Jockies Lamentation,
Whose Seditious Work, Was the loss of his Country and his Kirk.
To a Stately New Scottish Tune.
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WHen first the Scottish wars began
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The English-man did lead the Van
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with Musket & Pike,
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The bonny blith & cunning Scot
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Had laid a Plot, but we could not
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smell out the like.
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Although he could neither write nor Read
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Yet General Lashly past the Tweed
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With his gay gang of Blew-caps tall
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Along we marcht with our General
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New-castle we took all in a trice
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And thought for to make it our Paradice
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And then we were gallant and gay
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For why we took their Pillage away.
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Then straight to Plundering we did fall
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Of great & small, for we were all
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most valiant that day
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And Jenny in her silken Gown
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The best in town from foot to Crown
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was bonny & gay.
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Our suits & our silks did make such a smother
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That hardly next day we knew one another
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For Jockey he was wondrous fine
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And Jenny in her silks did shine
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For there ise did get me a Beaver then
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But now it is beat to a Cap agen
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For a Red-coat got every rag
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That Jockey now & Jenny must bag.
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The English rais'd an Army straight
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With mickle state, & we did wait
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to charge them all.
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Then every valiant musket-man
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Put fire in pan that we began
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apace to fall
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For when that the Powder was toucht by the coal
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Then every man did pay for his pole
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For the Red-Coat the battel won
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And Jockey fast to Scotland did run.
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And at Dunbar fight a weel & a neer
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For there we were put to a mickle fear
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They took our Guns & silver all
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And hung up our silks in Westminster-hall.
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Full well I wot in Lancashire
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Our brethren dear, did plunder there
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both Rich and Poor.
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Which caus'd the fury of the North
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When we set forth to be in wroth
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and vex us sore,
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For when that the Red-Coats had knockt us down
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The country people in every Town
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Did beat Jockey over the face
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And was not this a pittiful case?
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They bid us remember our Plundering tricks
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And thumpt us & beat us, with cudgels & sticks
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But the deel burst my body & wem
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If ever ise gang to England agen.
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PRince Rupert he at Marston-Moor,
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In time of yore, did bang us sore
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being forc'd to flie,
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Had it not been for English men
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To charge agen the Battel then
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and victory
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Was bravely gain'd by our General
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But Lashly did run with his blew caps all
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At Hothoms Town appear'd a sprite
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For Jockey had rather eat than fight,
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Their legs they were weary with runing so fast
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And yet the bold Cavies were routed at last;
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And Jockey never so frighted had been
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Who thought it secure to keep a whole skin.
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The godly Presbiterian
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That holy man, a war began
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in Scotland there
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Then Jockey gay, both Laird & Lad
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Like people mad, were very glad
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in Arms to appear,
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They made a new Covenant for to pull down
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The crosses that stood in every Town
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And the Rochet that the Bishop did bear
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And his white smock his chaplain did wear
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And now the good covenant's gone to wrack
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And quite out of date like an Old Almanack
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And all the crosses are our own losse
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For Jockeys gone home by weeping cross.
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The Red-coats all came over Fife
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With mickle strife, and ventured life
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our blood to tame,
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Brunt Island we, were forc'd to yield
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For in the field great store were kill'd
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as ise can name,
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At least five hundred Scots were slain
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Besides two thousand were Prisoners tane
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Which made the Gay Girls sigh & cry
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To see their sweet-hearts lying by:
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The High-landers having so mickle a Reach,
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Did find that the pellets did lite in their breech
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For the Red-coats did often let fly
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And Jockey for quarter did presently cry.
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Our Enemies to Starling-bridge
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(Like a whirlegig, did dance a jig)
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to fight our men,
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To England streight with mickle pride
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We crost the Tweed and were agreed
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to charge agen,
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At Worcester our Kirk & our King went to wrack
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And he that run foremost durst never look back,
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Our mickle Army had the Rout
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And there we were forc'd to wheel about
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The Silver before which from England we took
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Is now their own money ise swear on a book,
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But since that England & Scotland were foes
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They keep up their silver & pay us with blows.
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The Low-lands all, & Highlands too,
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And bonnet blew, ise yield to you
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to be your own,
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For Red-coats they with gun & sword,
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Makes every Lord, with one accord
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to cry, O hone,
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Our lives & our wives, our goods & lands
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Are in the limits of your own hands
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For Jockey must a servant be
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And Jenny live as poor as he:
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Our Horses, cattel Sheep and cows
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Our carts & Harrows, teams & plows
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We may not challenge for our own,
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For Jockey hath little & Jenny hath none.
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I must confess this holy firk
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Did only work, upon our Kirk,
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for silver and meat,
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Which made us come & bring our broods,
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Venture our bloods for your own goods
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which prov'd a cheat,
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But see what covetousness doth bring
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We have lost our Kirk and everything,
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Then alack Sir, and well we may cry
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Our back Sir, and belly must dye,
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We fought for treasure and for glory
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And there's an end of a Scottish Story
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Despised of all for silver & gold
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Oh the worst tale that ever was told.
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