The True Scots Genius, Reviving A Poem. Written upon occasion of the Resolve past in Parliament, the 17th of July 1704 [by Forbes of Disblair] |
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 | The True Scots Genius, Reviving |  |
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THE True Scots Genius, REVIVING,
A POEM.
Rous'd from a Lethargy of hundred Years,At last her Martial Head Old Scotia Rears:
Awakn'd with Resentments she hath born
Too long, of English Chains and English Scorn:
Impatient to get Free, she now Regains,
A gen'rous Heat, thro' all her frozen Veins:
Nobly resolv'd to break the servile Chain,
She Champs and Tuggs for LIBERTY again.
Under the crushing weight, tho' not the Name,
Of Bondage, Scotland groaning did remain,
This hundred Years, with a declining Fame:
Bereav'd of Power, of Riches, and of Trade,
Still slavishly to England's Int'rest ty'd
Which, in return still, with a Mortal Feud
Did all Her brave and wise Designs Elude
While she in spight of multiplyed Harms
For them 'gainst Neighb'ring Princes carry'd Arms,
Mistaken Charity! And always Lent
Auxiliaryes their Dangers to prevent
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Still Reap'd the Benefit, and She the Scars.
Whil'st most ungrateful they did smile to see,
Her lavish of Her Blood and Liberty,
Witness Ye Flandrian Fields so often Dy'd
With Scotish Crimson streams and purple Tide.
The Scotish Body, which, from Pole to Pole,
Did, once, make known the Active Scotish Soul;
By a long tract of Injuries Opprest
Failing in all Attempts to be Redress'd;
Long sick'ning, by degrees at length became
Unfit to lodge the Scotish Soul and Flame.
The Soul, the mighty Genius, with regret,
Seem'd to give way and yeild t' approaching Fate,
And moving so few Members of the Nation
Seem'd landed in a state of Separation;
As fainting People sometimes have been layd
In Coffings and in Graves, reputed Dead.
Th' insulting Enemy beheld with Joy
What they so long had labour'd to Destroy,
T'have breath'd its last: thought all did now remain
Was to Affront and Rob the Carcase slain;
To Rob it, now unable to Resent,
Of every Jewel every Ornament.
And as the Brutal Sexton who designs
Inhumanly to Rob the Inter'd, but finds
The Jewel can't be parted from the Joint
But by the sharpen'd steels dividing Point,
By barbrous gashes doth awake the Sense
And calls the Soul to Action from Suspence:
So while our Nation's Independent Crown
They wou'd remove and lay't below their own,
It proves to closly fix'd to Scotland's Head
Scotland's, tho' now presum'd upon as Dead;
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Must barb'rously be cut, or th' other let alone
They're clear to venture on th' effectual way
Will Tare and Gash to carry off the Prey.
Imperious Addresses of their Lords,
And Bullying Senator's Reproachful Words,
Their false Envenom'd Pens like whetted Swords
Are all Employ'd; But to another End,
Heaven turn'd the Effect then what they did Intend;
Their oft repeated stroaks bestow'd so fast,
To Feeling brought th' entranced Soul at last.
How mortify'd the English were to find,
They had been so mistaken and so blind,
As to believe, by too implicite Faith,
A meer Deliquium a real Death;
The Soul recover'd felt and groan'd aloud;
The pearcing Echo reach'd the Sacred shroud,
Where, from the Reverend Mansions of the Dead,
From Antient Trophies that in Vaults were laid,
From Warlike helmets that with rust were brown,
Circled with Awfull Glory and Renown;
Brave Caledonia started from Her Seat,
With fierce aspect and with a glowing Heat,
Rapid she flew to the confines of Light
Fresh dropping wounds o're-spread her awfull Sight.
In Her Right Hand a forked Javeling bore,
And on Her Left a shining Target wore,
Her Royal Tresses Red with Hostile Gore.
With hast and Speedy wings she did Resort,
To Her Assembl'd Sons in Scotish Court:
Where, now Enliven'd by Her proper Soul,
With Scotish Majesty Her Eyes did Roll:
Amongst the Peers she cast an Awful Look:
Th' amaz'd Assembly were with horrour struck;
To whom with force impetuous, thus she spoke
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Which sometimes in the Veins of Scotsmen flow'd?
Where are the Sons whose Fathers did of old,
Prefer their Freedom to less worthy Gold?
Still graspt their Liberty with Manly Force,
And look'd on slavery as the greatest Curse:
Yea rather than become, or live like, Slaves,
Sunk with Renown and Honour to their Graves.
They never cring'd nor sawn'd with suppliant Face,
For mercenary Titles, or a Place.
Where are they now who bear th' Illustrious Names.
O' th' Hamiltons, the Douglasses, the Grahams,
The Bruce, the Hume, the Hay, and many more,
who still maintain'd My LIBERTY before?
While such were the Asserters of my Cause,
Defenders of My LIBERTIES and LAWS,
The Independent Crown Adorn'd My Head;
My Honour and My Int'rest did not Bleed;
As now I feel, (and you may see) them do,
And fear My Soveraignty's truckling too;
May see the Chains a wreathing on My Arms
By those with whom I've been in equal Terms;
Tho' now expos'd to unrevenged Harms.
