A brief and summary discourse upon that lamentable and dreadful disaster at DUNGLASSE. Anno 1640. the penult of August.  
Collected from the soundest and best instructions,  
That time and place could certainly afford, the serious inquiry of the painful and industrious Author.  
By WILLIAM lithgow.  
EDINBURGH, Printed by ROBERT BRYSON.   

The Argument.  
WHat mean you Poets now? where are your verse?  
Shall gallant die? will you forget their hearse?  
Shall after times be robbd, of what disasters  
Have now fall'n out? fie on you Poetasters  
Why sit you dumb? or can you not perform  
So sad a task, on such a grievous storm?  
Else gape you for reward, whilst there is none  
Left to requite you, save yourselves alone:  
This perhaps may stop you, why? without gains,  
Pressed Penmen shrink, its true, gifts sweeten pains  
But most men think, pathetic styles seem hard  
For some to do, the like hath numbers marrde:  
Shall I grown old then write? nay, I must to it,  
Since you, and your young strains refuse to do it.  
This work ten months ago, had seen the light,  
But unperformde promises, bred o'ersight.  
At London, and at home: Should I conceal  
For blandements, what I'm bound to reveal,  
And at my cost discharged: No, that wer● rare,  
To see me court (Chameleon like) the air.  
Would God like subject, heavens from earth had closed,  
Then friends nor foes, had grieved, nor yet rejoicde.  
But all Monarchick time must seal this blow,  
What we construct, that sequel times may know:  
Deeds smothered, lie entombed, thoughts without words,  
Are dumb men's signs, what our prime light affords,  
Is utterance from knowledge; though now dark times,  
Shut murder up, closed with perfidious crimes:  
Nay, what's not now? hands, seals, oaths, writs, & vows,  
Are cancelld, or forsworn; deceit allows  
Base falsehood, for best truth: (O treacherous hearts!)  
How shall the heaven's revengeus! on your parts  
Yet patience crowns our sufferings, and none such  
But they who can the mark of conscience touch.  
Then since it's so; that words and woes agree,  
Let silence sleep, I'll mourn where mourners be.   

Times sorrowful disaster at Dunglasse, containing infallible grounds and reasons, how that most execrable and parracidiall deed was committed.  
LEt melting floods, sad silent groaves, and winds  
Bank-falling brooks, & shrill woods that blinds  
Pressed Nymphall lists; let frowning time, & all  
The Elements admire, this monstrous fall,  
And marvelous mishap, done under tract  
Of homicide, by an abortive fact:  
Come let them roar, and rent the azure skies,  
(Lamenting this lament) with shrinking cries,  
And agitat reports: let echoing hills,  
From their wide sighted tops, rebounding fills,  
The solitary plains, with trembling sounds,  
Of dreadful Massacres; gorging stressd bounds,  
With labyrinths of fears; come spend their time,  
To sift the traitor, and that treacherous crime:  
Which this black hearse averrs: let heavens, and all,  
That move, and live, within earth's massy ball;  
Adhere, and witness bear, of these disasters,  
And by their kinds, turn prodigal worn wasters,  
Of watery woes: let darkened dens and caves,  
Steep rocks sunk glens, dead creatures from their graves  
Shout forth their plaints, sour stormy showers of grief  
To plead our pleading loss. And to be brief;  
Come soul set mourners, for untimely death,  
That can express your sighs, and panting breath  
With hollow groans, come shed with me salted tears,  
And plunging sobs, for mourning now appears:  
Say, if deep sorrow, may from passive mood,  
Turn watery woes, in a Palmenian flood:  
It's more than time, Coepartners had their share,  
Grim grief is eased, when care reforgeth care,  
For if the mind (like to a soul tormented)  
Make passion speak, melancholy is vented.  

