University of Virginia Library

2. Part Second.

To the truely Worthy Honourable and Right Worshipful Sir Francis Scot of Thirlston Knight-Baronet, wishes Earths Honour and Heavens Happiness.

This Book, good Sir, the Issue of my Brain,
Though far unworthy of your worthy view,
In hope ye gently it will intertain,
Yet I in duty offer it to you;
Although the Method and the Phrase be plain,
Not Art, like Writ, as to the Stile is due,
And truth I know your favour will obtain;
The many favours I have had from you,
Hath forc'd me thus to show my thankful Mind,
And of all faults I know no vice so bad,
And hateful as ungratefully inclin'd;
A thankful Heart is all a poor mans Wealth,
Which with this Book I give your worthy self:
I humbly crave your Worthiness excuse,
This boldness of my poor unlearned Muse,
That hath presum'd so high a pitch to fly,
In praise of Vertue and Gentility:
I know this Task's most fit for learned men,
For Homer, Ovid, or for Virgil's Pen;
These Lines I have presum'd to Dite,
It's known to your Honour I could never Write.

Satchels's Post'ral: Humbly presented to his Noble and Worthy Friends of the Names of Scot and Elliot.

When restles Phœbus seem'd himself to rest,
His flaming Car descending to the West,
And high Spyro obscured his twinckling Light,
Then in a Sable Mantle Madam Night,
Took of the World the sole command and keep,
Charging the eyes of mortals fast asleep:
She send dull Morphæus forth; and summons both,
The Ledean Potentates of sleep and slouth,
Who unto every one good rest imparts,
Save Lovers guilty minds, and careful hearts,
The stealing houres crep't on with sleeping pace;
When masked mid-night shewed her ebon'd face,
When Hags and Furies, Witches, Faries, Elfs,
Ghosts, Sp'rits and Goblins do separat themselves,
When fond imaginary Dreams do reign,
In formless forms, in mens molested brain,
An un-accustomed Dream came in my head,
I thought as it were near by a River-side;
Within a pleasant Grove I did abide,
That all the feathered Birds that sweems and flees,
Betwixt the breeding Earth and skyes,
One at the least of every several sort,
Did for their recreation there resort,
Then there was such varieties of Notes,
Such whirling and such whistling from their throats,
The baess, the tenor, treble and the main,
All acting various actions in one strain.
I thought twenty four Shepherds did draw near,
To hear the Musick of that feath'red Quire;
These feathr'ed fidlers change their Notes most sweet,
And lull'd Apollos Daughters fast asleep,
Mean time the Shepherds tript upon the mould,
Their Flocks they did remain in Cupids Fold,
And the four and twenty did appear,
In three squadrons, like martial men of wear:
If that my memory fail me not,
They were Friends and Kindred of the Name of Scot:
It's my happy hap to be
Of these Scots Relations,
Therefore I'le dyte their Pedegree
To the eight or ninth Generations.

Dedicated to the Right Honourable Walter Earl of Tarras.

My Lord,

Dedicated to the very Honourable, and Right-worshipful, Sir Francis Scot of Thirlston.

Dedicated to that worthy and compleat Gentleman, Robert Scot,

second Son to Sir William Scot of Hardin.

Unlearned Azo, Store of Books hath bought,
Because a Learned Schollar he'l be thought,
I counsel'd him that had of Books such store;
To buy Pypes, Flutes, the Viol and Bandore,
And then his Musick, and his Learning share,
Being both alike, with either might compare,
He did both beat his brain, and try his wit,
In hopes thereby to please the Multitude;
As soon may ride a Horse without a Bit,
Above the Moon or Suns high altitude;
Then neither flattery, nor the hope of Pelf,
Hath made me writ, but for to please my self:
Thoug Sin and Hell work mortals to betray,
Yet 'gainst thy Malice, God still arms thy way;
Thou canst be have amongst those Banks and Briers,
As well as he who to Cedars-top aspires,
Or to the lowest Cherub, or Branch of Broom,
That hath its breeding from Earths stumbling womb.
And now I talk of Broom, of Shrubs and Cedars,
Me thinks a World of Trees, are now my Leaders,
To prosecute this travel made with pain,
And make Comparison betwixt Trees and Men;
The Cedars, and the High-clouds kissing Pines,
Fœcunds, Olives, and the crooked Vines,
The Elm, the Esk, the Oak, the mastie Beech,
The Pear, the Apple, and the rough gound Peach;
And many more, for it would tedious be,
To name each fruitful and unfruitful Tree.
For to proceed, and shew how Men and Trees,
In Birth, and Breed, in Life and Death agrees.
In their beginning they have both one Birth,
Both have their natural being from the Earth;
Those that scape Fortune, and the extreams of Love,
Unto their longest home by Death are drove,
Where Cesars, Kesars, subjects objects most,
Be all alike consum'd to dirt and dust:
Death endeth all our cares, or cares increase,
It sends us unto lasting pain, or bless;
Where Honor is with Noble Vertue mixt;
It like a Rock stands permanent and fix't.
The snares of Envy, or her traps of hate,
Could never, nor shall ever hurt that state.
Like Adamant it beats back the battery,
Of spightful Malice, and deceiving flattery.
For it with pride can never be infected,
But humbly is supernally protected;
A Supporter, or Prop I wish Robert be,
As Rowlin call'd Robert was to Normandy.
Robert call'd John-Fernyear was in Scotland,
So was Robert Bruce his revenging powerful hand.
I wish thee Health, Wealth and Renown,
Without any expectation of a Crown:
This Dedication which to your hands takes Scop,
Concerns a Shepherd from Will Scot of Langup,
Who a Prudent, Wise and civil Gentleman;
As many that lives in this part of the Land.
Who sprung from a worthy Stock of late,
Who was named John Scot of Langup,
Who was the Son, I very well knew,
Of John Scot of Headshaw;
And John Scot, we all do ken,
Was Son to George Scot of Sinton.
And George Scot, called How-coat,
VVas Son of Sintons youngest VVat;
And young VVat was VValters Son,
That was Laird of Sinton, whence Hardin sprung,
And Walter he was George Son,
And George he was the Son of John,
For Walter and William was two-Brether,
His Name was George that was their Father;
My memory is Lord: keeper of my Treasure,
And great understanding gives true Justice measure,
To good, to bad, to just and to unjust,
Invention and Remembrance waits the leasure,
Of memory and understanding most,
Hath wisdom for her fellow and her guide;
Else Princes, Peers, and Commons stray aside:
For William Scot in our south part of Greeces,
I wish may ne're want such as Jasons Golden Fleeces.

