Amanda :: :: University of Virginia Library

Is Jockie routed? Charon, rig thy boat
If worth thy labour, with fresh rushes strow t;
Waftage enough feare not, but yet prepare
A strong rough stretcher, if thy naul, thy fare
They dare deny thee, break their crags mon, do,
Else scarce wil't have one ha'penny for two.
If thou art wise get a blue bonnet on,
They'l pay thee better 'cause their Country-mon.

See here they come mon, what a Scottish drove
Crouds in full flocks unto th' Elysian grove!
Foure thousand at the least! Heark! what a shrill
Sad noise, the mazes of my eares doth fill!
And on their tender parchments beat from thence
Like drum-sticks an Alarum to my sense!
What strange confused Eccho s do I hear,
Howlings for losse of Bernes, of gudes and geer!
Oh prethy see, see how along they gang
With kettles at their gurdles! o're their shoulders hang
Course oat-meal bags, as though they'd beg a boon
Of Pluto, still to feed on Pattaloon;

Ah Charon, lanch into the deep, there make
Conditions e're they board thee, do not take
A mon into thy skiffe till thou art paid;

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See what a totter'd Regiment, how dismaid,
Trembling with palsies they make towards thee!
Look, look, what a rude multitude they be!
What gibbrish is't they mutter? how they call,
Wish de'il take boat, the Ferrie-mon and all!
How they run hastily as if they knew
Some death, some second Cromwel did pursue!

Alas old gray-beard, now thy whirrie breaks,
Heark, what a crack it gives! See, see, it leaks,
Go hire a thousand Watermen to play
Next Oates, next Sculler, 'tis a safer way,
Get cock-boats, barges, lighters, has there bin
No Navie sunk of late to put them in?
But no great matter, let them stay on shore,
Drop into Styx, like Soland-geese swim o're.

Cowards! Mars such a bastard brood disdains,
Who whil'st their blood congealed in their veins,
Like Ague-shaken Myrmidons did fight,
Till suddenly they thaw'd into a flight;
And brooking not the lightning which did flie
From the steel'd courage of our souldiery,
Like to chill snow in a hot Sun-shine day,
These Northern Isickles did melt away:

But are they vanquish't, routed horse and mon?
Must treacherous Jockie visit Phlegeton?
Let wilde-fires then cut capers on the ropes,
Appear and vanish like their empty hopes;
Mount rockets to the second region, higher
Then their ambition soar'd, dart balls of fire;
Let powder-devils, squibs and crackers flie,

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And dance us Scottish gigs, to testifie
How our triumphant hearts, our arteries
Leap in us, and how mirth smiles in our eyes.

Farewel, poor Scot, thou need'st no more to come
For coine, our States have sent a new-coin'd summe,
Troopers on horseback, pieces that weigh down
Put in the balance, more then half a crown;
Though Magazines of Nobles (doits to us)
Make the scales even as an over-plus.
These new-coin'd pieces which we send to you,
Augment their worth by name of Sterling too.

Ye noxious windes, into some caverns flie:
Vanish, Kirk-mill-dews, ignes fatui:
Farewel, ne'er more, ye fogs of errour, dare
Taint with your breath our wholesom English aire:
Think you to blast (with your Presbyterie)
This fine faire blossom of our libertie?
No, your Geneva black Kirk-liveries,
'Gin to grow thread-bare in the peoples eyes;
And if you ben't permitted to renew't,
'Twill but just last you for a mourning suit.

Go haste to Chaul and Cochin, there to try
If you can live on high-way charity;
Go feed on graines the Banianes cates,
As Catercousins with the Gusarates,
Like beasts if any wounded, haste you all
For salves unto Cambaia's hospital;
March, wicked Jockie, towards Bengalen,
With th' Indian Pagods Priests, (farre better men)
To Ganges blessed streams, there cast thee in,

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With holy water purge thee of thy sinne;
Or turn a superstitious traveller,
Finde out the tombe-stone of Jack-Presbyter,
(Like Turkish Pilgrims, who to Mecha go,
See th'iron coffin, then will see no moe.)
Once having seen where th' holy relique lies,
In zealous humour pluck out both thy eyes.
Then if thou safe returnest, or if not,
Wee'l honour thee with name of Hogie Scot.

Men worse then Gours, whom malice can't defame,
Cripec and Canzier is too clean a name;
It is a sinne to let a Scot compound,
Nay, should you choak and thrust them under ground,
Know that you are no Authors of their death,
The Coward-Scots ran themselves out of breath;
Laugh, laugh to think on't, e're the fight begun,
What preparations Jockie made to run;
Laugh, laugh, to think in what a stormie night,
Death kill'd their foot and light-horse in the flight;
I know of old it hath a saying bin,
A Scottish mist wets th' English to the skin;
Whether that proverb's verifi'd or not,
I'm sure such English showers kill a Scot.