THE PILGRIMS FAREWELL, To his Native Country of SCOTLAND: Wherein is contained, in way of Dialogue, The Joys and Miseries OF PEREGRINATION.  
With his LAMENTADO in his second Travels, his PASSIONADO on the Rhine, diverse other Inserting, and Farewells, to Noble Personages, And, THE hermits WELCOME to his third Pilgrimage, etc. Worthy to be seen and read of all gallant Spirits, and Pompe-expecting eyes.  
By WILLIAM LITHGOW, the BONAVENTURE of EUROPE, ASIA, and AFRICA, etc.  Patriam meam tranfire non possum, omnium una est, extra hanc nemo projici potest. Non patria mihi iuterdicitur sed locus. In quamcunque terram venio, in meam venio, nulla exilium est sed altera patria est. Patria est ubicunque bene est. Si enim sapiens est peregrinatur, si stultus exulat. Senec. de re. for. 
Imprinted at Edinburgh, by Andro Hart. ANNO DOMINI 1618.  
At the Expenses of the Author.   

THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY, To the nine Pernassian Sisters, The conservers of HELICON.  

YOu sacred Nymphs, which haunt Parnassus' Hill,  
Where Soron flows, and Demthis run at will:  
Out from your two-topped Valley show me grace  
And on the lower Lists meet me apace.  
Infuse in me the Vein, I gladly crave,  
To sing the sad FAREWELLS my SOIL must have.  
And ye Supreames of this poor MUSE of mine,  
As judges justly censure this Propine:  
I bring no Stones from Pactole, Orient Gems,  
Nor brags of Tagus, singes of Golden Stems:  
I search not Iris, square-spread cloudy Wings,  
Nor of the strange Herculean Hydra singes,  
These Frantic Fancies, I account as vain,  
In Vulgar Verse, my FAREWELLS I explain.  
If I debord in Stropiate Lines, or then  
In Method fail, attach my wandering Pen.  
This Vein of Nature, and a Mother Wit,  
Is more than haughty Scholars well can hit.  
So this small Fondling, borne of your nine Wombs,  
Turns back, and in your Bosom her entombs.  
Then nurse your Youngling, and repurge her Veins,  
And send her back in haste, to yield me gains.  
In doing this, to you, and to your Fame,  
I consecreate my Love, and her new Name.   
Yours, longing to be drunk of Helicon. WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

To the courteous peruser of these my sad FAREWELLS.  

Dear Gentle READER, grant me this small suit,  
Read this o'er kindly, and no fault impute:  
I cannot please the World, and myself too,  
For that is more, than bravest Spirits can do.  
here I am plain, and yet the plainest way,  
Is fittest for the Divine Muses aye.  
A greater Work, I mean to put in Light,  
But LONDON claims it of a former Right.  
And if thou knewst how quick, and in small time,  
This Work I wrote, thou wouldst admire my Rhyme.  
Thou mightst demand the Reason why I sing?  
And done; this Answer, I would to thee bring:  
There's some that swear, I cannot read, nor write,  
And hath no judgement, for to frame or dite.  
And to confound their blind absurd conceit,  
My Muse breaks forth, to show their Error great.  
These Calumnies, envious Worms spew forth:  
They grieve to see me set at any Worth.  
The Cause is this, These Gifts I have, they lack,  
And from my Merit, they their Malice take.  
O! if I might their Names in Print forth set,  
A just Revenge, their just Desert should get.  
But to the Wise, the Learned, and the Kind,  
The Noble Heart, and to the Virtuous Mind,  
I humbly prostrate me, my Muse, my Pains,  
If I can win your Love, there's all my Gains.   
To the Courteous, still humble, And to the Knave as he deserves, WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

Some Extemporaneall Lines, Written at the very view of this Poem going to the Press, in commendation of the Author his Travels and Poesies.  

praiseworthy Pilgrim, whose so spiring Spirit,  
Rests not content, incentred in one Soil:  
Thy Travels past, though always exquisite,  
Divertes thee not, from well-intended Toil.  
Two Voyages, of Wonder-breeding Worth,  
And can they not enough thy Fame set forth?   

In thy first Course, thy restless Pains o'er past,  
The Rocky Alps, and Mountains Pyrhenees,  
High Atlas, Aetna, and Olympus waste,  
With all those Yles, of Mediterrane Seas.  
Old Athens, Rome, Troy, Byzans, and judaea,  
Egypt, both Arabs, Desert, and Petraea.   

Then chiefest things, of South, by thee were seen,  
Both in the Yles, and in the Continent:  
What rare in Europe, Africa, Asia, been,  
But few they are, therewith so well acquaint,  
With jordane, Nilus, and Euphrates strand,  
And all the Rareties, of that Holy Land.   

Thy journey next, did subject to thy sight,  
The emperor's Bounds, and German States of Worth.  
Brave Boheme, Transyluania, Hunger wight,  
And all the Nations, to the furthest North:  
Great Rhyne, and Volg, from Danubie declind,  
The Hans Towns, Dans, Swenes, and Provinces combined.   

What rests then, for thy restless mind to do?  
What journey next, then shalt thou undertake?  
Where shall thy near way-wearid Begs now go?  
And whither mindst thou now this voyage make?  
All under Arctic Pole, since thou not cares,  
For Antipodes thy passage thou prepares.   

And since nought can thy Spirit from traveles sever,  
Guiana mark, Virginia by the way,  
And Terra de la Feugo eke consider.  
In fortunate islands, pray thee make no stay,  
Lest thou, allured, by sweetness of that Soil,  
By Birth, that's due, thou so thy Country spoil.   

But what in thee most (LITHGOW) I admire,  
'tis flowing Vein, of thy Patheticke Quill,  
Fully infused, with Acedalian fire,  
Whilst to thy Soil, thou singest thy last Farewell.  
As traveles strange, doth Pilgrim, thee decore,  
So Poems rare, shall thee advance far more.   

As deepest Dangers can thee not affray,  
No Lion, Tiger, nor stupendious thing,  
No Barber, Turk, nor Tartar can thee stay:  
By traveles to thy Mind, Contentment bring:  
Cease not to sing, what thou dost see by sight,  
That Country Praise, and Ignorants, get light.   
Ignoto.   

To his singular Friend, WILLIAM LITHGOW.  

WHiles I admire, thy first and second ways,  
Long ten years wandering, in the Worlde-wide Bounds:  
I rest amazed, to think on these Assays,  
That thy first Travail, to the World foorth-soundes:  
In bravest sense, compendious, ornate Style,  
Didst show most rare adventures to this Isle.   

And now thy second Pilgrimage I see,  
At LONDON thou resolvest, to put in light:  
Thy LYBIAN ways, so fearful to the eye,  
And GARAMONTS' their strange amazing sight.  
Mean while, this Work, affords a threefold gain,  
In fury of thy fierce CASTALIAN Vein.  
As thou for traveles, brook'st the greatest Name,  
So voyage on, increase, maintain the same.   
W. R.   

To the Kings most excellent Majesty.  

MOST Mighty Monarch, of Great Britanes Isle,  
Vouchsafe to look on this small Mite I bring;  
Which prostrate comes, clad in a barren style,  
To Thee, O Kingly Poet! Poets King.  
And if one gracious look, fall from thy face,  
O then my Muse, and I, find life, and grace.   

Even as the Sunshine, of the new-born Day,  
From Thetis watery trembling Cave appears,  
To deck the lowering Leaves in fresh Array,  
Which sable Night, involves in frozen Fears:  
And Elitropian-like, display their Beauty,  
Unto their Sovereign Phoebe, as bound by duty.   

So Thou th'aurore, of my prodigious Night,  
lends Breath unto my long-worne weary Strife:  
And from thy Beams, my Darkness borrows light,  
To cheer the Day, of my desired Life.  
So Great Apollo, as thou shinest, so favour,  
That I, 'mongst thousands, may Thy Goodness favour.   

Great Pious Pattern, Patron of Thine own,  
This ravished Age, admires Thy Virtuous Ways:  
Whose Princely Acts, Remotest parts have known,  
And we live happy, in Thine happy Days.  
Thy Wisdom, Learning, Government, and Care,  
None can express, their Merits as they are.  
Long mayst Thou reign, and long may GOD above,  
Confirm Thine Heart, in Thy Great Kingly love.   
The most Humble and Ingenochiat Farewell of WILLIAM LITHGOW,   

To the High and Mighty Prince, CHARLES', Prince of Great Britain. etc.  