Dedicated to the Worthy and well-accomplished Gentleman, William Scot of Rae-burn.

The Justice, Mercy, and the Might I sing,
Of Heavens Just; Merciful, Almighty King,
By whose fore-knowledge all things were elected,
Whose power hath all things made, and all projected;
Whose Mercies flood hath quencht his Justice Flame,
Who is, shall be, one, and still the same.
Who in the Prime, when all things first began,
Made all for Man; and for Himself made Man:
Made, not begotten, or of humane Birth,
No Seir but God, no Mother but the Earth,
Who ne're knew Child-hood, or the Sucking-teat,
But at the first was made a Man compleat;
Whose inward Soul in God-like form did shine,
As Image of the Majesty Divine;
Whose Super-natural wisdom beyond nature,
Did name each sensible and sensles Creature;
And from whose Star-like, Sand-like Generation,
Sprung every Kindred, Kingdom, Tribe and Nation.
All People then one Language spoke alone,
Interpreters the World then needed none,
There lived then no learned deep Grammarians,
There was no Turks, no Scythians, nor Tartarians;
Then all was one, and one was only one,
The Language of the universal Ball,
Then if a Traveller had gone as far,
As from the Artick to the Antartick Star,
If he from Boreas into Auster went,
Or from the Orient to the Occident,
VVhich way so ever he did turn or wind,
He had been sure his Country-man to find,
One hundred thirty Winters since the Flood,
The Earth one only Language understood,
Untill the Son of Cush, the Son of Cham;
A proud Cloud-scaling Tower began to frame,
Trusting, that if the World again were drown'd,
He in his lofty building might rest sound,
All future Floods he purpos'd to prevent,
Aspyring to Heavens glorious Battlement,
But High-Jehovah with a Puft was able,
To make ambitions Babel but a Bable.
These Shepherd Swains, I send into your view,
Are thirty one, a very worthy Crew;
Fifteen of them are Gentlemen of Note,
All of the renown'd Name of Scot;
Whereof Henry Scot in Palishil is one,
The youngest Shepherd Swain of all the name:
He's natural Son unto that bold Barron.
Sir John Scot the Knight of Ancrum;
Both wealth and wisdom his Father doth embrace,
And he abounds in Jasons Golden Fleece.

Dedicated to the illustrious and worthy Gentleman, Thomas Scot, of Whitslade.

Dedicated to that worthy Gentleman, John Scot of Wall,

Brother-german to Sir William Scot of Hardin elder.

Dedicated to the Honourable and well accomplished Gentleman, Sir William Scot of Hardin Knight.

Unto the prospect of your Wisdoms eyes,
I consecrat these silly Lines,
Not that I think them worthy of your view,
But, because, in Love my thoughts are bound to you;
I do confess my Self unworthy far,
To dite in such like cases as they are;
Which, Homer, Virgil, nor the fluent Tullie,
In fitting terms could scarce express them fully:
For Francis Scot of Gillmans-cleugh,
To you I do commend,
In hopes your Worship still will be his Friend,
The Son of John, the Son of Robert, call'd Truth,
Who was the Son of James,
The first of Gillmans-cleugh,
A valiant Gentleman, who well deserv'd renown,
He was the youngest Son to John Scot of Thirlston;
The which John Scot he did excell,
Being Son to David with the Tods-tail;
And David Scot, my Author let me know,
He was Son to Walter of Howpaslaw:
Sir Walter, he was Williams Son,
Of the worthy House of Buckcleugh he sprung,
The Lads in Gillmans-cleugh,
In hunting did excell;
So did their Father David,
That carried the Tods-tail,
Who had as much delight,
In hunting of that Beast,
As Jason had in Greece
To bear the Golden-fleece.

Dedicated to the Right Honourable, Sir John Scot of Ancrum Knight, wishes Mirth and Happiness be still your attendance.

The Guns proclaim'd aloud on every Hill,
The joyful acclamations of the Scots People;
The which did Thunder with so high a strain,
As if Great Mars they mean't to entertain:
True Mirth and Gladness was to every Face,
And Healths run bravely round in every place;
That sure I think the seventh day of July,
At the Reid-swair should ne're forgotten be;
That was a day to his everlasting Fame,
The valiant Laird Wat brought in the worthy Name,
That day should ever be dedicat to Mirth,
As if it had been a Soveraign's Birth:
VVhen valiant VVat that worthy Man,
Brought in the Name of Scot, well to be seen;
It was nothing ye'll say to bring them in,
But to th'effusion of his Blood,
He brought them back again,
The Executors and Tutors, that hath been in our time,
The Honour of the Scots did ne're so much proclaim:
The old Verse I must give in,
Though men should say I'm drunken,
How VVat thy Guid-sir, that worthy Man,
To the Red-swair brought his Troup,
The seventh day of July, the sooth to say,
At the Red-swair the tryst was set;
Our Wardens they did fix a day,
As they appointed, so they met.
The Lord Buckcleugh he was but young,
Carmichael was Warden in his place,
The Laird Wat, that worthy Man,
Commanded the Sirname with great Grace:
Thy Pedegree is soon discribed,
I think I may do it well enough.
Thy Father Charles was Laird VVats Son,
VVho was natural Son to Scot of Buckcleugh,
Their Generations is formerly described,
I need them not describe again,
Both Walters and Williams and Sir Arthur;
Unto the ninth Generation;
From whence such men may gather their relief,
That though a Ram-head may be cause of grief,
Yet nature hath a remedy found out,
They should have Lyons hearts to bear it out;
Though I call'd thee Shepherds Swain,
Yet I deserve no blame;
I hope that Jasons Golden-fleece
VVith thee still shall remain.

Dedicated to the Right VVorshipful, and very Honourable, and most Generous Gentleman, Sir VVilliam Scot of Hardin younger.

