Miscellanies in prose and verse on several occasions, by Claudero [i.e. James Wilson], son of Nimrod the Mighty Hunter. The Fourth Edition with large Additions |
 |
Scotland in Tears for the horrid Treatment of their Kings Sepulchres.
|
|
|
 | Miscellanies in prose and verse |  |
9
Scotland in Tears for the horrid Treatment of their Kings Sepulchres.
Rage, vengeance, fury, aid my pen,
To lash the worst of wicked men;
A sordid wretch, of honour void,
And ev'ry virtue else beside;
From dunghill sprung; of breeding mean;
A beast in human shape unclean.—
Mistake me not, I do not blame
The country fair from whence he came,
There's miscreants both here and there,
Which neither kingdom ought to spare.
To lash the worst of wicked men;
A sordid wretch, of honour void,
And ev'ry virtue else beside;
From dunghill sprung; of breeding mean;
A beast in human shape unclean.—
Mistake me not, I do not blame
The country fair from whence he came,
There's miscreants both here and there,
Which neither kingdom ought to spare.
Let Scotia's sons then hear my theme,
And join to curse the hated name.
Of this vile wretch, who, in disdain,
Did our most hallow'd places stain.
With sacrilegious disrespect,
An office-house he did erect,
Within the Abbey's sacred shrine,
Where long the dust of kings had lain,
Both undisturb'd, and much rever'd,
By pious Scots held in regard.
And join to curse the hated name.
Of this vile wretch, who, in disdain,
Did our most hallow'd places stain.
With sacrilegious disrespect,
An office-house he did erect,
Within the Abbey's sacred shrine,
Where long the dust of kings had lain,
Both undisturb'd, and much rever'd,
By pious Scots held in regard.
Our kings, our princes, there do ly,
Whose souls are now above the sky;
Those royal heroes, whose command
Extended over Scotia's land;
The darlings of their country too,
Who made its en'mies often bow;
In bloody fields who dangers shar'd,
And oft the arms of England dar'd;
Must now be basely shit upon,
By an unworthy English drone,
Who boasts himself, to his disgrace,
He stain'd with dung our kings bare face.
Whose souls are now above the sky;
Those royal heroes, whose command
Extended over Scotia's land;
The darlings of their country too,
Who made its en'mies often bow;
In bloody fields who dangers shar'd,
And oft the arms of England dar'd;
Must now be basely shit upon,
By an unworthy English drone,
Who boasts himself, to his disgrace,
He stain'd with dung our kings bare face.
O! royal George, our sov'reign dear,
Unto this story lend an ear;
Hear how the bones of antient kings
Are treated like to common things!
Our royal Jameses, from whose veins
The blood did flow by which George reigns,
Their sacred dust, by vile intent,
Lies mingled with base excrement.
By punishment severe and ample,
To all the world make him example
That no presumpt'ous wretch again
May royal ashes thus profane.
Unto this story lend an ear;
10
Are treated like to common things!
Our royal Jameses, from whose veins
The blood did flow by which George reigns,
Their sacred dust, by vile intent,
Lies mingled with base excrement.
By punishment severe and ample,
To all the world make him example
That no presumpt'ous wretch again
May royal ashes thus profane.
Edina's sons, indignant view,
The gross affront that's done to you;
Shew your resentment at this deed,
For which all loyal hearts do bleed;
And hate the rogue who did the blame,
But not the place from whence he came.
'Tis liker to Batavian tricks,
Who trample on the crucifix,
And treat religion with disdain,
In order to enhance their gain:
But England's sons, more pious far,
Are good in peace, and brave in war;
Fair virtue is the only pole,
By which they steer unto the goal
Of honour, trade and happiness,
And heav'n rewards them with success,
Such sacrilegious wicked men
Are held by them in great disdain;
And fame records, perhaps 'tis true,
They also gave this rogue his due;
When with impious breath he vaunted,
How he had shit on kings undaunted;
They whip'd him with great indignation,
And almost sent him to damnation.
Let Britons all his crime detest,
And scarcely wish the villain blest;
While injur'd Scots his due afford,
By dragging him thro' Tumble-Turd.
The gross affront that's done to you;
Shew your resentment at this deed,
For which all loyal hearts do bleed;
And hate the rogue who did the blame,
But not the place from whence he came.
'Tis liker to Batavian tricks,
Who trample on the crucifix,
And treat religion with disdain,
In order to enhance their gain:
But England's sons, more pious far,
Are good in peace, and brave in war;
Fair virtue is the only pole,
By which they steer unto the goal
Of honour, trade and happiness,
And heav'n rewards them with success,
Such sacrilegious wicked men
Are held by them in great disdain;
And fame records, perhaps 'tis true,
They also gave this rogue his due;
When with impious breath he vaunted,
How he had shit on kings undaunted;
They whip'd him with great indignation,
And almost sent him to damnation.
Let Britons all his crime detest,
And scarcely wish the villain blest;
While injur'd Scots his due afford,
By dragging him thro' Tumble-Turd.
| Miscellanies in prose and verse | |