What shaking terror struck me to the heart,  
Whilst I conceived the fact, and saw the part  
Left desolate and spoilt, and so confounded  
That my forced cries, from echoes twice rebounded,  
Fell flatlings down, where they and I lay so,  
Alive or dead, I knew not, if, or no:  
For passion (like to rhapsodies) subverts  
The vital sense, extremes construct our smarts.  
And none so shallow, but they may conceive  
That sudden news, if bad, our souls do leave,  
Laid in a lethargy, of senseless sleep,  
Till rouzd, and then pale eyen begin to weep:  
Such pearling drops, with windy sighs and sobs  
Heart groaning grief, and Cataphalion blobs,  
When burst, begets a voice, that voice sad words  
Which now myself; to my sought self affords.  
O fatal stroke! O doleful day and hour!   
What raging hate, made time to lurk and lour,  
To murder such brave sparks, (beside all others)  
A noble Lord, two Knights, and two kind brother  
All Hammiltons of note? with many more,  
Which in a Catalogue, I will thee show,  
Placed here at the conclusion, for direction  
So far by trial, as I got inspection,  
With cost and toilsome pains: who can deplore  
Their tragic end? else who can keep in store  
Their fatal names? full threescore young and old,  
Were killed and quelld, in that unhappy hold;  
And smothered down with stones: like fearful end  
Was ne'er heard of: what? did a cloud portend  
That blustering blow, which rose on sunday morn,  
Forth from the sea, and to Dunglasse was borne.  
O pitiful presage! which they did see,  
Yet had no luck, from that hard luck to flee.  
But what? who can express this grievous act?  
Hearts may conceive, what no pen can extract:  
Some few of all were safe, and only nine,  
Of which there two, this mem'ry I propyne;  
Young Dalmahoy and happy Prestongrange,  
Who by heavens maru'lous mercy, in this change  
Did wondrously escape; and yet both wounded,  
Have in that harm, their health again refounded,  
All thanks to Jove: Lord make them wise to know  
Their lives sweet safety, in that dreadful blow.  
For in the twinkling of a rolling eye,  
Their friends and they were severed: But come, see,  
How all the rest lie shent, some undiscovered  
Are there shut up, with heaps of fragments covered,  
And bodies torn and crushed: what shall I say?  
But curse th' accident, of that dismal day.  

What, had the destinies, or angry fates,  
Crossed constellations, deaths prodigious Mates,  
Or ominous aspects, self-bloody Comets,  
That like pressed whirlwinds, their fury vomits,  
With anxious threats on man, decreed this wonder!  
That die they must, and die with such a thunder.  
O stern mortality! that with their death,  
Reft blind posterity, of looked for breath,  
And nature's tract, for they thrice hopeful sires,  
Might have had children to their full desires▪  
Which now we want, whilst they themselves are laid  
As low as dust, by death's predom'nant spade.   

But stay sad soul, what means these heaps of stones,  
And lumps of walls, spread as confused ones;  
Trace here and there: where, when I went a spying,  
My heart it failed me, and I fell a crying:  
O Heavens! (said I) how came this deed to pass?  
So many Worthies slain, in sacked Dunglasse:  
For what? by whom? what evil had they done?  
That one black sudden blast, they could not shun:  
was't their Ancestors fault? their own much worse?  
Their kindred's guilt or friends? their children's curse?  
Or hirelings scourge? O Heavens will ye conceal  
This stratagem, and not the truth reveal:  
If mortal men were angels, we should know  
The cause, the sin, the Wretch, the hand the blow:  
But this combustion, ah! confused tort,  
Was but a crack: and now to make it short,  
There's one suspected, and that suspicions true,  
Actor he was, if done of spite, judge you,  
As after you shall hear: But I'll proceed  
In method and in matter, so take heed.   

Lo, I have searched, and tried, and seen the place,  
And spoke with some alive; but for the case  
And manner how, they know no more, than they  
Who never saw't, so sudden was the fray:  
That even the thought, of that preposterous fit,  
Was sensible, to have robbd them of their wit,  
If deeply weighed: as who would from a rock,  
Leap headlong in the sea, such was that knock,  
These Innocents received: a lion's heart  
Would shake in pieces, to conceive their smart,  
And short farewell. So quick was their good-night,  
Like to a falcon in his hungry flight.  
That lends the eye a glance, that heart nor mind  
Can show the like, except the rushing wind.  
Which forceth me, (if melting woes may mourn)  
Backwards to look, and to my plaints return:  
O sad disaster! so monstrous and cruel,  
As if hell's mouth, had lent the action fuel,  
Is more than admirable: what flesh can  
Dascon the fault, and that short fury scan.   