The Prince of Princes, and the King of Kings,
VVhose eye of Providence foresees all things,
To whom, what ever was, or ever shall be,
I present still before his Majesty,
VVho doth dispose of all things as he list,
And graspeth time in his eternal fist;
He sees and knows for us what's Bad or Good,
And all things is by him well understood,
Mens weak conjecture no man can arreid,
VVhat in th'eternal Parliaments decreed;
And what the Trinity concludeth there,
VVe must expect it with obedience here;
Then let not any man presume so far,
To search what the Almighties Councils are;
But let our wills attend upon his will,
And let his will be our Direction still:
Let not Plebeians be inquisitive,
Nor into any profound State-business dive.
VVe into the thousand and sixteenth year,
Since Fergus our first King did appear,
Have many Hopeful Royal Princes had,
VVho, as Heaven pleas'd to bless, were good or bad.
Fergus was the first which we had Crown'd,
For Learning, and for VVisdom high renown'd:
Beyond the Verge of Christendoms swift Fame,
Did make the VVorld admire his Noble Name.
A hundred and Eleven Kings we have had sincesyne,
VVhereof one of them was a Queen;
Their valour and triumphant Victories,
Have fill'd the VVorld, and mounts into the Skyes:
As Kenneth the second, that King of victory,
And Gregorius Magnus, whose Fame can never dye.
Robertus Brucius, that King of high Renown,
King James the sixth, that united the three Crowns;
These victorious Princes govern'd well,
But more has been of the contrair strain;
Love sometimes made the gods themselves disguise,
And muffle up their mighty Deities,
And vertuous Princes of the gods have odds,
When Princes goodness doth out-go the gods,
I'm a foolish man, this is no work of mine,
It's an operation of the Power Divine.
Let God alone, for what he hath in hand;
It's saucie, folly and madness to withstand,
What his eternal Wisdom hath decreed,
Who better knows than we do, what we need.
To him let's pray for his most safe Protection,
Him we implore for his most sure Direction,
Let his assistance be the seventh King James's Guide,
That in the end God may be glorified:
Let us amendment in our lives express,
And let our Thanks be more, our Sins be less.
Thy Cusing William Scot in Milsington,
He is an Gentleman,
Come of a worthy Family,
For he from Whitslade sprung,
Of his Brother Todrick I have writ,
And given a true Relation,
Of his most worthy Pedegree,
Unto the seventh or ninth Generation;
Therefore it is needles unto me,
To writ them over again;
For if I please, I could revise
Them to the fifteen Generation.
According to my Dream, he is the Shepherds Swain,
I hope Jasons Golden Fleece with him shall still remain.

Dedicated to the very Worshipfull, and much honoured Generous Gentlemen, Hugh Scot of Gallow-shiells, and VValter Scot in VVauchop.

O! for a Quil of that Arabian wing,
That's hatch't in Embers of some kindled fire,
VVho to her self, her self doth issue bring,
And three in one is young, and Dame and Sier:
O! that I could to Virgils Vein aspire,
Or Homers Verse, the Golden Language Greek,
VVith polish'd Phrases, I my Lines would tire,
Into the deep of Art my Muse should seek,
Mean time amongst the vuglar she must throng,
Because she hath no help from my unlearned tongue;
Great is the Glory of the Noble Mind,
VVhere Life and Death are equal in respect,
If Fates be good or bad, unkind, or kind;
Not proud in Freedom, nor in Thrall deject,
VVith courage scorning fortunes worst effect,
And spitting in fond Envies cankered Face,
True Honour thus doth baser thoughts deject;
Esteeming Life a slave that serves disgrace,
Foul abject thoughts become the mind that's base,
That deems there is no better life nor this,
Or after death doth fear a worser place,
VVhere guilt is payed the guardian of a miss;
But let swoln Envy swell untill she burst,
The Noble Mind defies her, do her worst;
If Homers Verse in Greek did merit praise,
If Naso in the Latine won the bayes,
If Maro amongst the Romans did excell,
If Tosa in the testine tongue wrot well;
A Souldier that could never lead a Pen,
Shows to the eight or ninth Generation,
Although I him enrol, and call him Shepherds Swain,
Yet hereby I approve he is a Gentleman;
The Son of Adam, who was by Lot,
The Brother of the worthy Collonel Scot,
VVho died with honour at Dumbars fight,
In maintenance of King and Countries Right:
He was the Son, I know it for truth
Of William Scot, Laird of Whitehaugh,
And William Scot was the eldest son
Of Walter Scot, stil'd of the same;
Walter Scot was Robert's son,
And Robert he was Walter's son:
The first of Whitehaugh that from Borthwick sprung,
That Wat of Whitehaugh was Cousin-german,
To John of Borthwick, who fasted so long,
Three sundry times he did perform
To fast fourty days, I do aver;
Bishop Spotswood, my Author is he,
A profound learn'd Prelat that would not lie:
When James the fifth he was Scotlands King,
In the Castle of Edinburgh he incarcer'd him,
And would not believe the Country says,
That any Mortal could fast fourty days;
Bear-bread and Water the King allow'd for his Meat,
But John Scot refus'd, and would not eat:
When the fourty days were come and gone,
He was a great deal lustier than when he began.
Then of the King he did presume,
To beg recommendation to the Pope of Rome,
Where there he fasted fourty days more,
And was neither hungry, sick, nor sore:
From Rome he did hastily return,
And arrived in Brittain at London,
VVhere Henry the eight he got notice,
That John Scot had fasted twice fourty dayes;
The King would not believe he could do such thing,
For which he commanded to incarcerate him;
Fourty days expir'd he said he had no pain,
Than his Fast had been but ten hours time:
Here Walter Scot I'le draw near an end,
From John of Borthwick thy Fathers did descend;
He was the son of Walter, I have said enough,
Their Original is from Buckcleugh.
In the Fourscore Psalm we read;
That like a Flock our God did Joseph lead;
And ev'ry day we do confess almost,
That we have err'd and stray'd like Sheep that's lost,
For Oaths, and passing words, and joyning hands,
Is like Assurance written in the Sands,
The silly Sheeps-skin turn'd to Parchment thin,
Shows that Jasons Golden Fleece with thee remains.

Dedicated to the Right Worshipful and truely Generous, my well approved good Friend, Sir Patrick Scot of Long-newton, appearant of Ancrum, Knight.