Lo here (brave Prince) I strive thy Worth to praise,  
But cannot touch, the least of thy Deserts;  
I show goodwill, let braver Spirits raise,  
Thy Name, thy Worth, thy Greatness, and good parts:  
Late famous Henry, did not leave the earth,  
(The Heavens esteemed the Earth too base for him)  
Till thou his second self, in blood, in birth,  
Hadst strength to his most Princely parts to climb:  
Sweet youth, in whom, thy Grandsire's worth revives,  
And noble virtues, are renewed again,  
In Thee, the hope, of that Succession lives:  
Whose brave beginning, cannot end in vain.  
Most hopeful Image, of thy virtuous Sire,  
And greatest Hope, of that renowned Race,  
These Unite Kingdoms, limit thy desire,  
From seeking Conquest, in a Foreign place.  
This Noble Isle yields matter in such store,  
For thy brave Spirit, to gain a glorious Name:  
And raise thy State, all Europe yields no more,  
here stay, and strive, to match thy Father's Fame.  
Who knows, but thou, resembling him in face,  
Mayst one day live, to equal him in Place?  
So ever Happy Prince, I humbly bring,  
This Echo of Farewell, Farewell I sing.   
Your highness most prostrate and Obsequious Orator, WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

To the most Reverend Fathers in GOD, My lords Archbishops of Saint Andrew's and Glasgow, etc. And to the rest of the Reverend L. Bishops of Scotland.  

I Scorn to flatter, and ye Reverend Lords,  
I know, as much abhor a flattering name;  
What in my power, this simple mean affords  
I here submit before your eyes the same.  
I have small Learning, yet I learn to frame  
My Will agreeing to my wandering Mind;  
And ye grave Pillars of Religious fame,  
The only Patterns of Piety we find:  
How well is plant our Church, and what a kind,  
Of Civil Order, Policy, and Peace,  
We have, since Heavens, your Office have assigned,  
That Love abounds, and bloody jars they cease:  
Mechanic Arts, and Virtues do increase:  
The Crown made stronger, by your Spiritual care;  
Ye live as Oracles, in our learned Greece,  
And shine as Lamps, throughout this Land all where:  
The stiffnecked Rebels, of Religion are  
By you pressed down, with vigilance but ruth;  
So live great Lights, and of false Wolves beware,  
Ye sound the Trumpets of Eternal Truth:  
And justly are ye called to such an height,  
To help the Weak, defend the poor man's Right:  
So sacred Columns of our chiefest Weal,  
I humbly here bid your great Worths farewell.   
Your Lo. ever devoted Orator to his death, WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

To his ever-honoured Lords, the right noble Lords, ALEXANDER, Earl of DUMFERMELING, Lord Fyvy, Great chancellor of SCOTLAND, etc. THOMAS, Lord BINNIE, Lord Precedent of the College of justice, and his majesties Secretary for Scotland, etc. And to the rest of the most judicious and honourable Lords, though judges and Senators of the high Court and Senate of this Kingdom, etc.  

AS thou art first (great Lord) in thy great worth,  
So thou dost live a Lodestar to this North:  
Next to our Prince, in all supreme affairs,  
Art chiefest judge, and greatest wrong repairs.  
A second Solon, on the Arch of Fame,  
Makes Equity and justice seal thy name.  
And art endued with Faculties divine,  
From whose sage Breast, true beams of Virtue shine.  
Out of thy favour, then true Noble Lord.  
To this my Orphan Muse, one look afford.   

AND PRECEDENT, lest flattery should be deemed,  
I scarce may sing the height, Thou art esteemed:  
Even from thy Birth, auspicuous Stars foretold,  
That 'mongst the Best, thy Name should be enrolled.  
The source of Virtue, who procures true peace.  
A third Lycurgus, in this well-ruled Greece:  
Whom Learning doth endear, and wisdom more,  
That Atlas-like, supports our Senate glore:  
Then as thine honours, in thy merit shine,  
Vouchsafe (grave Lord) to favour this propine.   

AND ye the rest, Sage SENATORS, who sway  
The course of justice, whom all doth obey.  
Whose wisest censures, vindicates unright,  
To you I bring this Mite, scarce worthy sight.  
Ye do the cause, the person not respect,  
And simple Ones, from Proudlinges do protect.  
The Widow finds her Right, the Orphan sort,  
And Weaklinges ye with justice do comfort.  
Ye with even hands Astraea's Balance hold,  
judges of Right, and Lamps of Truth enrolled,  
Long may ye live, and flourish in that Seat,  
patrons of Poor, and Pillars of the State:  
That justice, Law, Religion, Love, and Peace,  
By your great means may in this Land increase.   
Your Lo. most Afold and quotidian Orator, WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

To the truly noble, and honourable Lord, JOHN, EARL OF MARRE, etc. Lord high Thesaurer of SCOTLAND, etc.  

AMongst these Worthies of my worthless pains,  
I crave thy Worth would Patronize my Quill:  
Which granted, then, O there's my greatest gains,  
If that your Honour doth affect goodwill.  
And whiles I strive, to praise thy condign parts,  
Thyself, the same, more to the World imparts.   

Though nobly borne, thy virtue adds thy fame,  
And greater credit is't, when man by merit,  
Attains the title of True honours Name,  
Than when void ciphers, do the same inherit,  
For Fortune frowns, when Clowns begin to crave,  
And Honour scorns to stoop unto a slave.   

Even as the shade, the substance cannot flee,  
And Honour from true Virtue not degrade:  
Though thou fleest Fame, yet Fame shall follow thee:  
For Power is less than Worth, Worth Power made.  
And I, I wish, GOD may thy Race preserve,  
So long as Sun and Moon their Course conserve.   
Your L. low prostrate Orator, WILLIAM LITHGOW   

To the Magnanimous, Renowned, and most Valorous Lord, JOHN Earl of MONTROSE, LORD GRAHAME, etc.  

GRant this (grave Lord) to patronize my pains,  
This my Conflict, before thine eyes I bring:  
If thou affect good will, O there's my gains.  
I show my best, though plain, the truth I sing:  
A twofold debt me binds, Thy Worth, Thy Name,  
That still protectes all them that heght a GRAHAME.  
So (Noble Earl) accept these small Effects,  
Thy Virtue may draw Vales o'er my Defects.   

To lift thy worth, on admirations eye,  
It far exceeds, the reach of my engine:  
But this (great Lord) I dare attest to thee,  
While breath endures, this wandering breast is thine:  
And that great love, I found in thy late Sire,  
I wish the Heavens the same in thee inspire:  
And as his late renown, revives his name,  
So imitate his life, increase his fame.   

That thou when dead, thy Race the same may do,  
As thou, I hope, shalt once excel thy Father;  
That time to time, thy long successors too,  
May each exceed the former, yea, or rather,  
The one engrafted, the other stamp it more,  
That who succeeds, may add another's glore.  
So shall thyself live famous, and thy race,  
Shall long enjoy the earth, then Heavenly grace.   
Your Lo. most servile servitor on his low bended Knees, WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

