These were the first borne son's of those that fled.

Th'Imperiale Treassour hence he did convoy
With all the Iewells of oure Diadem
Oure antient monuement's he did distroy
And from all time to blot the Scottish name
He burnt with fyir what ere we did enjoy
Wreits, Books and works and to augment our shame
 The marbill chear oure oldest Monument
 He reft away wheiron these lyns were pent

Ni fallat f