It's such a Title of Preheminence then,
To bear the name of Shepherds Swain,
That David who so well his words did frame,
Did call our great Creator by that name;
Our bless'd Redeemer God's eternal Son,
Whose only Merits our Salvations won,
He did the harmless name of Shepherd take,
For our Protection, and his Mercies sake,
Which makes thy rest like those that restless be,
Like one that is pursued, and cannot flee;
Or like the bussie bussing bumming Bee,
Or like the fruitless naught respected Flee,
That cuts the subtile Air so swift and fast,
Till in the Spiders-web he's fetter'd fast.
So falling fast asleep, and sleeping in a Dream,
Down by that Dale which flows with Milk and Cream,
Thy dearest Dame did to thee say,
Francis, Francis, Come away,
I wondred when I heard that name begun,
Francis, Francis, that was Adams son,
And Adam in his time deserv'd no misreport,
He was the son of Gilmanscleugh Robert,
And Robert was a pretty Gentleman,
The Heir to James, he was his eldest son,
The first of Gilmanscleugh James was then,
Who was the youngest son of Thirlston,
And John of Thirlston I let you know,
Was son to David Scot of Howpaslaw,
And David Scot that worthy man,
Was son to Sir Walter of the same,
For Gilmanscleugh I've said enough,
His first original is from Buckcleugh;
Now of all Beasts that ever were or are,
None can for goodness with a Sheep compare,
Indeed for Bone and Burthen I must grant,
He's much inferiour to the Elephant,
The Drumadarie, Camel, Horse, and Ass,
For Load and Carriage doth the Sheep surpass;
Strong Taurus, Eunuchs son, the labouring Ox,
The stately Staig, the bobtail crafty Fox;
These and all rav'nous Beasts of Prey must yield,
Unto the Sheep, the honour of the Field;
Where Sheep abounds in Scotland more or less,
There's still a part of Jasons Golden Fleece.

Dedicated to the Worshipful and truely Generous Gentleman, Robert Scot

Laird of Horsliehill, son to VVilliam Scot of Horsliehill, who was son to Robert Scot Portioner and Baillie of Hawick, who was fon to VVilliam Scot, who was second son to the Laird of Midgup, Walter Scot of Midgup was grand-child to Adam Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to the foresaid David Scot of Howpaslaw, who was son to the first Sir Walter Scot of Howpaslaw, their original was from Buckcleugh.

A simple Sheeps-skin proves the only ty,
And stay whereon a World of men rely,
VVhich hold a crew of Earth-worms in more awe,
Than both the Tables of the secret Law;
For as the Ram and Ewe doeth fructifie,
And ev'ry year a Lamb doeth multiply,
So doeth a Sheeps-skin bound make many breed,
And procreat, as seed doth spring from seed,
It's one mans freedom and anothers loss,
And like the Pope, it both can bind and loose;
Adam Scot in Delorian I do nominate,
And for thy Generation, it cannot be forgot,
Unto Grass-yard thy Brother it is declar'd by me,
VVhich may serve all that is of one Posterity:
And in conclusion this I humbly crave,
That ev'ry one the honesty may have,
That when your frail Mortality is past,
Ye may be the good Shepherds at the last;
Be not offended at the stile of Shepherds-swain,
For Jasons Golden Fleece is still worthy of Coyn.

Dedicated to that worthy and valiant Souldier, Captain James Scot,

a Brigadier in his Majesties most Honourable Life-guard, son to Walter Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to Robert Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to Sir Walter Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to Robert Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to Adam Scot of Tushilaw.

Whose former Genealogie is already spoken,
The Fable of the Golden Fleece began,
Because Sheep did yeeld such store of Gold to Men,
For he that hath great store of VVoolly Fleeces,
May when he pleases, have store of Golden Pieces;
Honest James Scot of Sheils-wood,
Whose like there is not many,
Whose love and piety doth feed and help so many;
It is no doubt, but these good deeds of his,
Will help to lift his Soul to endless bless.
Of his Genealogie I will speak no more,
Because his Brother Grass-yards is set down before;
I hope Jasons Fleece shall never from him flee,
Because he is inclin'd to Hospitality.

Dedicated to the worthy and much respected generous Gentleman, James Scot of Bristo,

Son to Mr. James Scot, late Parson of Ancrum, who was Son to John Scot of Cachlack-know, who was Son to Walter Scot of Mount-bernger, who was Son to Robert Scot of Mount-bernger, who was Son to Simon Scot of Mount-bernger, who was Son to Simon Scot of Dryhop, who was Son to the Laird of Howpaslaw, whose Original is from Buckcleugh.

My worthy Cusing, I must to thee commend,
Him who of his Talent surely has made ten,
Like as Joseph did in Ægypt long remain,
Whilst his Brether did for Food unto him come,
So Gideon privately did live, and made no scroup,
Whilst that his Brethren swaggred round about;
But now of Jasons Fleece he hath more store,
Than ever his Brethren had before,
This Gideon Scot he is a pretty Man,
Amongst the rest of worthy Shepherds Swain,
Of Outer-siderig now he is Laird,
He was Son to Robert of Har-wood,
Robert he was a worthy Man,
He was Son to Walter of Erckletoun,
VValter sprung from that same Stock,
That was call'd John Scot of the New-wark,
And John he was James's Son,
My sleeping Muse is now layen down,
But when she wakes out of her Dream,
The rest of's Pedegree I'le explain;
Since he and Jason is so well acquaint,
His Golden Fleeces he has to him lent.

Dedicated to that Generous, and well approved Gentleman, James Scot, Laird of Bow-hill.

Dedicated to the Honourable and truly Noble, Sir William Ellict of Stobs, Knight and Barronet.

Dedicated to the very honourable, and much respected generous Gentleman, the Laird of Lariston.