A CONFLICT, Between the Pilgrim and his Muse: Dedicate to my Lord Grahame, EARL MONTROSE. etc.  Muse. 
IF this small spark of thy great flame had sight,  
O happy I, but more if thou survey me;  
Thy dying Muse, bewailing comes to light,  
And thus begins, half forced for to obey thee:  
O restless man! thy wandering I lament,  
Ah, ah, I mourn, thou canst not live content.  Pilgrim. 
To live below my mind, I cannot bow,  
To love a private life, O there I smart;  
To mount beyond my means, I know not how,  
To stay at home still crossed, I break mine heart.  
And Muse take heed, I find such love in Strangers,  
Makes me affect all Heathnicke torturing dangers.  Muse. 
But, O dear Soul, that life is full of cares,  
Great heat, great cold, great want, great fear, great pain,  
A passionate toil, with anxious despairs,  
Where plagues and pests, and murders grow amain:  
Thy Pilgrimage, a tragic stage of sorrow,  
May spend at night, and nothing on the morrow.  Pilgrim. 
No; Pilgrimage, the Wellspring is of Wit,  
The clearest Fountain, whence grave Wisdom springs:  
The Seat of Knowledge, where Science still doth sit,  
A breathing judgement, decked with prudent things.  
This, thou call'st Sorrow, great joy is, and Pleasure:  
If I be rich in Mind, no Wealth I measure.  Muse. 
But, O, record, how many times I know,  
With bitter Tears, thou long'dst to see this Soil:  
And come, thou weariest, and wouldst make a show,  
There is no pleasure, but in Foreign Toil.  
And so forgettest the Sour, and loathest the Sweet,  
To wrack thy Body, and to bruise thy Feet:  Pilgrim. 
All Rares are dear, Contentment follows Pain,  
No Heathnicke parts, can be surveyed, but fear,  
And dangers too: But here's a glorious gain,  
I see those things, which others have by ear:  
They read, they hear, they dream, reports affect,  
But by experience, I try the effect.  Muse. 
In Cabins, they on Maps, and Globes, find out,  
The ways, the lengths, the breadth, the heights, the Pole:  
And they can wander all the World about,  
And lie in Bed, and all thy sights control.  
Though by experience, thou hast natural sight,  
They have by learning, supernatural light.  Pilgrim. 
Thou know'st Muse, I had rather see one Land,  
Be true eyesight, than all the World by Cairt:  
Two Birds in flight, and one fast in mine hand,  
Which of them both, belongs most to my part:  
One eye-witness is more, than ten which hear,  
I dare affirime the Truth when they forbear  Muse. 
here thou preuail'st, with miseries I must daunt,  
Thy Brains: Recall the house-bred Scorpion sting,  
The hissing Serpent, in thy way that haunts,  
And crawling Snakes, which damage often bring:  
The biting Viper, and the Quadraxe spread,  
That serve for Curtains, to thy Campane Bed.  Pilgrim. 
I know the World-wide Fields my Lodging is,  
And ven'mous things, attend my fearful sleep:  
But in this Case, my Comfort is oft this,  
The watchful Lizard, my bare Face doth keep.  
By day, I feed her, she saves me by night,  
And so to travail, I have more than right.  Muse. 
The cracking Thunder, of the stormy Nights.  
The fiery burning, of the parching Day,  
The Savage dealing, of those Barbarous Wights,  
The Turkish Tributes, and Arabian Pay,  
May be strong means, to stop thy swift return,  
To make thee live in rest, and here sojourn.  Pilgrim. 
All these Extremes, can never make me shrink,  
Though Earthquakes move me, more than all the rest,  
And I rejoice, when sometimes I do think  
On what is past, what comes the LORD knows best.  
I can attempt no plot, and then attain,  
Unless I suffer loss, in reaping gain.  Muse. 
The Seas and Floods, where fatal perils lie,  
The ravenous Beasts, that live in Wilderness:  
The irksome Woods, the sandy Deserts dry,  
The drought thou thol'st, in thy dear-bought distress:  
I do conjure these Fears to make thee stay,  
Since I, nor Reason, can not move delay.  Pilgrim. 
Though scorching Sun, and scarce of rain I bide,  
These plagues thou singest, and else what can befall:  
My mind is firm, my standard cannot slide,  
The light of Nature, I must travel call:  
The more I see, the more I learn to know,  
Since I reap gain thereby, what canst thou show?  Muse. 
The loss of Friends, their counsel, and their sight,  
The tender love, in their rancountringes oft;  
In this, thy brightest day, turns darkest night,  
When thou must court hard hearts, and leave the soft.  
What greater pleasure, can maintain thy mirth,  
Than live amongst thine own, of blood and birth?  Pilgrim. 
The fremdest man, the truest friend to me,  
A stranger is the Saint, whom I adore:  
For many friends, from faithful friendship flee,  
Law-bound affection fails than framelinges more.  
What aliens show, it lasts, and comes of love,  
But consanguin'tie dies, so I remove.  Muse. 
A rolling stone, can never gather moss:  
Age will consume, what painful youth uplifts:  
Be careful, be, and scrape some mundane dross,  
And in thy prime, lay out thy witty shifts.  
When thou growest old, & want'st both means & health,  
O what a kinsman than is worldly Wealth!  Pilgrim. 
The Seaman and the Soldier, had they fear,  
Of what ensues, might flee their fatal sorrow:  
Who clothes the lilies, that so fair appear,  
Provides for me to day, and eke to morrow:  
Live where I will, GOD'S providence is there,  
So I triumph in mind a fig for care  Muse. 
If (dear to me) thou wouldst resolve to stay,  
Our Noble Pears, they would maintain thy state:  
If not, I should find out another way,  
To move the world to succour thine hard fate:  
And I shall clothe, and lend, and feed thee too:  
Affect my vein, and all this I will do.  Pilgrim. 
To feed me (Slave) thou know'st I am thy Lord,  
And can command thee, when I please myself:  
Wouldst thou to rest, my restless mind accord,  
And balance dear-bought Fame, with terrene Pelf?  
No, as the Earth, held but one Alexander,  
So, only I, avow, All where to wander.  Muse. 
What hast thou won, when thou hast got thy will?  
A momentany shadow of strange sights:  
Though with content, thou thy conceit dost fill,  
Thou canst not lend the world these true delights:  
Though thyself love, to these attempts contract thee,  
Where ten thee praise, there's five that will detract thee,  Pilgrim. 
It's for mine own minds sake, thou know'st I wander,  
Not I, nor none, the worlds great voice can make:  
Thinkst thou me bound, to them a count to render,  
And would vain fools, I travelled for their sake:  
No, I well know, there is no gallant spirit,  
(Unless a knave) but will yield me my merit.  Muse. 
Thou travelest aye, but where's thy means to do it?  
Thou hast no lands, no exchange, nor no rent,  
There's no familiar spirit doth help thee to it,  
And yet I marvel how thy time is spent.  
This shifting of thy wits, should breed thee loathing.  
To live at so great rate, when friends help nothing,  Pilgrim. 
The World is wide, GOD'S Providence is more,  
And Cloisters are but Footstools to my Belly:  
Great Dukes and Princes, oint my Palm with Ore,  
And Roman- Clergy Gold, with griede I swellie.  
It comes as Wind, and slides away like Water:  
These meritorious men, I daily flatter.  Muse. 
Mak'st thou no conscience, to deal with Churchmen so?  
When they for Limbus, these gifts give I know:  
They freely give, thou prodigal lettest go:  
And done, deridest, the Charity they show.  
But friend, they bind thee, to thine holy Beads,  
To Pater nosters, Maria's, and to Creeds.  Pilgrim. 
Forbear in time, I dare not here insist,  
An Eel can hardly well be gripped that's quick:  
From duty and desert, I now desist,  
It's no great fault, ten thousand Friars to trick,  
And Jesuits too, which Papal harm foresees,  
These Ghostly Fathers, I oft blind their eyes.  Muse. 
Desist, and I forbear, so leave this point,  
Fearest thou not Sickness, Dangers of the Pest?  
The Fluxes, Fevers, Agues that disjoint,  
Thy vital powers, and spoil thee of thy best:  
If thou fallest sick, where be thine Helpers then?  
Then miserable Thou, forlorn of Men.  Pilgrim. 
But, O my Love, remark what I must say,  
The greatest men in travail that fall sick,  
In Hospitals, for health, are forced to stay.  
The circumstance I need not now to speak:  
Doctors they have, good Linen, and good Fare,  
And gives it Gratis, Medicine, and Ware.  Muse. 
Thou here borne North, under a Climate cold,  
I think far South, with heat should not agree:  
And in my Mind, I this opinion hold,  
These vigrous heats, at last thy death shall be:  
I know these Nigroes, of the Austriale Sun,  
Have not endured, such heat, as thou hast done.  Pilgrim. 
For to conserve mine health, I eat not much:  
When I drink Wine, it's mixed with Water aye:  
They are but Gluttones, Riot doth avouch,  
I travail in the Night, and sleep all Day.  
My disposition and complexion 'gree,  
I am not sanguine, nor too pale, you see.  Muse. 
A murderer judged, set on a wheel above,  
How many pings, for murder hast thou told?  
No less than twenty three, I will approve,  
And dar'st thou in these dead men's ways be bold?  
Think'st thou thy fortune, better still than theirs?  
The Fox runs long, at last entrapped in snares.  Pilgrim. 
All that have breath must die, and man much more,  
Some here, some there, his Horoscope is so,  
Be we are borne, our weirds they post before,  
None can his destiny shun, nor from it go,  
Nothing than death more sure, uncertain too,  
Who aims at fame, all hazards must allow.  Muse. 
But swollen man in thy conceit, take heed,  
What great distress, of hunger hast thou th'old?  
That often times, for one poor Loave of bread,  
Thou wouldst (if poss'ble) given a world of gold:  
Remember of thy sterile Lybian ways,  
Where thou didst fast, but meat or drink nine days.  Pilgrim. 
Dispeopled deserts, bred that dear-bought grief,  
No state but change, no sweet without some gall:  
Yet in Tobacco, I found great relief,  
The smoke whereof expelled that pinching thrall:  
And for that time, I grant, I drunk the water  
That through my body came, in stead of better.  Muse. 
The vaprous Serene, of the humid night,  
Which sprinkled oft, with foggy dew thy face,  
Gave to thy body, and thine head such weight,  
When thou awaked, couldst scarce advance thy pace:  
And scarce of Springs, did so thy thirst increase,  
Thy Skin grown lumpie, made thy strength decrease.  Pilgrim. 
I yield, thou know'st these things as well as I,  
But when I slept, great care I had to cover  
My naked face, and kept my body dry,  
The manner how, I need it not discover.  
Though thou object these mists, the clouds forth-spew.  
All thy Bravadoes cannot make me rue.  Muse. 
The Galley-threatning death, where slaves are whipped,  
Each bank holds four, four chains tied in one ring:  
Where twice a day, poor they are naked stripped,  
And bathed in blood, their woeful hands they wring:  
They roll still scourged, on bread and water feed,  
Twice this thou scaped, the third time now take heed.  Pilgrim. 
At Cephalone, and Nigroponte I know,  
And Lystra too, three Slaveries I escaped;  
And ten times Galleotes, made a cruel show,  
At Little Isles, to have me there entrapped:  
But their attempts still failed, I thank my God,  
Yet I no way can live, if not abroad.  Muse. 
But ah recall, the Herbs, raw Roots ye eat,  
White Snails, green Frogs, grey streams, hard beds derayd:  
And if this austiere life, seem to thee meet,  
I yield to thine experience long assayed.  
Then stay, O stay, succeeding times agree,  
To reconcile thy mind, thy means, and thee.  Pilgrim. 
To stay at home, thou know'st I cannot live:  
To live abroad I know, the world maintains me:  
To be beholden to a Chutle, I grieve:  
And if I want, my dearest friend disdains me.  
And so the foreign face to me is best,  
I lack no means, although I lack my rest.  Muse. 
I grant it's true, and more esteemed abroad,  
But zeal grows cold, and thou forgettest the way:  
Better it were at home to serve thy GOD,  
Than wandering still, to wander quite astray:  
Thou canst not travail, keep thy conscience too,  
For that is more, than Pilgrims well can do.  Pilgrim. 
I wonder Muse, thou know'st to hear a Mess,  
I make no breach of Law, but for to learn.  
And if not curious, than the world might guess.  
I hardly could twixt good and ill discern:  
I enter not their Kirkes', as upon doubt  
Of faith; but their strange errors to find out.  Muse. 
O well replied, but yet a greater spot,  
Thou bowst thy knees, before their Altars high:  
And when comes the Levation, there's the blot:  
Thou knockst thy breast, and wallowst with thine eye:  
And when the little Bell, rings through the street,  
Thou prostrate fallest, their Sacrament to greet.  Pilgrim. 
Thou failest therein, I still fled Superstition:  
But I confess, I got the holy Blessing:  
And under colour of a rare Contrition,  
The Papal Panton heel, I fell a kissing.  
But they that me mistake, are base-born Clowns:  
I did it not for Love, but for the Crowns.  Muse. 
O! There's Religion, Dissimulation,  
Vtrunque is thy Style, I fear no less:  
And from a borrowed equivocation,  
Wouldst frame thy Will, and then thy Will redress.  
No, Pilgrim, no, That's not the Way to Heaven,  
To make the Even to glee, the Gleed look even.  Pilgrim. 
Away vain Fool: I scorn thy prattling Brain:  
When I confess the Truth, thou me accuses.  
I never sold my Soul for any Gain,  
Nor yet abused my Mind, with Foreign Uses,  
As many homebred here domestics do,  
In changing State, can change their Conscience too.  Muse. 
I grant there's some for Gain, their Souls do sell:  
But learn the good, and soon forget the ill:  
A Vale at home ou'r-drawne, I plainly tell,  
Is fit for thee, though not fit for thy Will.  
And be advised, Repentance comes too late,  
He mourns in vain, that spends both Time and State.  Pilgrim. 
I loath to live, long in a private place:  
My Soil I love, but I am borne to wander.  
And I am glad, when I Extremes embrace,  
Sweet Sour Delights, must my Contentment render.  
So, so, I walk, to view Hills, Towns, and Plains,  
Each day new Sights, new Sights consume all Pains.  Muse. 
Live aye in Pains, ambitious Pilgrim then,  
Since thy proud Breast, disdains thy Minds surrandring:  
It's thou who strivest to overmatch all men,  
In peril, pains, in Travail, and in wandering.  
Strive still, I fear that some Desasters grow,  
Long swim the Fish, so long as Waters flow.  Pilgrim. 
Leave off, and boast no more, no more I sing:  
I rest resolved, hold thou thy peace the while:  
And to the EARL MONTROSE, I humbly bring,  
Our mutual CONFLICT, in this barren Style.  
And so Illustrious Lord, approve my saying,  
Convict my Muse, and let me go astraying:  
To this small Suit, if that your Honour yields,  
She shall perforce with me affront the Fields.  
here endeth the Conflict, between the Pilgrim, and his Muse. 
A H    

