A
HYMN
To the Victory in
SCOTLAND
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I Sing the Praise of Heroes brave,
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Whose Warlike Merit conquest gave,
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And scornd to trample on a Foe,
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But beat them first, then let them go:
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After a Battle sharp and bloody,
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Beyond the Reach of Humane Study,
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Obtaind between strong Rocks & Trenches,
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By Dint of Sword, and vast Expences.
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Gainst sturdy Scots, and Spaniards proud,
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A Victory most Men allowd.
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Where all their Foes were quite confounded,
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While Cannons roard, and Trumpets sounded,
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Beat here and there, and God knows whither,
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Lost in a Fog, in Sun-shine Weather:
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Confusion every where proclaimd
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Such Wonders which can neer be namd
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Abundance slain, which some call dead,
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Who in the fright rose up and fled.
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More stronger yet if News be right,
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The Fray did last from five till Night,
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And those who brought the Tsdings hither
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Say dead and Living fled together.
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Nay perfect Miracles abounded,
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The dead Men rise and killd the wounded
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Yet when the Battle it was done,
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There was not found so much as one
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Nor None can tell which way theyre gone.
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No antient History can declare,
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Such Actions in Feats of War,
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Great Wills and Carpenter at Preston,
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Might here have learnt a milder Lesson;
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for tho the Victory was compleat,
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Both Dead and Living safe retreat,
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Here was no tricking feigned Pardon,
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With Consequences seldom heard on:
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Deluding Men, and when thats done,
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Hang, Goal, and Banish every one.
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When in this fierce and bloody Fray,
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Our Foes had leave to march away:
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Without the loss of Man or Gun,
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Such generous Favoars seldom done,
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Such Mercy in this Fight was shown,
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We savd Mens Lives and lost our own.
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A Victory which no Age can show,
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To let both Dead and Living go:
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Yet notwithstanding Highland Clans,
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These mighty Favours still withstands,
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Reflecting with their bold Bravadoes,
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Our Men shot only at their Shadows.
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And give us Reasons very pat,
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Because they savd their Lives by that:
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Yet if Reports has not belyd em,
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As Bullets came, they skipd beside em,
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Which is a Riddle hard and dark.
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When not one Gunner hits a Mark;
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I doubt theyve learnd the Magick Art,
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And value not our Guns a Fart
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Or else the Skins of Highland Scots,
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Are Proof against both Swords and Shots.
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Tho this is is strange, it seems too true,
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Because none of their Men were slew,
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And, which our Reason most has shaken,
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Not one poor single Rebel taken:
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Three Hours beaten and none die,
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Yet no Man knows the Reason why,
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Tis very strange tween You and I.
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