Was it for this I bore the fiercest shook
Of Roman Legions? And with Fury brok
Through all the Glittering Squadrons, who amaz'd
To find Me fix them Limits, wondring gaz'd!
The forward Legions with their Thundring train,
Strove oft to leap the Adrian wall in vain;
Were still Repulsed, still beat back again.
In midst of all their Eagles I did Grasp
My Freedom, and retain'd it to the last.
The Fury of the Goths here stopt its course:
The Manly Warlike Saxon wanted Force
To cut a Passage; and the Martial Dane,
His Successor, was oft beat back with Shame.
England's proud Conquerors could never tame
My Native Fierceness, nor Enthrall my Fame:
My Ancient Laws and Priv'leges still stood,
Tho' deeply writ in Characters of Blood.
To force and Hostile Arms I never bow'd.
When Treach'ry sometimes had me half Subdu'd:
But still, in utmost Straits, I could retain
My Bleeding Freedom, and Secur't again,
Untill this last, to me Inglorious, Age
In which my Spirits sunk, and Noble Rage
Decay'd into a Tameness, which did still
Too faintly Strugle with our Jaylors Will,
Or meanly suffer'd from them all that's ill.
And will you thus in Slavery, ever ly
Regardless of your Fame and Memory,
Your present Int'rest and Posterity?
Shall you be ever plagued with the Curse
Of Poverty? and will you (which is worse)
Be always Drudging Slaves to th' English Nation:
Submissive Fools to th' End of the Creation?
Forbid it Heavens!
The Manly Warlike Saxon wanted Force
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His Successor, was oft beat back with Shame.
England's proud Conquerors could never tame
My Native Fierceness, nor Enthrall my Fame:
My Ancient Laws and Priv'leges still stood,
Tho' deeply writ in Characters of Blood.
To force and Hostile Arms I never bow'd.
When Treach'ry sometimes had me half Subdu'd:
But still, in utmost Straits, I could retain
My Bleeding Freedom, and Secur't again,
Untill this last, to me Inglorious, Age
In which my Spirits sunk, and Noble Rage
Decay'd into a Tameness, which did still
Too faintly Strugle with our Jaylors Will,
Or meanly suffer'd from them all that's ill.
And will you thus in Slavery, ever ly
Regardless of your Fame and Memory,
Your present Int'rest and Posterity?
Shall you be ever plagued with the Curse
Of Poverty? and will you (which is worse)
Be always Drudging Slaves to th' English Nation:
Submissive Fools to th' End of the Creation?
Forbid it Heavens!
Nay, since, in some true Honour still had place;
Since young Repentance gloweth in the Face
Of some, who once misled, do now intend
To be Reform'd sincerely, and Amend:
Tho' some will still be V******ns to the End.
I do You all Adjure, (and hope to find
The Better Part to SCOTLAND's Interest kind.)
To raise your Ancient Spirit, and the Blood,
Which Frozen, long a round your Heart hath stood:
I'le be your tutl'ar Angel, lead the way
To Glory, Freedom, Fame and Victory.
Since young Repentance gloweth in the Face
Of some, who once misled, do now intend
To be Reform'd sincerely, and Amend:
Tho' some will still be V******ns to the End.
I do You all Adjure, (and hope to find
The Better Part to SCOTLAND's Interest kind.)
To raise your Ancient Spirit, and the Blood,
Which Frozen, long a round your Heart hath stood:
I'le be your tutl'ar Angel, lead the way
To Glory, Freedom, Fame and Victory.
This said, she paus'd and with a Piercing Eye
The Passions in each Face she did Survey,
In some deep shame, in some did Native Love,
In some did Sparks of Radiant Courage move
Some were Eclipsed with a Couard Fear;
And some with Conscious guilt, and deep Despair.
You who (said she) your Country's wrongs lament,
The Passions in each Face she did Survey,
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In some did Sparks of Radiant Courage move
Some were Eclipsed with a Couard Fear;
And some with Conscious guilt, and deep Despair.
And its Misfortune Seriously Resent;
Rise for the Glory of the Scottish Name;
'Tis Now or Never you'll your Freedom gain:
But if this Precious Minute Slide away,
Then in Eternal Slavery you'll Obey:
But you whom av'rice, Guilt or Base Design,
To the Degenerat party do's incline,
In Characters of Infamy your Name,
Shall be Enrol'd to your Eternal Shame.
Then some, with Smiling Looks she daign'd to Grace;
On others cast a Gloomy Threatning Face;
Then in a Twinckling Vanisht out of sight,
And to her former Seats direct her Flight.
Scarce was the great, the mighty, Phantom gone,
When Radiant Honour in the Faces shone,
Of both the best, and of the Greatest part
Of th' Honour'd Members of the Scottish Court,
Old Caledonia had Transfus'd the Soul,
The Genius now Revived in the whole;
This Noble Genius did soon inspire,
Each worthy breast with Freedoms large desire.
And rais'd their Souls to that Exalted Pitch,
Which the Old Scottish Hero's once did reach.
Fresh as the Blooming Roses of the Morn,
May still their vertue Live and still adorn
Their Fame; still hover o're their honour'd Dust,
When the Degenerat's memory shall rust.
FINIS.
| The True Scots Genius, Reviving | |