To the Right honourable and Noble Lord, ALEXANDER, Earl Home, Lord Dunglasse, etc.  

THese mean abortive lines, of my Lament,  
On my low-bended knees I sacrifice them  
To thee, on whom my greatest love is bend:  
They gladly come, and I do authorize them.  
And so this simple mite with love receive,  
If thou affect good will, no more I crave.   

To pay the debt I owe of my great duty,  
Which in large bonds, lies bound to thy great worth,  
Is more than I can do, unless by fewtie,  
I strive (though weak) thy virtues to set forth:  
Yet for my debt, my duty, and my prayer,  
I'm bound on earth, and GOD will be thy payer.   

Thy noble feasting of our gracious King,  
And kindly welcome, to the ENGLISH Kind;  
O! had I time, the truth that I might sing,  
Thy great desert, a just reward should find:  
But my Farewelles me post, yet by the way,  
Thy Virtue, in thy Worth, triumphs each day.   

Compendious works, on high stupendious things,  
Which bravest wits, wring from inventions brain,  
No knowledge yields, but admiration brings,  
To vulgar sorts, and to the wisest pane:  
I sing but plainly in Domestic verse,  
The watery accents, of a pilgrims hearse.  
So (worthy earl) protect my Lamentado,  
And done, I scorn the wretched world's Bravado.   
Your Lo. most incessant Orator, WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

THE PILGRIMS LAMENTADO, In his second Pilgrimage.  

OUt of the showery shade of sorrows Tears,  
Where in the darkest Pit of Grief I lay,  
I trembling come, astonished with these Fears,  
Of stormy Fortune, frowning on me aye:  
For in her fatal frowns my wrack appears.  
And from the concave of my watery Plaints,  
I power abroad, a World of Discontents.   

Shall I, like Lemphos, mourn to lengthen life?  
O! I must mourn, or else this Breath dissolves:  
No greater pain, than mine encloistered Strife,  
Which Sea-wave-like, to toss me still resolves,  
For so the Passions of my Mind are rife:  
There's none like me, nor I like unto none:  
None but myself, in me myself must groan.   

These joys that I possessed, are backward fled,  
My sweet Contents, to sour Displeasure turns:  
My quiet Rest, Ambition captive led.  
And where I dwell the pagan there sojourns.  
My Summer Smiles, on Winter Blasts are spread.  
All lovesick Dreams, of Worldly joys are gone.  
Mine Hopes are fled, and I am left alone.   

Alone I mourn in solitary Songs,  
And oft bewail mine infranchized lot:  
The Heavens bear witness of my past Wrongs,  
Which best can judge, how this blind World doth dote.  
This pondered so, my bleeding heart it longs,  
To be dissolved, made free, or tied more fast,  
Unto the Substance, of a Shadow past.   

I wish, and yet I cannot have my will,  
It's only I, must helpless spend my Moans:  
With outrun Tears, mine outworn Bed I fill:  
And Sighs disbende, whiles I retain sad Groans,  
Which both constrained, convert a sobbing ill.  
So when my Malcontents to Sorrow grew,  
These pale Complaints, from my wan Visage flew:   

Ah hapless ay! unmatched in matchless Woe,  
Plagued with the terror of horrendious strokes,  
Am Cretane-like, transported to and fro,  
Twixt Sandie Scylla, and Charibdin Rocks:  
Shipwreck I find, where ever that I go.  
Though once I scaled, the scope of my desire,  
No sooner up, but all was set on fire.   

