Rochell her yeelding to the obedience of the French
King, on the 28. of October 1628. after a long siege by Land and Sea,
in great penury and want. To the tune of In the dayes of old.
|
YOu that true Christians be
|
assist me with your sorrow,
|
While the misery
|
of Rochell I relate:
|
And in love let me
|
your attention borrow,
|
Ile in brevity
|
shew you their estate.
|
Being besieged long
|
With an Army strong,
|
by land and sea invirond close:
|
France and Spaine combinde,
|
To have them all pinde,
|
yet bravely they did them oppose,
|
And with constant valour,
|
They indur'd such dolour,
|
that a heart obdure may melt,
|
To heare this relation.
|
And have commiseration,
|
on the wants that long they felt.
|
While this warlike Towne
|
stood in her chiefe glory,
|
Still when Fate did frowne
|
on the Protestante,
|
Thither have they flowne,
|
while their foes were sory,
|
But that old renowne
|
now brave Rochell wants.
|
For through want of meat,
|
Famine was so great,
|
that the living ate the dead:
|
It grieves me to report,
|
How that in wofull sort,
|
many Christians perished,
|
Through the want of victuall,
|
Whereof they had so little,
|
that as I before did touch,
|
Those who dy'd by hunger,
|
Were eate by the stronger,
|
their necessity was such.
|
Horses, Dogs, and Cats,
|
were esteemed dainty,
|
Frogs, and Mice, and Rats,
|
were meat for the best.
|
Some did eate old Hats,
|
to maintaine them faintly,
|
Shooes and Gloves were cates
|
that serv'd among the rest:
|
Such is hungers power,
|
Twill make one devoure
|
that which we will scarce beleeve:
|
Ere a man will starve,
|
Hee'le his life preserve,
|
with that which our smell would grieve,
|
Thus this wofull City,
|
Whose distresse I pitie,
|
suffered most extreame famine,
|
The like I scant have read of.
|
To the feare and dread of
|
all that shall their case examine.
|
About twelve thousand soules
|
perished by hunger,
|
While many needlesse bowles
|
in England were ill spent.
|
Neither fish nor fowles
|
had they to keepe them longer,
|
Many cryes and houles
|
to the ayre were sent.
|
Nor any kinde of meat
|
Could they have to eate,
|
when their store was fully spent.
|
The Spaniard and the French
|
Put them to such a pinch,
|
having round begirt their Towne,
|
That they needs must yeeld
|
What they could not weild,
|
hunger brings stout stomaks down
|
So it hath constrained
|
Them with heart unfained
|
to surrender up their Towne.
|
|
|
|
|
The second part. To the same tune.
|
THe eight and twentieth day
|
of the last October,
|
Seeing there was no way
|
but to yeeld the Towne,
|
They without delay
|
advis'd by Counsell sober,
|
Yeelded to obey
|
the King who weares that crown
|
And there withall they straight
|
Opened the gate,
|
and put the Town, their lives and goods
|
Into his Highnesse hands,
|
To doe as he commands,
|
who did not seek to spil their bloods
|
Beyond our expectation
|
He had commiseraiton,
|
on those miserable soules,
|
And mildly he dispenses
|
With their bold offences,
|
and their cases much condoles.
|
When they had open set
|
the Gates upon adventure
|
And that the French did get
|
possession of the same,
|
They freely without let
|
into the streets did enter,
|
The Townesmen yeelded it,
|
and did all right disclaime,
|
Protesting that they would
|
Be ever as they should
|
obsequious to his Majesty,
|
And like subjects true,
|
Live in obedience due,
|
and he with their humility
|
So graciously was pleased,
|
That he then released
|
them of what they had offended,
|
He gives them leave to use
|
The faith which they doe chuse,
|
thus all contention shall be ended.
|
It was a piteous thing
|
that befell them after,
|
For when some did bring
|
victualls as was needing,
|
Sent thither by the King,
|
it caus'd a wofull slaughter:
|
Many surfetting,
|
dy'd with too much feeding,
|
So weake their stomacks were
|
That they could not beare
|
meat as other people can:
|
Thus as some dy'd through need,
|
So want of taking heed
|
broght death to many a hungry man
|
God grant that we here dwelling
|
May have a fellow feeling
|
of those Christians misery,
|
Who have indur'd such sorrow,
|
And let us from them borrow,
|
a patterne of true constancy.
|
God blesse our Royall King,
|
who is true faiths defender,
|
That he to passe may bring
|
every good designe:
|
Blesse also in each thing
|
his Queene, and in time send her
|
Power in grace to spring
|
like a fruitfull Vine:
|
The Nobles of this Land
|
Proffet with thy right hand,
|
that they may fructifie in good:
|
And let those Christians true
|
The right way still pursue,
|
oh let them stand as they have stood,
|
Let not thy flocke disturbed,
|
Be by Tyrants curbed,
|
but like the Arke let it still swim,
|
Among those raging billowes,
|
Though with cares they fill us,
|
let's not be dismaid for them.
|
|
|
|
|