Afore the flood and after, the like blow  
Was never heard of, nor no time can show  
So foul a tragic act: done, and undone,  
Was both the deed, and dead; the glimpsing moon  
Was in the waning hushd, as if the night  
That followed on, had lost its borrowed light  
From curling Thetis▪ Like crack, nor like smoke  
Made never Strombolo, that burning rock  
In the Eufemian gulf; nor Vulcan's shop  
In the Aeolian isles, can this o'retop,  
Nor no like furious flame; nor Aetna's fire  
In three set parts, may with this crack aspire,  
For all its force: was malice so incensed,  
That neither space nor favour, was propensde  
To harmless honesty. O dreadful doom!  
That with a clap, did threescore lives consume.  
Or was it so, that flesh and blood may shrink,  
To ruminat on them? or shall we think  
But our deserts are worse; the good with bad  
Do suffer oft, for destiny is mad.   

Me thinks that hell broke loose, and that the devil  
Had got his reins, the actor of this evil:  
O divine providence! how could this be?  
When he that's kept in chains, was now set free  
Is he not limitd, and thy mighty power  
Set to control him, else he would devour  
Thy Saints, and choicelings, but belike it's so  
Thou lets him smite, yet sa●es thy people tho:  
He could not torture Job, without commission  
Nor yet work here, without thy large permission:  
Was there no way to death, but by the rage  
Of a tempestuous sound? could nought assuage  
Thine angry face, O God but die they must,  
And with a violent rapt, be thrown to dust,  
As doomsday had been set, to raze the world  
With twinkling speed, so were they from us hurled.  
If done in field or battle, it had been  
No cause of sorrow, less of weeping eyen.  
For Mars conceives no sturt, nor will allow  
His Darlings should, to peevish wailing bow,  
Which we must yield to: yet if we compare  
Acts past, with present, this fact must be rare.   

How Kings were murdered, & their Kingdoms thrown  
Down to destruction, is distinctly known  
By pen and pensile; and preceding times  
Have left to us the reason, and their crimes.  
Proud Pyrrhus with a stone, from a weak hand  
Lost life and kingdom, and his great command:  
And Agamemnon, after ten years' wars,  
Returned; when done, were vanquished Phrygian jars,  
Was by his page transactd, (with a back thrust)  
From high bred honour, to disdainful dust.  
What blood was shed, in the Pharsalian field,  
Where Caesar fought with Pompey; both did wield  
The accidents of fortune, for they strove  
To lord the earth, next to imperial Jove;  
Caesar was victor, and that Roman flower  
Lost all the world, within one dismal hour:  
Yet Caesar smarts, (the Fates his doom extend)  
He rose with blood, and made a bloody end.  
I will not speak, of Tamberlane's great fight  
Five hundred thousands, put to death and flight:  
Nor from the Theban captains will I bring  
Their bloody trophies, nor of Carthage sing,  
And her subverted Champion; nor sacked Tire,  
Nor Ilion's doom, shall my pen set on fire:  
Nor siege I Jebus, (Joseph's sacred story)  
Where vanquished Jews, lost with themselves their glory  
Nor of the eastern Monarchy I'll sing,  
How Philip's son, was made a Persian King,  
And spread his wings to Ganges; whence returned,  
To Babel's delicates; where fortune spurned,  
Against his pride, and by a slave (made slave)  
Was rest, of what he rest, nay, worse the grave.   

Like instances, I many could produce,  
But these may serve, for to shut up the sluice:  
Yet what of all, can all these parallel  
This horrid murder: No, I will thee tell  
Like villainy and fact, read never man,  
If with the matter, you the manner scan.  
Traitors to Castles fled, fraught with despair,  
Have blown themselves, and fortunes in the air  
But that was madness: voluntary acts  
Are murders, the Devil constructs such facts:  
But this malheure, ah! unexpectd disdain,  
Came thundering forth, and with its crack they're slain,  
A ravished thing, like to a thought or gleam  
Of fancies fled; so was this deed a dream,  
To sight and swift conceit: O wondrous wonder!  
And fearful blackness, of a boisterous thunder,  
Which rent the clouds: Oh! what shall I report,  
To correspond this all predominant tort:  
But stay and muse, on accidents have been,  
Or voluntary deeds, too often seen;  
crossed ships at sea misled, by chance, or spite,  
Or for revenge, been vanquished by strong fight  
Have blown themselves aloft. Look for the nonce,  
How men were burnt, and slain, and drowned at ones:  
Take here the Pope's armado, lately shrunk,  
Where seas with Papists blood, were soundly drunk  
Along the Kentish shore, till Neptune staggered,  
Whilst hirelings on, his tumbling sides they swaggered:  
We thank thee Martin Trump, thou played a spring  
On thy great trumps, made Triton's dancers sing  
Spain and Rome's overthrow; and set us free  
From their damned plots, perfidious policy.  
I will not here insist, although I can  
Discuss their projects, subject, craft, and man.   