Like Pha'ton young, too fast my Sorrows bred,  
And bridle gave, when I should have hold fast:  
On the Pegasian wings poor I was led,  
With course so swift, made all my Powers aghast,  
Till at the last I found that Fawns me fed:  
Then took I breath, and saw how I was rest,  
The poorest man, that in the world was left.   

Meanwhile I strove against the strongest Streams,  
Whilst my small strength, waxed weaker than a Strew:  
The Sun dissolved in dark declining Beams,  
And I in Moonshine cold was tortred so,  
That all my looked-for joys, became but Dreams,  
Still driven back, from my transported Hope,  
I ranged the Hill, could never reach the top.   

Yet once I sat upon the fatal Wheel,  
Whiles that the second Round, came round about:  
Then fell I backward, hanging by the Heel,  
Astonished of my Change, I stood in doubt,  
If I should mount, then fall, more turnings feel.  
Which when conceived, I ever swore to mount,  
Ten thousand falls, should ne'er my Breast confront.   

I cannot fall no lower than the Earth,  
From which I came, and to the which must go:  
This borrowed Breath, is but a glance of Mirth,  
No constant life, this trustless World doth show,  
The surest man, the meanest style in Birth,  
Great Falls, attend great Persons, and their Glore,  
For when they fall, they cannot rise no more.   

Care I for Gold? I scorn that filthy Dross:  
It's Worldlings God, so Mundanes love his sight,  
Shall I despair? Or care I for my loss?  
Although I want, which once was mine by right,  
No double on you waves, still cross on cross:  
I, camel-like, bear all upon my Back,  
And live content, and there's the thought I take.   

Yet fragile flesh, is frivolous and proud,  
Some sad disgust, gave me this second toil:  
I sing but low, I may not sing too loud,  
Who wins the Field, may triumph in the Spoil.  
ay, vanquished I, must live under the Shroud,  
Of farre-fled Fortune, scattered to a Rag:  
Mine Haircloth Gown, my Burdon, and my Bag.   

All Her'mite-like, my Face ou'r-cled with Hair.  
Once my fair Field, is now turned Wilderness:  
I harboured Beauty, within my full Moon Share,  
Where nought rests now, but Wrinkles of Distress.  
Europiane Sorrow, and Asiaticke Care:  
The Afrique threatenings, and Arabiane Terror,  
Makes my pale Face, become a bloodless Mirror.   

I Pennance make, if Penance could suffice:  
I forward wrestle, 'gainst all Foreign Care.  
I still contend, this wandering Breast to please:  
I travail aye, and yet I know not where,  
Led with the Whirlwind, and Fury of Unease.  
And when I have considered all my strife,  
O happy he, who never knew this life!   

A life of sadness, still to live estranging:  
A life of grief, turmoilings, and displeasure:  
A life fastidious, aye to run a ranging.  
A life in bounding, bondlesse Will no measure:  
A life of torments, subject to all changing.  
A life of pain, where fearful Danger dwells,  
A life, whose passions counter-match the Helles.   

My Summer Clothing, is my Winter's Weed:  
Times change, and I, I cannot change Apparel:  
The Spring's my loathing, and the Harvest my need:  
Each Seasons course, by monthly fits me quarrel,  
And in their threatenings, threaten to exceed.  
From Week to Day, from Day to hourly minute,  
Still I oppressed, must pay my Passions tribute.   

From torturing toils, to torturing fears amain,  
Poor I, distressed, am tossed with great extremes:  
When I look back, to see the World again,  
O what a cloudy show of eclipsed Beams  
I do behold! and seen, I them disdain.  
here mourns the Poor, there foam the rich & great:  
From Swain to Prince, I see no quiet state.   

What art thou World? O World, a World of woes,  
A momentany shadow of vain things.  
The Acheron of pain, so I suppose,  
A transitory helper of hirelings,  
Which nought but sorrows to mine eyes disclose:  
Opinion rules thy state, self-love thy lord,  
To him who merits least, doth most afford.   

Thou traitor World, art fraught with bitter cares,  
Pride, Spite, Deceit, Greed, Lust, ambitious Glore:  
Thy dearest joys, depend upon Despairs,  
And still betrays them most, most thee implore,  
Thy boundslaves wrestle, hurling in thy Snares.  
Whose course as Wind, instable is and reaves,  
In crossing bravest Spirits, advancing Slaves.   

I smile to see thy Worldling puffed in pride,  
Though meanly borne, and no desert, if rich,  
He lives, as if his mansion could not slide.  
Such proud conceits, deceive thy silly Wretch,  
While in his blindefolde humours he would bide.  
And so they love, and I abhor thy sight:  
They dwell in darkness, and I live in light.   

Thou leadest thy Captives, headlong into trains,  
And in thy trustless show, beguiles thy Lover:  
Who most affects thee, greatest are his pains,  
Thy verded face, contaminates thy proover,  
And with false shows, besots his brainsick brains▪  
So whilst thy mundane lives, his gains are losses,  
And dead, for love of thee, eternal crosses.   

Thou seem'st without, more brighter than the Gold,  
Ten thousand vales, of glistering shows decore thee:  
But he whose eyes, once saw thine inward mould,  
Would loath to live, so vainly to adore thee,  
Whose counterfeit contents are bought and sold.  
A painted Whore, the Mask of deadly sin,  
Sweet fair without, and stinking foul within.   

Who puts trust in thee, whom thou deceivest not?  
Who loves thy sight, but thou convoyed in death?  
Who sets his joys on thee, and him bereaves not?  
Who most is thine, finds shortest time to breath?  
Who cleaves most to thy love, and then him leaves not?  
Who would thee longest see, what trouble chokes him?  
Who thee embrace, Envy to wrath provokes him.   

Thy pleasures I compare unto the flight  
Of a swift Bird, which by a window glides:  
A glance, a twinkling, a variable sight,  
As dreams vanish, so thy glory slides,  
Whose thorny cares, thy joys downe-sway, with weight:  
And could thy wretch, but learn to know the truth,  
He would contemn thee, both in Age and Youth.   

I see the changing course, of thy selfe-gaine,  
There one buys, the other builds, the third sells,  
The fourth he begs, and the fifth again,  
Begins to seek the path, the first foretells:  
For in thy fickle force, thy craft shows plain:  
Thus restless man doth change, and changing so,  
If rich, finds friends: if poor, his friend turns foe.   

To sing of Honour, and Preferment too,  
I know, thou know'st, what I have seen abroad:  
Mean Lads made Lords, and Lords to Lads must bow:  
Such Favourites on Noble Breasts have trodden,  
As what Kings do, the Heavens the same allow.  
But here's the plague; if dead, ere they be rotten,  
Their Styles, their Names, and honours are forgotten.   

The Duke of Urbine, Count Octavious Lord,  
Preferred this Youth (though base in birth) for beauty:  
And was his Bardasse, so the Tuscan word  
Doth bear: and far beyond all Princely duty,  
Advancing him, his Nobles did discord.  
And when grown great, his friends began to hate him,  
And at the last, a Poniard did defate him.   

So World behold thy late Marshal of France,  
Whom Mons. du Vitres, pistolde through the head:  
That Queen for private things did him advance,  
But in the end, his honours now lie dead.  
Who mounts without desert, finds oft such chance.  
O he was great! now gone, where lives his Fame?  
Now, neither Race, nor Style, nor Rent, nor Name.   

I could recite an hundredth Upstartes more,  
Whose meanest Worth, on greatest Glore was set:  
Meanwhile mine eyes, admire their greatness so,  
A sudden change, these blowne-up Mineons get,  
Time doth betray, what Fortune oft le's go.  
Soon ripe, soon rot, when free, lives most in thrall:  
A sudden rising, hath a sudden fall.   

This worthless Honour, that desert not rears,  
Is but as fruitless shows, which bloom, then perish:  
Where Merit builds not, that Foundation tears.  
There's nought but Truth, that can man's standing cherish:  
This great Experience, daily now appears;  
What one upholds, another he down casts,  
This Gentle-blood, doth suffer many Blasts.   