Could my unpractis'd Pen advance thy Name,
Thou should be mounted on the Wings of Fame,
Thy Ancestors they were of good renown,
They being all the Lairds of Lariston,
Into thy hands I do commit the sum
Of Walter Elliot of Erckleton,
By Maxwels rage out of their hands it got,
And was possess'd by Cunninghame and Scot,
Now Providence has brought it back again,
To the Lineal-heir of Elliots kind,
For Walter Elliot he was Adams son,
And Adams Goodsir was Laird of Erckleton,
Though they were suspended for an Age or twain,
The Lands return'd to Elliot of Muckildine,
He is the Laird of Erckletons Brother,
And Janet Scot she is Muckildines Mother,
A worthy Wife she of long time hath been,
And hath fill'd many poor and hungry Womb,
She is my Friend, therefore I do her ken,
She's daughter to John Scot call'd of Rennalburn,
An honest Gentleman, he was known well enough,
In Esdail-muir he was Baillie to Buckcleugh,
Who was son to John Scot an able Lad,
Who then was called Jocky ill to had,
His Father also he was called John,
He was Natural-son to Scot of Thirlston,
He was Natural-brother in the while
To Thirlston, Newburgh and Bowhill,
Gilmanscleugh, Hundelshope, and Kirkhope,
Were all Brethren to the said John Scot;
These seven Brethren were stout valiant men,
They would not been afraid for other ten,
No more of Muckildine since Adam is deceast,
Who left them store like Jasons Golden Fleece.

Dedicated to the very Worthy and Valorous Gentleman, William Elliot of Dunlibire, Esquire.

I humbly now according to my Dream,
Present to you the young Laird of Erckleton,
From's Goodsir and Grandsir that Land was rest and riven,
Before they purchas'd Coyn to buy it back again,
And now 'tis their own, I wish they may't enjoy,
From Envys canker, better than Helen did Troy;
That Trojan and that Greek that fought in Sama sand,
Achilles gain'd the day, and did Hector command;
Troys fruitful Queen did many Children bear,
So brave, heroick, and so stout a Crew,
Who all in noble Actions did accrue,
When Age had made their Parents bald and bare,
They made their dauntless Courage to appear,
Amidst the throngs of Danger and Debate,
But Blood on Blood their Fury could not fate:
In former times the South may understand,
Many Gallants losed all their Land,
Through Blood and want of Government,
Which to this time Successors may repent;
They were not like these Arcadians in Greece,
That rejoyc'd in Jasons Golden Fleece.

Dedicated to that Worthy and Generous Gentleman, Robert Elliot Laird of Midliemill.

Sir, in my Sleep I was much troubled,
And dream'd of Henry Elliot of Harewood,
'Mongst many more that I thought I saw,
And knowing he was your Father in Law,
Therefore my weak Judgment thought it fit,
Those Lines to you that I should dedicat;
Knowing him to be a worthy man,
And much honour'd by your Generation;
Though all in one ye now joined be,
Yet ye're a Peer grew higher on the Tree;
For I believe there is so much odds,
Few Elliots compar'd with the House of Stobs;
For Heav'ns high-hand where he doth please to bless,
Makes Trees, or Men, fruitful, or fruitless;
In sundrie uses Trees do serve mens turn,
To build, adorn, to feed, or else to burn;
This is mens State in all degrees like theirs,
Some are got to the top of Honours Stairs.
Securely sleeping on Opinions Pillow,
Yet is as fruitless as the fruitless Willow,
And fill up room, like worthless Trees in Woods,
Whose goodness consists all in ill got Goods,
He like a Cedar makes a goodlie show,
But now good Fruit will from his greatness grow,
Until he die, and from his Goods depart,
And then gives all away in the spight of his Heart,
Then shall his Friends with Mourning-cloaths be clad,
The in-side merry, and the out-side sad;
He thinks his life Angelical, because
Among the Angels he his time doth pass;
And with his Nobles he ordaineth Laws,
That base Extortion shall not be a Crime,
He marks how Kingdoms, Provinces and Towns,
Are over-ruled by his cursed Crowns,
But if he note his Angels what to be,
Not heavenlie, nor these from Heaven that fell,
But they are in a third and worse degree,
Damn'd sensless Monsters, even that are of Hell,
They cannot hear, feel, taste, hear, nor smell,
A thousand times being told yet cannot tell,
They're lock'd and barr'd and bolted up in thrall,
Which shews their nature not Angelical,
Thy industrious Loyalty doth daily tell,
Thou aims at Honour, and thou levels well,
And with your trusty Service shot compleat,
That in the end ye sure will hit the VVhyte;
Thus thy Industries doth let the VVorld ken,
That Jasons Golden Fleece with thee shall still remain.

Dedicated to that worthy and well approved Gentleman John Elliot,

Brother to Sir VVilliam Elliot of Stobs.

Good Sir, If Fortune frown or smile, thou art content,
Thou bears a Heart that is still ready bent,
God is thy Captain, thy Defence and Hold,
Through Faith in Him thou art still armed bold,
To thank John Elliot I humbly thee desire,
He dwells in Unthank, he's Brother to Dunlibire,
When kind-kissing Phœbus was gone to her rest,
In a Winters-night in a most furious blast,
I driving Beasts because I wanted Fodder,
I did assault his House into tempestuous Weather,
For god Æolus blew, and Boreas did assist,
And Neptunes wat'ry Planets he brake in betwixt,
The Snow being deep, the Weather tempestuous ill,
I was five days in driving twenty Mile;
In great distress into his House I came,
He with his Wife made me kindly welcome,
With Bed and Board, good Brandie and good Ale,
Which might have serv'd the best in Tiviotdale.
I wish John Elliot never want such Fleeces
Which yearly may bring in ten thousand golden pieces.

Dedicated to that much renowned generous Gentleman, William Elliot

Uncle to Sir VVilliam Elliot of Stobs.

Most worthy Sir, I hope I do no wrong,
In dedicating to you one of my Shepherds Swains;
Take not a Shepherd Swain to be a vulgar name,
For Kings and Emperors have gloried in the same,
Therefore no Shepherd Swain my Muse will e're deride,
And far less VVilliam Elliot the good Laird of Swoonside,
Since thou art a worthy and a lovely one,
Not like Envy, all consum'd to Skin and Bone.
Sir, I do declare what Labour thou hast spent,
VVas neither to Honour nor Vertues detriment;
And thrice worthy Sir, thy Vertues do proclaim,
How Honours noble mark it is still thy aim,
And when thou the head-strong Taurus soon forsakes,
And to his summering Progress thou haste makes,
Then shall the Earths celestial light afford,
And in sad darkness clad the ample Glob;
Since I was born, when Wit was out of Town,
That's the reason that I have so little of my own;
Pardon me, I cannot writ, and very litle read,
Or else in thy worthy praise, I further would proceed;
As for Swoonside, I wish his Golden-fleece,
May shine as bright, as Jasons did in Greece.