Then to illustrate all, take Eighty Eight,  
Take merchant fights, take pirates, & more slight  
Take Tartarets and frigates, you shall see  
When stressd and clasped, how desperately they die:  
This word, Give fire, transcends them through the air  
Where with themselves, their foes the like do share,  
And seldom fails, unless a distance be,  
The one been sacked, the other back doth flee.  
What of like accidents, they're but extremes  
Forced on revenge, self-murder crownes their names  
With endless torture: But ah! this deed now done,  
Can not be matched, with nought beneath the sun.  
Yet some I'll point, to let you see what wounds  
Depend on climates, and their sun-scorchd bounds.   

Then I to Earthquakes come, and deafening thunder,  
Where I'll touch three gross accidents of wonder,  
At Berat near Castras in Languedock,  
A thunder bolt upon thee steeple broke  
(The folk been fled for safety to the Church)  
Full sixteen hundreds, closed within its Porch)  
The steeple (stroke) fell down, and with its fall  
Down came the Church, the tecture, roof, and all  
Which smothered the whole people: Never one  
Escapd that roaring shot, save twelve alone  
That kept at home, been sickly, agd, and lame,  
And had no strength, to court this falling frame,  
This stone-welld town laid waste, the sequel day  
I came to view it, fearful was the fray:  
This thundering blow fell out, on Friday morn  
One thousand, six hundred, and thirteen worn.  
From thence to Lombardy, I'll quickly trace,  
To Pearie, that incorprat hapless place,  
Set on the river Ladishae, and closed  
Between two hills, the alps are here disclosed  
Which bend to Rhetiaes' land: this city crowned  
For Orange, Fig, and Le●●●n, was renowned:  
The tenth of August, and on sunday night,  
At eight a clock, appeared a fearful sight:  
An earthquake shook the hill, above, and under:  
The town streets trembled, like quagmires asunder:  
The rock falls from above, the town it sunk  
Ingulfd within earth's bosom: as it shrunk,  
There was none saved, not woman, man, nor child,  
Nor gold, nor goods, (the truth been here instyld)  
Except a bell, that from the steeple burst,  
When it was swallowed, with a counter-thrust:  
The river followed on, and in it run  
Long five hours' space, till all was full, and done  
Returned to its own course: the Bell was found  
On th' other side of Ladish, dashed on ground:  
Three thousand lives were lost, and lie interred,  
Within one grave: behold, how fortune erred.   

Last to Byzantium, I amazed come,  
To reckon on mishaps, and there's the sum,  
In winter (not in harvest the usual time,  
When Terramoti court, each parched clime)  
An earthquake moved, and in the town it falls,  
Near Bosphores side, and razed a mile of walls,  
Which fenced the place; and in that glutting down  
Three thousand houses, land, and sea did drown,  
Which held ten thousand people: but its true,  
There were few Greeks, the most were Turk and Jew,  
And so the lesser loss: I will not stand  
Here to expostulate (from hand to hand)  
How that ground was recovered; but it cost  
The great Turk more, than all was drowned and lost:  
But for their sepulchre, I daring swear,  
I never saw the like, as I saw here.  
Lo, this great judgement fell, in dark December,  
One thousand six hundred, ten, as I remember.   