I smile to see, some bragging Gentlemen,  
That claim their descent, from King Arthur great;  
And they will drink, and swear, and roar, what then  
Would make their betters, footstools to their feet;  
And strive to be applaused with Print and pen:  
And were he but a Farmer, if he can  
But keep an Hound, O there's a Gentleman.   

But foolish thou, look to the Grave, and learn,  
How man lies there deformed, consumed in dust:  
And in that Map, thy judgement may discern,  
How little thou in Birth and Blood shouldst trust.  
Such sights are good, they do thy Soul concern.  
Wer'st thou a Kingly Son, and Virtue want,  
Thou art more brute, than Beasts, which Deserts haunt.   

And more, vain World, I see thy great transgression,  
Each day new Murder, Bloodshed, Craft, and Thift:  
Thy lovelesse Law, and lawless proud Oppression:  
Thy stiffnecked Crew, their heads o'er Saints they lift,  
And misregarding GOD, fall in degression.  
The Widow mourns, the Proud the Poor oppress  
The Rich contemn, the silly Fatherless.   

And rich men gape, and not content, seek more,  
By Sea and Land, for gain, run many miles:  
The Noblest strive for State, ambitious Glore,  
To have Preferment, Lands, and greatest Styles,  
Yet ne'er content of all, when they have store:  
And from the Shepherd, to the King I see,  
There's no contentment, for a Worldly Eye.   

O! is he poor, then fain he would be rich:  
And rich, what torments his great griede doth feel:  
And is he gentle, he strives more Hightes t' touch:  
If he unthrives, he hates another's we'll:  
His Eyes pull home, what his Hands dare not fetch.  
A quiet mind, who can attain that height,  
But either slain by Griede, or envies spite?   

Man's naked borne, and naked he returns,  
Yet whiles he lives, GOD'S Providence mistrustes:  
He gapes for Pelf, and still in Avarice burns,  
And having all, hath nothing, but his Lusts,  
Insatiate still, back to his Vomit turns.  
wild Dust and Earth, belieu'st thou in a Shadow?  
Whose high-tuned Prime, falls like a new mown Meadow.   

I grieve to see the World, and Worldling playing,  
The Wretch puffed up, is swelled with Hellish griede:  
The World deceives him, with a swift assaying.  
And as he stands, he cannot take good heed,  
But for small Trash, must yield eternal paying:  
And dead, another enjoys what he got,  
And spends up all, whiles he in Grave doth rot.   

To see thy Plagues, false World, I break mine heart:  
I'm tossed, he crossed, another lost, and most,  
To see a wretch for gain his Soul decart;  
Men in themselves such blindness have engrossed;  
To flee their good, and follow fast their smart:  
Away vain world, blessed I, disdains thy sight,  
Whose sugared snares, breed everlasting night.   

And when I have seen most part of thy glore,  
Great Kingdoms, islands, stately Courts, and Towns,  
Herbagious Fields, the Pelage-beating Shore,  
And georgeous shows, of glorious renowns,  
Fair Floods, strong Forts, green Woods, and Arabe Ore:  
I cry out from my grief, with watery eyes,  
All is but vain, and vain of vanities.   

So welcome Heaven, with thine eternal joys,  
Where perfect pleasure is, and aye hath been:  
This Mass below, is load with sad annoys:  
No rest for me, till I thy glore have seen,  
So put a period to my toils and toys.  
I loath to live, I long to see my death▪  
I die to live, Sweet JESUS have my Breath.   

Ah, whither am I carried, thus to mourn?  
To break with grief, the powers of my Breast,  
There where I end, to that end I return,  
And still renew the Accents of unrest,  
While in myself, mine only self I burn.  
While frozen cold, whiles fiery hot I grow,  
I come, I flee, I stay, I sink, I flow.   

No, no, poor heart, my spirit sadly spoke,  
Leave off these Passions, of extreme conceit,  
And learn to bear with patience this thy Yoke,  
Which from above is sent, not from thy fate:  
For the Creator, hath the Creature stroke.  
Be steadfast still, despair not for annoys,  
They are the trial, of thy future joys.   

So World farewell, I have no more to say,  
Tort me, and toss me, as thou wilt, I care not:  
I hope that once, I shall triumph for aye:  
And so to plague me here, O World, then spare not:  
My Night's near worn, and fast appears my Day.  
O joy of chiefest joys, receive my Soul,  
And in thy Books of Life, my Name enroll.   
here endeth the Pilgrims Lamentado, In his second Pilgrimage. 
A H    

To the Right Honourable Lady, LADY MARIE, Countess of Home, etc.  

MY servile Muse low prostrate spreads her Rays,  
To the great Dame, HOMES quintessence of fame;  
The Noble Merse, admire thy virtuous ways,  
And as amazed, yield homage to the same.  
The Vestall-Maides, in honour of a Dame,  
Are said to feast Minerva, and great jove.  
But Thou beyond great Dames deservest a Name:  
Whose Breast is fraught with nought but loyal love.  
O strange! a Dame should from her Soil remove,  
And though franchizd, a Stranger in some kind.  
In this Thy Course, the Heavens thy Worth approve,  
To show these matchless Fruits, of thy chaste Mind.  
So, Countess, so, All HOMES in Thee find light:  
Thou dost revive the Day, seemed once their Night.  
Then blest art Thou, in Thy five Babes: or rather,  
More blest Thy Lord, in Thee, and them a Father.   
Your La. most humble servant, WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

To the right Honourable Lord, MY LORD SHEFFIELD, Precedent of York, etc.  

IF not ingrate, I must recall thy Worth,  
Which binds my breast to memorise thy name:  
And if I could (doubtless) I would set forth  
Thy great desert, to live in endless fame.  
In passing by at York, crazed I, half lame,  
Had hap to find thy noble heart so kind.  
Great thanks (Brave Lord) I yield thee for the same:  
First, to thy Generous; then, judicious Mind.  
Thy Breast well read in Histories I find,  
But more Religious, in a Godly course,  
To Virtue and to human works inclined:  
Thou bound to them, they find in thee secourse.  
So as thou worthy liv'st, of thy good parts,  
Thine Honour grows, in conquering of Hearts.  
Long mayst thou live, a Load star to the North,  
That bravest Wits, may still thy praise sing forth.   
Your Lo. ever, etc. WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

The Pilgrims Farewell to Edinburgh, DEDICATE To the Right Worshipful, Sir WILLIAM NISBET of Deane, Knight: Lord Provost, & o. And to the rest, The right worthy bailies and grave Magistrates of Edinburgh.  

WHen Albion's gem, great Britanes greatest glore  
Did leave the South, this Arctic Soil to see,  
Entered thy Gates, whole Miriads him before,  
Glistering in Gold, most glorious to the eye:  
First, Provost, Bailies, Counsel, Senate grave,  
Stood placed in ranks, their King for to receive.   

In richest Velvet Gowns, they did salute him,  
Where from his face, appeared, true Princely love:  
And in the midst of Noble Troops about him,  
In name of All, Grave hay, a Speech did move.  
And being horsed, the Provost road along,  
With our Apollo, in that splendent Throng.   

What joyful signs, forth from thy Bosom sprang,  
On thy fair Streets, when shined his glorious Beams,  
Shrill Trumpets sound, Drums beat, & Bells loud rang:  
The people shout, Welcome our Royal JAMES:  
And when drawn near, unto thy Freedoms Right,  
His Highness stayed, and made thy Provost Knight.   

At last arrived at his great Palace gate,  
There facond NISBET, environed with throng,  
Made in behalf of City, Country, State,  
A learned Speech in Ornate Latin Tongue:  
And thy strong Maiden-Forte, impregnate Bounds,  
Gave out a world of shots, strange thundering sounds.   

The Mustring-day drawn on, there came thy Glore,  
To see thy gallant Youths, so rich arrayed,  
In Pandedalian Shows, did shine like Ore.  
And stately they their martial fits displayed.  
With Feathers, Skarves, loud Drums, & Colours fleeing  
First in the Front, King JAMES they go a seeing.   

Their Salutations rend the Air a sunder.  
And next to them, the Merchants went in Order:  
Whose fire-flying Volleys, cracked like Thunder:  
And well conveyed, with Seargeantes on each border.  
So ruled, so decent, and so armed a sight,  
Gave great contentment, to their greatest Light.   

The worthy Trades, in rich approved Ranks,  
In comely Show, with them they marched along:  
Whose deafening shots, resounded cloudy thanks,  
For our Kings Welcome, in their greatest Throng.  
And in that noise, me thought, their honoured Fates,  
Proclaimed, That Trades, maintain both Crowns & States.   