Dedicated to that vertuous and well approven Gentleman, Master Gavin Elliot,

Uncle to Sir William Elliot of Stobs.

Most worthy Sir, according to my Dream,
I speak of Shepherds, and of Shepherds Swain;
Into your gentle hands, Sir, I do commit,
John Elliot the Laird of Thorilshope,
And Sir, I do hope that ye'l not dissallow,
That I have been so bold to dedicat him to you,
For a man must more than humane wit possess,
To escape the Baits and Snares of wickedness,
The Artist of the Scripture can dispute the same,
That one would deem him a Religious Man;
Since that God gave Life to Herbs, and Plants, and Trees,
A beast hath Sense, and Life, Moves, Feels and Sees,
For if they wanted Life, how could they then grow,
And in some sort, do both good and evil know;
But man he is before all Creatures in degrees,
God, Life, Sense, and Reason, He unto him gives;
And least that these blessings should be transitory;
He gave him Life and Sense, Reason, Grace and Glory;
So I hope Thorlishope shall keep his Golden-fleece,
As glorious as Jason did his in Greece.

Dedicated to that worthy and compleat Gentleman, Robert Elliot appearant of Dunlibire.

Most worthy Sir, I do upon the wings of Fame,
Dedicat to you one of your worthy Name,
John Elliot he who's called a valiant Lad,
He's Brother to Henry Elliot of Hare-wood;
It was into my dream he did appear to me,
For I into the Ale-house did him never see,
In Jasons Golden Fleece it's said he doth abound,
And now he is of late a Person much renown'd,
Therefore I him consecrat to thee,
And with happiness to you, and your Posterity,
Wishing to him when he his Sheep doth shear,
They may improve their Fleece four times a year,
For that man that hath store of Wool, and woolly Fleeces,
May when he please, have store of Gold, and Golden Pieces.

Dedicated to the valorous and compleat young Gentleman, Robert Elliot appearant of Lariston.

Sir, these Lynes unto your hands I send,
Wishing your Worship will but them commend,
And begs that you'l not be a gast,
For nominating, some first that should be last;
Therefore, good Sir, I hope ye will pardon give,
And oblidge your humble Servant while he lives;
This I lay open to your Worships view,
And Simon Elliot of Tarras, I dedicat to you,
For Summer-fruit it is pleasant to eat,
But Winter-fruit it will a long time keep;
Although the Hills of Tarras they be black,
Yet in his Golden-fleece there is no lack,
Black moist Fleeces when they are well scour'd,
Unto the owners yeeld good, clear, and currant gold;
Pure Spanish gold it's very fine,
But of Wool our Merchants makes more gain,
Through Christendom your Woolly Fleeces,
Are still compar'd to golden pieces,
So he that is a Shepherd Swain,
Can be no less than a Gentleman:
Monarchs and Kings, Royal Majesty,
Were Shepherds Swains in Arcadie.

Dedicated to the young and very hopeful Gentleman, Gilbert Elliot,

son to Sir William Elliot of Stobs, Knight-Barronet.

If Homers Verse in Greek did merit praise,
If Nason in the Latin tongue wan Bayes,
If Maro 'mongst the Romans did excel,
If Tasso in the Tuscian tongue spoke well:
Sweet Sir, pardon him that's so much unperfect,
In Scots can scarely read, and never yet could write;
If my poor shallow brain could but advance your Name,
Ye should be mounted high upon the wings of Fame;
And if that my poor thoughts had strength to enterprize,
I would advance your Name as far as Titans rise,
And that Shepherd Swain that I do simulize,
Is Robert Elliot that dwells in the Dewslies:
Be not offended at the name of Shepherd Swain,
For formerly that name was Noble-men;
And as Jason fetcht his Golden Fleece from Greece,
I wish that Robert Elliot his Fleeces may increase.

Dedicated to the very Honourable, and right Worshipful generous Gentleman, John Hoppringil, Laird of Torsonce.

Most worthy Sir, ye know this well by me,
That the love of Brandie made my self merrie,
For when the High-born Bastard of the thundring Jove,
When Mens inventions are of Wit most hollow,
He with his sprightful Juice their spirits doth move,
To the harmonious Musick of Apollo,
And in a word, I would have all men know it,
He must drink Brandy that means to be a Poet;
I understand, or know no forraign Tongue,
But their translations I do much admire,
Much Art, much Pains, much Study it doth require,
And at the least regard should be their hyre;
When Adam was in Paradice first placed,
And with the rule of mortal things was graced,
Then Roses, Pinks, and fragrant Gilly-flowers,
Adorn'd and deckt forth Edens blessed bowers;
Love is a dying life, and living death;
A vapour shaddow, a Bubble, and a Breah,
An idle Bable, and a poultry Toy,
Whose greatest Patron is a blinded Boy;
But pardon Love, my judgement is unjust,
For what I speak of Love, I mean'd of Lust,
Bess she dislikes the Surplice and the Cap,
And calls them idle Vestments of the Pope;
And Mistris Maud would go to Church right fain,
But that the corner Cap makes her refrain;
And Madam Idle is offended deep,
The Preacher speaks so loud, she cannot sleep;
Lo thus the Devil sowes contentions Seed,
Whence Sects, and Schisms, and Heresies do breed;
Since Providence has given you Wit in store,
Live as your worthy Fathers did live you before.
By night I in a vision did Dream,
That four and twenty Shepherds I had seen,
Whereof John Andison was one;
A Shepherd Swain that dwells in Thirleston,
A civil Person, and one that is true,
And therefore I dedicat him to you,
I hope the Name of Shepherd ye'l not despise it,
Since Kings and Princes hath it enterprized,
Besides the learned Poets of all times,
Have chantited out their praises in pleasant Rymes,
The harmless lives of rural Shepherd Swains,
And beauteous Shepherdesses on the plains,
They have recorded most delightfully,
Their Love, their Fortune, and Felicity;
And sure if in this low terrestrial round,
Plain honest happiness is to be found,
It with the Shepherd is remaining still,
Because they have least power to do ill;
And whilst they on the feeding flocks attend,
They have the least occasion to offend;
I wish God bless the Shepherds and their Fleeces,
And then I hope they'l ne're want Golden Pieces.