Yet to comment on this, these incidents,  
Arise as Bassads, from their elements,  
Of fire, and air: the one through clouds it brusts,  
The other chokes it, with retorting gusts:  
Composed of contraries, lightning, and rain,  
The former forced, the sequel adds the strain.  
The last as reinvestd, in earth is found,  
When hollow sun-scorchd chinks, divide the ground:  
The wind rushed in, begets a monstrous birth,  
That can transplant, or raze mountains of earth.  
Towns, forts, or Cittadales, transform a lake,  
In heaps of sand; so, so, the earth can quake:  
Not done by airt nor hand, or hellish plots,  
As this abortive deed (Exposed on Scots)  
Was by the devil devisde, he actd his part  
And caused distress, with groaning Patients smart  
Done by Ned Paris, arraigned at the Court  
Of Heaven, and Earth, for this tremenduous tort  
enforced on death. Come let thy ghost appear,  
To answer for thy fact, that's sifted here:  
Wast done of malice? or of negligence?  
If not of purpose, less was thine offence▪  
And yet no oversight, nor careless mind,  
Can thee excuse, for that would judgement blind;  
No, it's not so, thy bloody oaths and curses  
Bewrayed thy drift; thy four times mounting horses,  
That afternoon: and still would flee, yet stayed,  
The train was laid, but thou the fact delayed,  
Till thy Lord's coming back, with knights and gentry  
Wherein the inner Court, just at the entry,  
To mount the stairs, there, there, thou smote thy Master  
And many Gallants with that damned disaster:  
Which in thy looks was seen, ere it was done,  
Mischief hung in thy face, that after noon,  
With railing, swearing, cursing, boasting some,  
(Whom thou affectd) to haste soon to their home:  
And yet one scaped, whom thy menacing throat  
Did spur away, the greater his good lot,  
The stable keeper there, Will Paterson,  
That did attend thee then, set me this down.  
But I'll come near, and try more strict conclusions,  
Base minds ill set, are fosters of confusions;  
Then what meant that iron ladle in thine hand  
Ta'en from the kitchen hot (O hells firebrand!)  
Whence to the magazine, thou kept thy way,  
Where eighteen hundred weight of powder lay,  
Of which thou hadst the charge, and only thou  
Came only there: what? did thy Lord bestow  
On thee that trust, and durst thou play the knave  
To kill thy Master: Vile opprobious slave,  
Mad were thy brains, and still were known for madness  
All times absurd, and rammage in thy badness:  
A great blasphemer of God's name, and more  
Thy proverb was, devil damn me, there's the gore,  
That slew thee with that slaughter: O cursed wretch!  
And wicked drudge how could thou this way stretch  
Thy cruel hands, was there no pity left  
To save the saiklesse? was thou so far reft,  
(O senseless sot) from reason and respect  
Of men and Master, that thou wouldst infect  
The earth and air with murder: Oft I said  
To thine and my consorts, this English blade  
Is neither sound nor civil: O! how can  
His Lord give trust, to such a frantic man:  
A daily drunkard, sotting here and there,  
Led with debauchery, and infernal care.   

Another thing condemns thee, that same night,  
An hour before the deed, in deep despite,  
Thou wouldst not give to soldiers, match, nor ball,  
Nor powder, save two shots: And worst of all  
These Carabines thou charged, and didst deliver  
To Troupers were half charged: nor seldom ever  
Had half of them flint stones: their balls were choked  
Half ●aches down, and could not be revokd,  
Nor shot undread, though time and place craved aid,  
Bred from that Barwick fray, was there defrayed.  
Thy speech disclosed thy spite, thy rammage look  
And glooming brows, gave signs (if not mistook)  
Of unafronted drifts: thy grumbling words,  
And chattering lips, were sharper far than swords,  
Which erst had been more calm: this tale was thine,  
Some Scots ere long should smart, as they at Tine,  
Which wore the papal badge: which thou performed,  
When that brave house, with thy cursed hands thou stormed  
Which was made known to some three days before  
The deed was done, it would be done, and more  
These news from Barwick came, and many hear it,  
But could not know the manner how to fear it:  
Which shows it was devisd, and sought, and wrought  
By traitors in both lands, ere it was brought  
To such a dreadful pass. Had this Wretch lived,  
Doubtless some had, in both the kingdom's grieved,  
And lost their Hydra necks: Now I'll return  
To cavil with the traitor, and this turn.  
Thy body in three parts, sore torn was found  
And one of them thy leg, ●●ich on the ground,  
Lay twelve weeks hid 'mongst stones, and this I saw  
Two swine its flesh, from thy cursed bones did gnaw  
A just and loathsome sight: In thy left hand  
The iron ladle stuck fast; the grip and band  
Was hard and sure, that scarce one man could throw  
The ladle from thy fingers; there's a blow.  
Would God before Breda, that thou hadst died  
Three years ago, where thou wast vilified  
With every soldier; then this woeful deed  
Had not been done, nor such deep grievance spread  
In honest hearts, O vile barbarian barber,  
And son of a poor Porter, could thou harbour  
So deadly damned disdain, as for to kill  
All kind of sex, in thy most sceleratill:  
Nay, could not spare thyself; had thou no wit  
To save thyself and flee, when time thought fit.   