And more, sweet City, thou didst feast thy Prince,  
Within a Glasen house, with such delights,  
And rare conceits, that few before, or since,  
Did see it paralleled, in Foreign sights.  
And those Fireworks, on his Birthday at night,  
Gave to thy Youths more praise, thyself more light.   

All these Triumphs, and more, increase thy Fame:  
Which briefly touched, prolixity I shun.  
And for my part, Great Metrapole, thy Name,  
All-where I'll praise, as twice past I have done.  
And now I bid with tears, with eyes, which swell,  
Thee (SCOTLAND'S Seat) dear EDINBURGH, Farewell.   
Your Wor-never failing, etc. WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

The Pilgrims Farewell to Northberwicke Law. Dedicate to Sir JOHN HOME of Northberwicke, Knight, etc.  

THou steepy Hill, so circling piramized,  
That for a Prospect, serves East Louthiane Landes:  
Where Ouile Flocks do feed half enamized:  
And for a Trophy, to Northberwicke stands,  
So 'mongst the Marine Hills grows diademized,  
Which curling Plains, and pastring Vales commands:  
Out from thy Poleme Eye, some sadness borrow,  
And deck thy Lists, with Streams of sliding sorrow.   

And from thy cloudy top, some mists dissolve.  
To thick the Planure, with a foggy Dew:  
And on the Manure, moystie drops revolve,  
To change cold Hyeme, in a Cerene Hue.  
And let the Echoes, of thy Rocks resolve,  
To mourn for me, in gracing them was true.  
So Mount, power out, thy showrie pale complaints,  
For me, and my Farewell, my Malcontents.   

And now round Hight, whiles Phoebus warms thy bounds,  
Some glad reflex, disbende down to thy Knight:  
And show him, how thy Love to him abounds.  
Since he is Patron, of thy Style by right.  
For from his Worth, a double Fame redounds,  
To raise his Virtue, far above thine height,  
Yet bow thine Head, and greet him as he goes,  
Since he, and his, deserve to wear thy Rose.  
And I, I wish, his Name, and Race, may stand,  
So long as thou art seen, by Sea, or Land.   
Your Wor. etc. WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

A SONNET, Made by the Author, being upon Mount Aetna, in Sicilia, AN. 1615. And on the second day thereafter arriving at Messina, he found two of his Country Gentlemen, David Seton, of the House of Perbroith, and Matthew Dowglas, now presently at Court: to whom he presented the same, they being at that instant time some 40. miles from thence.  

HIgh stands thy top, but higher looks mine eye,  
High sores thy smoke, but higher my desire:  
High are thy rounds, steep, circled, as I see,  
But higher far this Breast, whiles I aspire:  
High mounts the fury, of thy burning fire,  
But higher far mine aims transcend above:  
High bends thy force, through midst of Vulcan's ire,  
But higher flies my spirit, with wings of love:  
High press thy flames, the crystal air to move,  
But higher far, the scope of mine engine:  
High lies the snow, on thy proud tops, I prove,  
But higher up ascends my brave design.  
Thine height cannot surpass this cloudy frame,  
But my poor Soul, the highest Heavens doth claim.  
Meanwhile with pain, I climb to view thy tops,  
Thine height makes fall from me, ten thousand drops.   
Yours affectionate, William Lithgow.   

The Pilgrims Passionado, on the Rhine, when he was robbed by five Soldiers, French & Valloune, above Rhynberg, in Cleve. being assosiated by a young Gentleman, David Bruce of Clakmanene house, ANNO 1614 Octob. 28. And afterward dedicate to the most mighty Duchess, ELIZABETH, Princess Palatine, of the Rhine, etc.  

Give life, sad Muse, unto my watery Woes,  
And let my windy sighs, ou'r-match despair:  
Strive in my sorrow sadly to disclose  
My Torments, Troubles, Crosses, Grief, and Care:  
Paint me out so, my Pourtraicture to be,  
The matchless Map, of unmatched Misery.   

Even as a Bird, caught in an unseen Snare,  
So was I fangd, in lawless Soldiers hands:  
My clothes, my Money, and my Goods they share,  
Before mine eyes, whiles helpless I still stands.  
I once Possessor, now Spectator turns,  
To see me from myself, mine heart it burns.   

Now must I beg, or steal, else starve, and die,  
For lack of Food: so am I harbourless:  
Sighs are my Speech, and Groans my Silence be:  
Barefoot I am, and barelegd, in distress.  
My looks crave help, mine eyes pierce every door:  
I stretch mine hands, my voice cries, Help the Poor.   

How woefull-like I hang my mourning Face,  
And downward look upon the sable ground:  
Mine outward show, from Stones might beg some grace,  
Though neither life, nor love, on earth were found.  
Now, hungry, naked, cold, and wet with Rain,  
Poor I, am crossed, with Poverty quite slain.   

Can Poverty, that of itself so light,  
As being weighed, in Balance with the Wind,  
Doth hang aloft, yet seem so huge a weight:  
To sit so sad upon a soaring Mind:  
No, no, poor Breast, it is thine own base thought,  
That holds thee down, for Poverty is nought.   

Or can the restless Wheel of Fortune's pride,  
Turn upside down? mine ever-changing state.  
Ah yea, for I, on Regno once did ride,  
Though now thrown down, to desolate debate.  
Thus am I changed, and this the World shall find,  
Fortune, that Fool, is false, deaf, dumb, and blind.   

Shall swift-winged Time, thus triumph in my Wrongs?  
While I am left, a Mirror of Despair?  
Shall I unfold my plaints, and heavy songs,  
To grieve the World, and to molest the air?  
ay, I, I mourn, but for to ease my grief,  
Soon gets he help, at last who finds relief.   

Once robbed, and robbed again, and wounded too,  
O what adventures, oversweigh my fate?  
Pilgrim, thou mournest, mourn not, let worldlings do,  
Things past, recalde, they ever come too late:  
I wish, I had, is daily full of woe:  
And had I wist, I would, is so, and so.   

Well then, on lower Vales, the Shades do lie,  
And mists do lurk, on every watery plain.  
The tops of Mountains, are both clear and dry,  
And nearest to all Sunshine joys remain.  
Mount then, brave Mind, to that admired height,  
Where neither mist, nor shade, can hurt thy sight.  
So I'll defy Time, Fortune, Mars, and Rhyne,  
Who all at once, conspired my last ruin.    

In his second Travels, after his departure from ENGLAND, arriving at OSTEND: the sight whereof gave the Pilgrim this Subject.  

TO view the ruins, of thy wasted Walls,  
Lo, I am come, bewailing thy disgrace:  
Art thou this Bourge, Bellona so installes?  
To be a Mirror, for a Martial face:  
I sure it's thou, whose bloody bathing bounds,  
Gave death to thousands, and to thousands wounds.   

What Hostile force, besieged thee, poor OSTEND?  
With all engine, that ever War devised.  
What Martial Troops, did valiantly defend,  
Thine Earthen Strengths, and Sconces unsurprised:  
By cruel assaults, and desperate defence,  
Thine undeserving name, won honour thence.   

Some deep interred, within thy bosom lie:  
Some rot, some rent, some torn in pieces small,  
Some Warlike maimed, some lame, some halting cry,  
Some blown through clouds, some brought to deadly thrall  
Whose dire defects, renewed with Ghostly moans,  
May match the Theban, or the Trojane groans.   

Base Fisher Town, that fanged thy Nets before,  
And drenched into the Deeps, thy Food to win:  
Art thou become a Tragic Stage? and more,  
Whence bravest Wits, brave Stories may begin:  
To show the World, more than the World would crave,  
How all thine entrenched ground, became one Grave.   

Thy digged Ditches, turned a Gulf of Blood,  
Thy Walls defeat, were reared, with fatal bones:  
Thine Houses equal, with the Streets they stood:  
Thy limits come, a Sepulchre of Groans.  
Whence Canons roared, from fiery cracking smoke,  
Twixt two Extremes, thy Desolation broke.   

Thou God of War, whose thundering sounds do fear,  
This circled space, placed here below the rounds:  
Thou, in oblivion, hast sepulchrized here,  
earths dearest life: for now what else redounds,  
But Sighs, and Sobs, when Treason, Sword and Fire,  
Have thrown all down, when all thought to aspire?   