Dedicated to the very Honourable, and right Worshipful generous Gentleman, John Riddel of Haining,

Sherif-principal of the Sherifdom of Selkirk, and Provost of that Burgh-Royall.

I humbly wish peace, truth, and constancy,
Remain with you and your worthy Family,
That Sailer gains renown that well does know,
To gain his point either at ebb or flow,
When Boreas dust doeth drive thee from the Land,
Then Æolus blasts puts thee in Neptuns hand;
To wonder and admire is all one thing,
As Synonymies the word betake,
But if a double meaning from them come,
For double sense your judgement then must look,
As once a man all foul'd with dirt and myre,
Fell down and wondred not, but did admire;
To you whose ears, and eyes have heard and seen,
This litle Pamphlet, and can judge between,
That which is good, tolerable, or ill,
May be with Artless nature wanting skill:
Have I writ ought that may your hearts content,
My Muse hath then accomplish't her intent,
Your favour can preserve me, but your frown,
My poor inventions in oblivion drown,
With tolerable friendship let me crave,
You will not seek to spill what you may save.
The Asp that quakes with sun,
He doth me much deride,
The Webster and the Smith,
They shake their brainless head,
And sayes my Education, or my State,
Doth make my Verse esteem'd at lower rate;
To such as those this answer I do send,
And bid them mend before they discommend,
Their Envy unto me will Favours prove,
The hatred of fools breeds wise mens Love;
My Muse is Jocund, that her Labours merits,
To be malign'd and scorn'd by envyous carriage;
This humbly I beg pardon of the best,
Which being granted, Sir, a reverence for the rest,
Why should they vex in their malicious brain,
For I have done no wrong to you nor them,
A greedy wretch did on the Scripture look,
Found it recorded in the Sacred Book,
How such a man with God should sure prevail,
Who clad the naked, and visited them in Joal,
And their he found how he had long mistaked,
And oftentimes had made the cloathed naked,
In stead of visiting the opprest in moans,
He had consum'd them to the very bones;
Yet one day he at leasure would repent,
But sudden death repentance did prevent;
Then he was dead, and laid into his Tomb,
In hopes repentance from Purgatory come,
There lay the Stuart of the valiant ten,
Who, whilst on life his beloved life remain'd,
Apollos Daughter, and the Heirs of Jove,
The memorable bounty did approve;
His life was life to Statius, and his death,
Bereaved the Muses of Celestial Breath,
Had Phœbus fir'd him from the lofty skies,
That Phenix-like another might arise,
From out of his odoriferous sacred Embers,
His loved life the Country still remembers,
Amongst a million there is hardly any,
That like your self, so well can govern many.
Now I think well I will reveal;
My Dream I must proclaim,
And dedicat unto your hands, my honest Shepherds Swain,
That mirrily upon the plain doth sing with joking lees,
His Shepherdess she does not miss, to crown his head with bayes;
Love, Bounty, Valour, Charity with Shepherds did remain,
It's Kings and Emperors liberty to be a Shepherds Swain,
In Meadows green where flowers do spring
There they do feed their flocks,
Sometimes on Mountains and on Hills,
Sometimes amongst the Rocks,
Their worthy generosity to Love is a strong fort,
With triumph doth that trumpet sound,
At the Shepherd Swains port,
The best of men are Shepherd Swains,
As I before design'd,
The Eastern-coasts did brag and boast,
Of their brave Shepherds Swain;
George Currors then a Shepherd Swain,
That gains both Corn and Store,
And doth afford both Bed and Board,
And much relieves the poor;
In Hart-wood-myres his Barns and Byres,
And Shepherds do remain,
His Flocks proceed, and sweetly feed
Upon the morning due;
And when bright Phœbus takes her Coatch,
They are in Hainings view,
Of that Shepherds truth I cannot dyte enough,
But now I'm run ashore;
For Shepherds Swains, their Ewes and Lambs,
I have spoken much before,
Though Jason fetcht his Fleece from Greece,
And was call'd the Golden Swain,
George Curror that dwells in Hart-wood-myres,
For Wool more guilt doth gain.

Dedicated to the learned and well approved generous Gentleman, Andrew Plummer Laird of Midlestead.

This Pamphlet I send to your view,
Is to let your Worship ken,
It's known to be the first Issue
Of my dull idle Brain,
It's known as yet, I could ne're write,
My reading is but small,
For refuge, I flee to your hands,
In hopes you'l warrand all;
Shepherds I thought were three times eight,
Appear'd into my Dream,
Wherefore one to you I dedicat,
A civil honest Man,
He in Analshope doth dwell,
His Mame's Michael Andison;
That Shepherd Swain will no man wrong,
In Religion he is strong,
The foulest Feinds assume the fairest Forms,
The fairest Fields doth feed the foulest Toad,
The Sea at Calmest most subject is to Storms,
In choicest Fruit the Canker makes abode;
So in the Shop of all believing trust,
Lyes Toads invenom'd treason couched fast,
Till like a Storm his toothless thoughts out-burst,
Who Canker-like had lyen in trusts repose;
For as the fire within the flint's confin'd,
In deepest Ocean still unquencht remains,
Even so the false, through truest seeming mind,
Despight of truth the Treason still retains,
Yet maugure Treason, Trust deserveth trust,
And Trust survives when Treason dies accurst,
Since Michael Andison hath great store of Wool'n-fleece,
I wish they more abound than Jasons did in Greece.

Dedicated to that worthy valiant and generous Gentleman, James Gladstains of that ilk, Laird of Cocklaw.

Most worthy Sir, I send into your view,
This litle Pamphlet, most of it is true,
According to my Dream, I yet commend,
I know no foolish man can you offend,
Of four and twenty Shepherds I did Dream,
Whereof James Grieve in Common-side was one,
An honest Man you know it sure,
And one that doth relieve the Poor,
Your Generous Noble Sp'rit, as I do understand,
Emboldens me to dedicat him to your hand,
He that may hunt in every inclosed Ground,
A Park of's own he needeth not to found,
The stately Staig, when he his horns hath shed,
In sullen sadness he deplores his loss;
But when a Wife cornuts her Husbands Head,
His gains in horns he holds an extream cross,
The Staig of lossing doth his loss complain,
The man by gaining doth lament his gain,
Thus whether horns he either loss or found,
They both the Loser and the Winner wound;
Hunting is pleasant, but yet wearisome,
To him that can no Venison obtain,
Thou worthy Swain chuse in Dianas stream,
Amongst the Sisters nine, and pick out one of them,
Wit, Courage, Valour, Stature, and State
Remain with thee, don't fear a horned Pate,
Now good James Grieve, I wish thy Flocks increase,
That thou may chant and sing, and still keep Jasons fleece.