Away unhappy beast, what shall I construe?  
But curse thy birth, bred for a murdering monster:  
Did not thy Master clothe thee, like a Knight,  
And stuff thy purse with gold: O thankless wight!  
His love thy life abused, whilst drunken snake,  
The Tavern turned thy Church; did thou forsake  
The law of duty, but cursed Malandrine,  
Thy brainsick pate, must run on his ruin.  
Might not seven years twice o'er command thy part.  
To honour his familiar noble heart:  
Were ever any knew him, but admyrd  
How his rich mind, was with great gifts inspired,  
And hardiness of Heart; Lord W. W. may,  
Recall that combat, of his vanquished day:  
And could this Ruffian, th' abject of a traitor,  
Injure so high a spirit, so kind a Nature.  
And yet he lives, (so great was his good name)  
Christ's Martyr, truth's mirror, faith's soul-plight fame  
The cause was good he died for, but the fact  
And parricide, was hateful, here's the tract.   

O inhuman! most execrable deed!  
So barbarous neckt, with a Cyclopian head,  
Framed like Enceladus; that thrice methinks,  
He's worse than villain, at this murder winks.  
What heathnick, or what pagan? savage blood  
What infidel? could have proud half so rude  
As this cursed caitiff, England's Monster borne,  
That with the fact, left life and soul forlorn.  
What Jamnite? or what Sabunck? garlic slaves  
Would not to nature stoop? whose light conceives  
A tender kindness, to conserve the race  
Of mankind, virtue, having the first place:  
But this Cerberian snake, had no regard  
To great nor small, like doom was never heard  
As he decreed: ah! I want words and breath  
For to detect this Charon, and their death.  
But he like Erostratus would aspire,  
That set Diana's Temple in a fire,  
To purchase flying fame: So frantic he  
In this Catastrophe, would living be,  
Which I adhere to, and for longer time,  
I'll fix on brass, his filthy fact and crime.  
If any be suspectd, more than this wretch,  
Let justice, and sound judgement to it stretch,  
And let our Parliament, sift and search out  
The plot, the man, the guilt, if there be doubt.  
For common fame I leave't, and for like torts,  
Of torturing tongues, I'll not build on reports.  
Why? that's absurd to follow flying fame,  
It's deep experience, rears up truth a Name.   

Now I'll return to my pathetic style,  
And mourn with mourning Ladies grieved the while,  
For loss of their dear husbands; O pale woe!  
When two made one, the knot dissolves in two,  
Rent by the Fates, egregious whirling rage,  
And not by frequent death, done by a Page,  
And quintiscencd Salpeter: O who can!  
Their melancholy minds, in sadness scan!  
Each soul reserves its grief, each hath like loss,  
For life there's death, for comfort sorrows 'cross  
A common woe; peculiar to each one  
Graft, and engraves, a sympathising moan:  
First, thou great Dame, thrice noble by thy birth,  
Sprung from a princely stock: what tongue on earth  
With words can suage thy woes? thy sorrows show,  
From heart-grown grief, that foul pernicious blow,  
Attached fore thee: thy face, thy food, thy rest,  
And sleep denote, how thy sad soul's oppressed  
With helpless care: whilst scarcely half a year  
Did thou enjoy this dearest jewel, thy Dear:  
Great was that love, thy loving Hadington  
Bore to thy soul: thy love again did crown  
His fixed respect: By which your tender hearts  
Knit up in one, made love act both your parts:  
That Hymen blushed (the god of sacred rites)  
To see how love involud in one, two sprites:  
And why? no wonder, both alike excelld,  
The one the other, in goodness paralelld,  
He spoke, you smiled, he winked, & you conceived  
His mental scope, what great content received  
Your mutual intents, whilst demonstration  
Reciprocat, brought Paphos one oblation:  
And yet he left thee, not to live alone,  
But left thee his fair phoenix, being gone.  
A pledge of comfort, representing still  
His face, thy stamp, his heart, thy love, his will.   

