THE
LORDs LAMENTATION;
OR THEWHITTINGTON Defeat.
-----Immensas Surgens ferit aurea clamor
Sydera; ------
Saevit atrox Volscens --- VIRG. AEn.
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GOD prosper long our noble KING!
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Our Lifes and Safeties all:
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A Woeful Horse-race, late there did
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At Whittington befall.
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Great B-----ds Duke, a mighty Prince!
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A Solemn Vow did make;
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His Pleasure in fair Staffordshire,
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Three Summers Days to take.
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At once to grace, his Fathers Race
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And to confound his Foes,
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But ah! (With Grief, my Muse does Speak,)
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A Luckless Time he chose.
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For some rude Clowns who long had felt
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The Weight of Tax and Levy,
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Explaind their Case unto his G-----e,
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By Arguments full heavy.
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No G---wr, they cryd! no Tool of Pow-r!
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At that the E--l turnd Pale:
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No G--wr, no G--wr, no Tool of Pow-r!
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Re-echod from each Dale:
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Then B-----ds mighty Breast took Fire,
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Who thus inragd did cry,
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To Horse my Lords, my Knights my Squires;
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Well be Revengd, or Die.
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They mounted straight all Men of Birth,
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Captains of Land and Sea;
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No Prince or Potentate on Earth,
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Had such a Troop as he.
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Great Lords, and Lordlings close conjoind,
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A Shining Squadron stood:
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But to their Cost, the Yeoman Host,
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Did prove the better Blood.
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A G--wr, a G--wr! Ye Son o th Whore,
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Vile Spawn of Babylon!
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This said, his Grace did mend his Pace,
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And came full fiercely on.
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Three Times he smote a sturdy Foe;
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Who undismayd replyd,
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Or be thou Devil, or be thou D---e,
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Thy Courage shall be tryd.
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The Charge began; but on one Side,
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Some Slackness there was found;
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The smart Cockade in Dust was laid,
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And Trampled on the Ground.
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Some felt sore Thwacks, upon their Backs,
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Some, Pains within their Bowels;
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All who did Joke the Royal Oak,
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Were well Rubbd with its Towels.
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Then Terror seizd, the plumed Troop,
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Who turnd themselves to Flight;
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Foul Rout and Fear, brought up the Rear:
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Oh! twas a piteous Sight!----
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Each Warrior Urgd his Nimble Steed;
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But none durst look behind;
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Th Insulting Foe, they well did know,
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Had got em in the Wind.
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Who neer lost Scent, untill they came,
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Unto the Gallow-tree:
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Now said their Foes, weell not oppose
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Your certain Destiny.
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No Farther Help of ours ye lack,
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Gra-mercy with your Doom!
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Trust to the Care o th Three Leggd-mare
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Shell bring ye All safe Home.
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Then wheeld about, with this old Shout,
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Confusion to the R------p.
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Leaving each Knight, to mourn his Plight,
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Beneath the Triple-stumpt.-----
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Now Heaven preserve such Hearts as these,
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From Secret Treachery!
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Who hate a Knave, and scorn a Slave,
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May such be ever free.
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