Dedicated to the very worthy and much respected generous Gentleman, Robert Langlands of that Ilk.

When fond imaginary Dreams do ring,
In formless forms in mens molested brain,
On such a time, I sleeping in my bed,
An unaccustom'd Dream came in my head,
I thought four and twenty to me came,
All Gentlemen, and Shepherds Swain,
Whereof James Grieve Lenup he was one,
Which I have dedicated unto your Worships hand,
You know him well to be an honest man,
And is a just and harmless Shepherd Swain,
His Fleece doth clothe the naked, that there's non deny,
His Food relieves the needy, as they pass him by;
The Orphan, Widow, and the indigent,
For Bed and Board from him have supplement;
These Shepherd Swains, as I do understand,
Relieves more poor, nor all the Lairds of the Land,
Their Butter, Cheese, their Milk, their Whey,
Their Flesh and Wool they part continually,
That I dar say, were there not such men,
Five thousand in the year would starve and pine;
God bless their Substance, that helps the poor folks Messes,
And send them store of Wool to bring them Golden Pieces.

Dedicated to the worthy and much respected Gentleman, Francis Gladstains of Whitlaw.

Most worthy Sir, do not disdain,
That I my Dream so oft explain;
Unto your hands I do it commit,
The Issue of Barren Wit,
A great deall more from me might appear,
Within this seventy and two year,
But what is past, I cannot now recall,
I hope ye'l think this makes amends for all,
I never was at Shool, I cannot write,
Pardon my Lines though they be unperfyte,
The best of Gallants indeed may controul,
A wise man will ever countenance a fool,
Although in wrong he will not bear him up,
Yet he will laugh at his foolish fate;
The four and twenty of my Dream,
William Grieve of Common-side was one,
Which I have dedicat to you,
He is an honest man and true;
A worthy Shepherds Swain, who lives upon his Store,
And relieves the Poor and Needy, as I have said before.
I wish his Golden-fleece with him may still remain,
While I fetch Jasons Fleece from Greece into Scotland.

Dedicated to the generous, and much respected Gentleman, Walter Scot of Burn-foot.

Most worthy Sir, according to my Dream,
Into this Pamphlet remains to be seen,
I hope your goodness will allow,
That I dedicat Walter Grieve to you,
He is a true and honest man,
He's both your Neighbour, and Shepherds Swain,
One dedication might have serv'd for all,
VVhat I have said before, to mention it again,
It is a needless labour, and puts the writer to more pain;
I wish ye miekle joy of all your Golden Pieces,
And like to Walter Grieve with increase of his Fleeces.

Dedicated to his worthy, and well respected good friend, Francis Scot,

Brother-german to the Laird of Burn-foot in Ail.

Sir, this Pamphlet to your hands I send,
In hopes that ye will it commend,
For Pens ye know I can use none,
I can hardly read the Catechism,
Yet four and twenty Shepherds,
I saw into my Dream,
Whereof good Thomas Anderson,
In Howfoord he was one,
Seing ye are a Gentleman, and my Friend,
I have dedicate him into your hand:
VVhen Jupiter the son of Saturn
Had put his Father to the flight,
The Empire of the World he did divide then,
Betwixt himself and his Brother Neptune,
Neptune set Pluto for to dwell in Hell,
Amongst the Priests where still they do rebell;
The sacred Records they do demonstrate,
The Idols which the Israelites did prostrate,
So do we find into the present time,
That there are Priests of every kind,
Kings, Prophets, Priests, by all were Shepherds Swains,
And did attend all kind of Sheep,
Both Weathers, Ewes and Lambs,
For Thomas Anderson I wish his Flocks may still abound,
If Jason lost his Golden Fleece, I'm sure he has it found.

Dedicated to the worshipful and very much respected and generous Gentleman, Henry Forrester of Stonegirthside, in the Kingdom of England,

Justice of Peace and Coram in the said Kingdom, in the Reign of King Charles the Second.

Come, Pamphlet, take thy VVings, flee from my hand,
Arrive in England, in the County of Cumberland,
There stands a House, and that a worthy one,
By Kersup-foot in the Eye of the Sun;
A stately Building, all of plain hew'n Stone,
All built within this year or twain,
All Cumberland except Castle and Abbay,
Such another House in prospect you'll not see;
Unto that English Squire I do dedicat,
Honest John Robertson, he was born in the Flat,
His Father was an English man,
Francis Robson kept good order,
There was no English compar'd with him,
Seven Mile within the Border,
Justice Forrester an English Squire,
And John Robson a Scot,
Yet it is scarce a Mile betwixt,
VVhere they were born and got,
It's true John Robson is
A Comrade good enough,
And for House-keeping he excels,
He dwels in Cauterscleugh,
VVhite-Bread and Salt-Beef,
Good Mutton and old Cheese,
As I was riding by,
He did my Hunger ease,
He feasted me in May as I had been an Earl,
VVith Capon and good Lamb, Brandie and good Ale;
And for his Father Francis,
I knew him well enough,
To be a Gentleman, Store-master
To VValter Earl of Buckcleugh:
I wish that Jasons Fleece
VVith him may still appear,
And that his Flock would change,
Their Coats twelve times a year.

Dedicated to that worthy and generous Gentleman, John Scot appearand of Headshaw.

I thought four and twenty Shepherds Swain,
In my Dream I did see,
VVhereof I have dedicated one of them to thee;
John Grieve of Garwald a right honest one,
Which relieves the poor, and proves a Christian Man;
And with his small substance he is well content,
Though in late times he prov'd a Puritant.
I wish his Fleeces be no worse,
Than Jasons Fleeces was in Greece.

Dedicated to the Right Reverend, and truly Pious, and vertuous generous Gentleman, Mr. Richard Scot, Parson of Askirk.