O like Penolope! if thou couldst spin  
A daily thread, and that same thread untwinne,  
Till he turned back, so that the fates had sworn  
Thy penance should be, twenty winters borne,  
And he redeemed: But stay sad Muse, return,  
Galld grief and love, can not together mourn.  
Two passions, two extremes, and here I find,  
They're violent rapts, in either of each kind▪  
Away with Dido's stroke, Lucretia's smart,  
Fair Hieroes thrust, Palmeniaes' fatal dart,  
Which grim despair (not love) forced them to act  
Their self-sought murder, in a tragic fact:  
Call, call to mind! God's providence, and see  
Nought comes to pass, without heavens high decree,  
Which mortals must embrace: then Lady spare  
Thy ruthless grief, lay on the Lord thy care.   

And ye the rest, dear Ladies in your kinds,  
Let sorrow smart, take comfort, lift your minds  
Above all worldly crosses; you shall see,  
The length of days; hence souls eternity  
In endless peace: Cast all your grief on God,  
He can release, and chasten, bruise the rod.  
Lo, deepest streams, in smoothest silence slide,  
Whilst Channels roar, so shallow mourners glide,  
With words at will, but mighty cares sit dumb,  
Like liveless corpse, laid in a liveless tomb:  
Whence moistened vapours, forced from humid woes  
Lie in oblivion terrd. And now to close,  
As quickly went their souls to heaven, we hope,  
As their lives quickly fled: the traitors scope  
Was set on murder: but their Angels watched  
And caught their sprites, as with a twinkling catched  
To Paradise: Where now thrice blessed they be,  
With glory crowned; heirs of eternity,  
And endless joys: for they as martyrs died,  
And now sweet souls, with triumphs dignified:  
Set up 'mongst Hierarchies, of sacred sprites,  
That to their blessed society, them invites,  
To seal their martyrdom, in Jesus hand  
Clad with his righteousness: Who can demand  
A better state? then face for face, to face,  
The face of faces, in that glorious place;  
Where Saints and martyrs, environing round,  
The old eternal, with the joyful sound  
Of Aleluhiaes', sing before the throne  
Holy, holy, Lord, to Heavens holy One,  
The lamb of God, hemmed in with burning glore,  
Praise, might, dominion, majesty, and power:  
Where they (thrice hopeful happy) ever blessed,  
Are crowned and reign, in long eternal rest.   

So, so forbear, ye who keep grief in store,   

Take up your cross, and for them mourn no more.   

And now followeth the names of the most part of them that died at Dunglasse, the penult of August, 1640. so far as possibly the Author could collect by serious instruction, and diverse informations, both of the vulgars, and better sort.  

THomas Earl of Hadington.  
Robert Hamilton of Binny his brother.  
Master Patrick Hamilton, his natural brother.  
Sir Alexander Hamilton of Lawfield.  
Sir John Hamilton of Redhouse.  
Colonel Erskine, son to John late Earl of Mar.  
John Keith, son to George late Earl Martial  
Sir Gideon bailie of Lochend.  
Laird of Ingilstoun elder.  
Laird of Gogor elder.  
Alexander Moor, heritor of Skimmer.  
John Gate Minister at Bunckle.  
Niniane Chirneside in Aberladie.  
James Sterling Lieutenant.  
Alexander Cuningham Lieutenant.  
David Pringle Barbour chirurgeon.  
Robert falconer, Sergeant.  
George Vach, Haddingtons Purveyor.  
John White Plaistrer, an English man.  
William Symington, Lochends servant.  
George Neilson in Alhamstocks.  
James Cuningham in Hadington.  
John Manderstoun.  
Matthew forest.  
Patrick Batie.  
Alaster Drummond, alias Gundamore.  
John campbel.  
John Idington.  
James Ford, John Arnots post boy.  
John Orre.  
Andrew Braidie.  
John Tillidaff.  
John Keith, a child.   

Women five.  
Margaret Arnot, daughter to the Postmaister at Cockburnspeth.  
Marjorie Dikson, John Keiths servant.  
Marion Carnecrosse.  
Aleison Gray.   
With twelve bore arms, whose names I could not ken,  
Soldiers for time, not mercenary men:  
The rest (unfound) lie terrd, corpse, clothes, and bones  
Under huge heaps of glutinated stones.  
Lo, I have done, as much as lay in me,  
To try the truth, and blaze it, likes it thee,  
Imepleasde: if not, a fig for Carpers checks,  
Whose chattering spite, the rule of reason brecks.  
And now to close, let critics of all ranks,  
Convince their censures, and yield me kind thanks  
For what gain I, save labour, pains, and cost,  
To show the living, how the dead were lost.  
FINIS.