University of Virginia Library

The Loyal Scot.

By Cleaveland's Ghost, upon the Death of Captain Douglas, burnt on his Ship at Chatham.

Of the old Heroes, when the Warlike shades
Saw Douglas marching on the Elysian Glades,
They all consulting, gather'd in a Ring,
Which of their Poets should his Welcome Sing;
And as a favourable Penance chose
Cleveland, on whom they would that task impose.
He understood; but willingly addrest
His ready Muse to Court that noble Guest.
Much had he cur'd the tumour of his Vein,
He judg'd more clearly now, and saw more plain;
For those soft Airs had temper'd every Thought,
And of wise Lethe he had drunk a Draught.
Abruptly he began, disguising Art,
As of his Satyr this had been a part.

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85

Not so, brave Douglas, on whose lovely Chin
The early Down but newly did begin;
And modest Beauty yet his Sex did veil,
While envious Virgins hope he is a Male:
His yellow Locks curle back themselves to seek,
Nor other Courtship knew but to his Cheek:
Oft as he in chill Esk or Seyn by Night,
Hardned and cool'd, his Limbs so soft, so white;
Among the Reeds to be espy'd by him
The Nymphs would rustle, he would forwards swim;
They sigh'd and said, Fond Boy why so untame,
That fly'st Loves fires, reserv'd for other flame.
First on his Ship he fac't that horrid day,
And wondered much at those that run away:
No other fear himself could comprehend,
Than least Heav'n fall e're thither he ascend;
But entertains the while his Time too short,
With birding at the Dutch, as if in sport;
Or waves his Sword, and could he them conjure
Within its Circle, knows himself secure.
The fatal Bark him boards with grappling fire.
And safely through its Port the Dutch retire:
That precious Life he yet disdains to save,
Or with known Art to try the gentle wave;
Much him the Honour of his Ancient race
Inspir'd, nor would he his own deeds deface;
And secret Joy in his calm Soul does rise,
That Monk looks on to see how Douglas dyes.
Like a glad Lover the fierce flames he meets,
And tryes his first Embraces in their sheets:
His shape exact which the bright flame infold
Like the Suns Statue stands of burnisht Gold;
Round the transparent Fire about him glowes,
As the clear Amber on the Bees do's close;
And as on Angels heads their glories shine,
His burning Locks adorn his Face divine.

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86

But when in his immortal mind he felt
His alt'ring form and soder'd limbs to melt,
Down on the Deck he layd himself and dy'd,
With his dear Sword reposing by his side;
And on the flaming Plank so rests his head,
As one that warm'd himself, and went to bed.
His Ship burns down, and with his Reliques sinks,
And the sad stream beneath his Ashes drinks.
Fortunate Boy, if either Pencils fame,
Or if my Verse can propagate thy Name,
When Æta and Alcides are forgot,
Our English Youth shall sing the valiant Scot.

What Ethic River is this wondrous Tweed,
Whose one bank Virtue, t'other Vice does breed?

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87

Or what new Perpendicular does rise
Up from her Streams, continu'd to the Skies,
That between us the common Air should bar,
And split the Influence of every Star?
But who considers right will find indeed,
'Tis Holy Island parts us, not the Tweed.
Nothing but Clergy could us two seclude,
No Scotch was ever like a Bishops feud.
All Litanies in this have wanted Faith,
There's no Deliver us! from a Bishops wrath.
Never shall Calvin pardon'd be for Sales,
Never for Burnet's sake, the Lauderdales,
For Becket's sake Kent alwayes shall have Tails;
Who Sermons e're can pacifie and Prayers?
Or to the Joint-stools reconcile the Chairs?
Thô Kingdoms joyn, yet Church will Kirk oppose,
The Mitre still divides, the Crown does close;
As in Rogation-week they whip us round,
To keep in mind the Scotch and English bound:
What the Ocean binds, is by the Bishops rent,
Then Sees make Islands, in our Continent.
Nature in vain us in one Land compiles,
If the Cathedral still shall have its Isles.
Nothing, not Bogs, not Sands, not Seas, not Alps,
Separate the World, so as the Bishops Scalps.
Stretch for the Line, their Circingle alone
'Twill make a more unhabitable Zone:
The friendly Load-stone has not more combin'd,
Than Bishops crampt the commerce of Mankind.
Had it not been for such a Biass strong,
Two Nations had ne're miss'd the mark so long.
The World in all doth but two Nations bear,
The Good, the Bad, and these mixt every where:
Under each Pole place either of these two,
The Bad will basely, Good will bravely do.

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88

And few indeed can parallel our Climes
For Worth Heroick, or Heroick Crimes.
The tryal would however be too nice,
Which stronger were, a Scotch or English Vice;
Or whether the fame Virtue would reflect
From Scotch or English heart the same effect:
Nation is all but Name, a Shiboleth,
Where a mistaken Accent causes death.
In Paradise Names only Nature show'd,
At Babel Names from Pride and Discord flow'd;
And ever since men with a female Spight
First call each other Names, and then they fight.
Scotland, and England, cause of just uproar,
Do Man and Wife signifie, Rogue and Whore.
Say but a Scot, and straight we fall to sides,
That Syllable like a Picts Wall divides.
Rational mens Words Pledges are of peace,
Perverted, serve Dissention to increase.
For shame extirpate from each Loyal breast,
That Senceless Rancour against Interest.
One King, one Faith, one Language, and one Isle,
English and Scotch, 'tis all but Cross and Pile.
Charles our Great Soul this only understands,
He our affections both, and wills commands.
And where twin Sympathies cannot atone,
Knows the last Secret how to make us one.

Pardon young Heroe, this so long Transport,
Thy Death more Noble did the same extort.

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89

My former Satyr for this Verse forget,
My fault against my Recantation set.
I single did against a Nation write,
Against a Nation thou didst single fight.
My differing Crime does more thy Virtue raise,
And such my rashness best thy Valour praise.