TO HIS
MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY
WILLIAM
King of Great-Brittain, &
The Humble Address of the Regimented
CAMERONIAN PRESBYTERIANS
Lying at MONTROSE, and Adjacent Cities in ANGUS.
December 12th. 1689.
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REligious Sir, whom GOD doth call and chuse,
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On Earth His great Lieutenants place to use;
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We bless that Night, which did bring forth that Morn,
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Wherein 'twas said, There is a Man Child born,
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Of so much Valour and renoun'd Esteem,
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Who shall from Bondage Britains Isle redeem:
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O! Happy time wherein we now can say,
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(Although we be be-north the River Tay)
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Which Place, Great Sir, of all Your great Dominions,
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Doth hate us most, and all of our Opinions;
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For there the Gospel never shined bright,
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They loved Darkness, greatly hated Light;
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They mocke Religion, and True Gospel Preachers,
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Painful Pastors, and Religious Teachers;
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And also, Sir, we dare be bold to say,
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The Devil reigneth there, until this day;
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They love not you, who is their Roval HERO
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But cleave to James, that Cruel Bloody Nero.
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E[?] Great Sir, some Angus Lairds,
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[?] d, they [?] and Ale,
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These are their Principles, this is their Zeal.
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O! Happy time, we say, when we can boast,
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For all their Circuits, and the Highland Host!
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For all their Tests, and Bonds of Regulation,
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Which were so grievous to this Ancient Nation;
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Yet some of us our Garments keeped clean,
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And free of spots, ye know, Sir, what we mean.
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Sir, we have seen the day, when James did reign,
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They would our Brethren to the Scafford bring,
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And Torture them alive, like Mallefactors.
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Or, in some Murdering Stratagim, great Actors
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Would fix their Heads up in the Marcat Places,
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A Curse come down their Bloody Murdering Faces.
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Again, Great Sir, we ever will incline,
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To Register the Fatal Eighty Nine:
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In which the LORD hath you our King appointed,
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And since, Great Sir, you are the LORD's Anointed;
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HE hath wrought wonderous Works to bring you in,
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Imploy your strength against that Man of Sin;
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Crush his Designs, confound their Popisle Plots,
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Believe them not, altho they turn their Coats.
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Of you, Great Sir, the Prophets have foretold,
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In latter times, and in the dayes of Old;
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Great Britains King shall yet Religious be,
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And shall demolish Grove, and each green Tree,
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In which your Priors, did their Homage give
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To Stocks, and Stones, and things which do not live!
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And while you Fight against JEHOVAHs Foes,
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And still in him your Confidence repose,
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He'll be your Sheild and Buckler in the War,
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And when your Enemies approach afar;
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At sight of you, they'l turne their back and yield.
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Because the LORD for you doth fight the Field;
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But yet, Great Sir, if you shall turn aside,
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And in his Statutes shall not firm abide;
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We must be bold, to tell you from our Heart;
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That soon or syne the LORD will make you smart;
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And this hath very frequently been seen,
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In many Lands upon both King and Queen:
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This good Advice (we hope) will be no Treason,
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It's back'd with Scripture, and the height of Reason.
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Nixt, Sir, we hope by your Heroick Hand,
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Shall be reduc'd, our broken * Neighbouring Land:
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We hope to see your great Parade advance,
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And fix your Camp into the Heart of France:
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We hope to see you Scall the Walls of Rome,
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And give the Man of Sin his Fatal Doom;
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And we ourselves shall in your presence be,
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And Celebrate that strange Catastrophe.
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Some Men that are our Enemies and yours,
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Say, That we'll not obey Superiour Powers;
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But yet, Great Sir, we'll make them understand,
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Before themselves, we'll notice your Command.
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A[?]e, Great Sir [?] will [?]
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[?] through the Wizorn,
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Great Sir, some in the Army, and the State,
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If they by any means could know their Fate,
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They would lend in their Strength, you to Dethrone,
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And set a Popish Tyrant thereupon:
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But Blessed be GOD, it is not in their Station,
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To know the Secrets of Predestination:
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They do pretend their King was thrust away,
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And that he got not fair impartial play!
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Which is right true, for if the Law had been
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Put in its force, against him and his Queen,
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Ere now they had been both in Purgatory,
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Through which Catholick Souls do enter Glory!
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Likewise, Great Sir, before the Throne shall be
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Possess'd by any Papists, such as he,
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Our Blood shall run like Clyds enraged Streams,
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And Phoebus throw our Bodie send his Beams.
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Great Sir, we thank you, Prelacy is gone,
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Under that Yoak, our Land did sadly groan,
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They have Oppressed us, and all our Friends,
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They strove to break our Conscience and our Means,
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And some of us they did not leave a Cock,
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Nor in our Yard a growing green Kelstock.
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And now, Great Sir, in an unusual manner,
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We Fight under a Regal British Banner;
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We are your Servants, and will spend our Blood,
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Upon the Quarrel, while the Cause is good;
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We'll go through all the World at your Command,
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We hope, Great Sir, You'l give Us Pay in hand.
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GREAT SIR, We close, hoping You will remember,
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We're in the North, and now it is December;
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Our Cloaths are thinn, our Purses are right bare,
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To bide these two, Great Sir, it is right fare.
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And also, Sir, we lye among our Foes,
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Giv[?] [a]nd Subscribed, at Montrose.
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