Monmouth Worsted
In the WEST.
Or, His Care and Grief for the Death of his poor Souldiers.
Together with his Worthy Sayings, while he remained obscure in a silent Grove, in
presence of some of his particular Friends.
To the Tune of, The Souldiers Departure.
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NOw we see the Fight is over,
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now poor Monmouth must away,
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All our strength they do discover,
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and seek my life for to betray:
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Come let us away to Holland,
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there we shall be safe I'm sure,
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And my men will follow after,
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there we shall be all secure.
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If I had but Ammunition,
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I could quickly win the Field;
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But I'm left on a bad condition,
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to my Enemies I must yield:
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Yet I have so great a spirit,
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that I will not thus give o're,
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Though I may a while deferr it,
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yet I'le face my Foes once more.
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Britains Rights I am renewing,
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Can this give a just offence?
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Those that glory in my Ruine,
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I in time may recompence.
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For I'll have a stronger Army,
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and of Ammunition store:
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I'll have Drums & Trumpets charming,
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when as I come on Englands shore.
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I will give them thundring Battel
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when I do return again
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And when roraing Guns do rattle,
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who dare say that I am slain?
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Charge them to the highest Center,
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for to make the Papists flye,
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Like and Fortune I will venture,
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to reward their Cruelty.
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My poor Souldiers they was taken
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and in Droves to Prison sent,
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This may protestants awaken,
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to behold Romes black intent:
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They shew not a grain of pity,
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which does grieve my heart full sore;
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For in every Town and City
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they were hang'd at their own door.
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There they ript their bellies open,
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and their bodies burnt hard by;
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Tell me, is not this a Token
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of the Acts of Cruelty?
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Nay, they cut them into quarters
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while they reekt in purple gore;
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Never was there such-like Creatures
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in a Christian Land before.
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Tho' poor Souls their Lives were ended,
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yet, alas! this would not do,
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Malice further still extended,
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for they boil'd their Quarters too.
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All to terrifie the Nation
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with my poor dead mangled men;
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While each tender dear Relation
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needs must be afflicted then.
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This is now my greatest trouble,
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for to hear their fatal Doom,
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I for this will Strokes redouble
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on the Scarlet Whore of Rome;
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Who delights in nought but Murther
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as in truth it does appear,
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But I'll send her flying further
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when I bring next Army here.
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Though this is a dismal Story,
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of the fall of my design,
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Yet Ile come again in Glory
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if I live till Eighty Nine:
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With fresh Forces I will rally,
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scorning thus to be controul'd,
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At the Head of each Battalia
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Noble great Commanders bold.
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Though I come with flying Banner
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to the Land which I belong,
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I declare upon my Honour,
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not a Subject will I wrong
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Of the Protestant Profession,
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whom I ever did adore,
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Think upon this dear Expression,
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Heavens bless you evermore.
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