Forth from thy Marches, and Frontiers about,  
In sanguine hue, thou died the fragrant Fields.  
The camped Trenches of thy Foes without,  
Were turned to blood: for Valour never yields.  
So bred Ambition, Honour, Courage, Hate,  
Long three years Siege, to overthrow thy State.   

At last from threatening terror of despair,  
Thine hemmed defendants, with divided Walls,  
Were forced to render: then came mourning care  
Of mutual Foes, for Friends untimely falls:  
Thus lost, and got, by wrong and lawless Right,  
My judgement thinks thee, scarcely worth the sight.  
But there's the question, When my Muse hath done,  
Whether the Victor, or the Vanquished won?    

To the Worshipful Gentleman, THOMAS EDMOND: Now resident in the LOW COUNTRIES.  

YOuth, thou mayst see (though brief) my great good will;  
It's not for flattery, nor reward, I praise:  
We are far distant, yet my flying Quill,  
Perhaps may come, within thine homebred ways.  
I strive from Dust, thy Father's Fame to raise,  
For scotland's sake, and for his Martial Skill,  
Whose fearless Courage, following Warlike Frays,  
Did there surpass, the worthiest of his days.  
And as his matchless Valour, Honour won,  
His death resigned, the same, to thee his Son.   
Yours, to his uttermost, WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

The Complaint of the late LORD, coronal EDMOND his Ghost.  

OUT of the joys, of sweet Eternal Rest,  
I must compear, as forced for to remove,  
Here to complain, how I am dispossessed,  
Of Christian Battles, Captains, soldiers love.   

Oft with the pencil, of a bloody Pen,  
I wrote my valorous fortunate assays;  
Though I be gone, my worth is praised of men;  
The Netherlandes admyrd my warlike days.   

And Count du Buckoye, twice my captive was,  
In cruel fight, at Emricke I him took;  
(The stoutest Earl the Spanish army has)  
Who till my death, his arms he quite forsook.   

At New-port fight, that same day, ah, I lost,  
The worthiest Scots, that life the world affords;  
Men, a Regiment, like Giants seemed to boast,  
A world of Spaniards, and their bloody sword.   

And I escaped so near, was twice unhorsed:  
Yea, many other bloody Fields I struck.  
My Foes strange plots, was ne'er so strong secourst,  
But eftsoones I, their Force, and Terror broke.   

Scotland I thank, for mine undaunted Breath,  
She brought me forth, for to unsheath my Sword:  
The STATES they found me true unto my death,  
And never shrunk from them in deed or word.   

At Rhynsberg Sconce, I got my fatal blow,  
A faintheart Frenchman basely was refute:  
And I went on, the Poltroon for to show,  
Where in a Demi-Lune that he should shoot.   

But ah! a Musket, twined me and my life,  
Which made my Foe, even Spineola, to grieve,  
Although my death, did end, his doubtful strife,  
His worthy Breast, oft wished, that I might live.   

Thus STATES farewell, Count MAURICE, soldiers all,  
The most adventurous, nearest to his fall:  
This Pilgrim passing by, where I was slain,  
In sorrow of his heart, raised me again.    

The author in his second Travels being at PRAGE, in BOHEMIA, did suit the Emperor for some affairs, which being granted, a young upstart Courtier overthrew him therein, giving him this Subject to express, after long attendance at Court, etc.  

THou careless Court, commixed with colours strange,  
Careful to catch, but careless to reward;  
Thy care doth carry, a sad Cimmerian change,  
To starve the best, and still the worst regard:  
For in thy greatness, greatly am I snared.  
Ah wretched I, on thy unhappy shelf,  
Grounded my hopes, and cast away myself.   

From storms to calm, from calm to storms amain,  
Poor I am tossed, in diving boundless deeps;  
There where I perished, loves to fall again,  
And that which hath me lost, my loss still keeps,  
In dark oblivion, my designs now sleeps:  
canceling thus, the aims of my aspiring,  
Still cross, on cross, have crossed my just desiring,   

Had thy unhappy smiles, shrunk to betray me,  
Worthy had been, the worth of my deserving;  
Blush if thou canst, for shame can not affray thee,  
Since fame declines, and bounty is in swerving,  
And leaves thee clogged in pride, for pureness starving:  
Ah court, thou map, of all dissimulation,  
Turns Faith to flattery, Love to emulation.   

Happy lived I, whilst I sought nothing more,  
But what my travails, by great pains obtained;  
Now being Shipwrecked, on thy marble shore,  
By Taverns wracked, goods spent, gifts far restrained,  
Am forced to flee, by misery constrained:  
Whoseruthles frowns, my modest thoughts have scattered  
The swelling sails of hope, in pieces shattered.   

Some by the rise of small desert so high,  
That on their height, the World is forced to gaze:  
Their Fortunes, riper than their years to be,  
May fill the World with wonder, wonders raise.  
As though there were none end to smoke their praise.  
Well Court, advance, thy mineons ne'er so much,  
Do what thou canst, I'll never honour such.   

justly I know my sad lamenting Muse,  
May claim revenge of thine inconstant state:  
Thou fedst me with fair shows, than didst abuse,  
All, I expected, sprung from an heart ingrate.  
Whom Fortune once hath raised, may turn his fate.  
In Court whose pride, ambition makes him All,  
In end shall pride, ambition, breed his fall.   

When swift-winged Time, discloser of all things,  
Shall try the future events of men's rising,  
What admiration to the World it brings,  
To see who made their State, their State surprising,  
Whom they with Flattery stood, and false enticing.  
And when they fall, me think I hear these Songs,  
The world proclaims, There's them that nursed my wrongs   

Thou must not think, thy fame shall always flourish,  
Whose Birth once mean, made great by Princely favour:  
Flowers in their prime, the season sweetly nourish,  
Then in disgrace, they whither, lose their savour:  
So all have course, whom fortune so will honour.  
Look to thyself, and know within, without thee:  
Thou rose with flattery, flattery dwells about thee.   

Thou cunning Court, cledde in a curious case,  
Seemest to be that, which thou art not indeed:  
Thou maskst thy words, with eloquence, no grace,  
Hatched in the craft of thy dissembling head,  
And poor Attendants, with vain shows dost feed.  
Thou promised fair, performing nought at all:  
Thy Smiles, are Wrath; thine Honey, bitter Gall.   

Cursed be the man, that trusts in thine assuring,  
For than himself, himself shall undermine:  
Griefs are soon got, but painful in enduring,  
Hopes unobtaind, make but the hoper pine:  
Hopes are like beams, which through dark clouds do shine.  
Which move the eyes to look, the thoughts to swell,  
Bring sudden Loye, then turns that joy, an Hell.   

Thrice happy he, who lives a quiet life,  
He needs not care, thine Envy, Pride, nor Treason:  
His ways are plain, his actions void of strife,  
Sweetly he toils, though painful in the season,  
And makes his Conscience, both his Law and Reason.  
He sleeps securely, needs not fear no danger,  
Supports the Poor, and entertains the Stranger.   

And who lives more content, than Shepherds do?  
Whom haughty heads account but Country Swanes:  
Leave off, they mount you far, and scorn you too,  
And live more sweetly, on Valleys, Hills, and Plains,  
Than ye, proud Fools, for all your puft-up brains:  
Whose hearts contend, to flatter, swell, and gain,  
Ambition chokes your Breasts, Hell breeds your pain.   

What art thou COURT? If I can censure duly,  
A masked Play, where nought appears but glancing:  
And in an homelier sense, to sing more truly,  
A Stage, where Fools, are daily in advancing:  
I'll sing no more, for fear of sudden lancing.  
For if a German gape, than I am gone,  
He drinks me at a draft, it's ten to one.   

Farewell thou BOHEME Court, thy smallest Train:  
Farewell the meanness, of thine highest Style:  
Farewell the Fruits, of my long lookt-for Gain:  
Farewell the Time, that did mine Hopes beguile:  
And happy I, if I saw BRITANES Isle.  
And whilst I see, my Native Soil, I swear,  
I think each Hour, a Day; each Day, a Year.    

To his unknown, known; and known, unknown Love, These now known Lines, an unknown Breast shall move.  

SElfe-flattring I, deceiver of myself,  
Opinions Slave, ruled by a base Conceit:  
Whom every wind, naufragiates on the shelf,  
Of Apprehension, jealous of my State,  
Who guides me most, that guide I most misknow,  
suspecteth the Shadow, for a substant Show.   

I still receive, the thing I vomit out,  
Conceives again imaginatie wrack:  
I stable stand, and yet I stand in doubt,  
Gives place to one, when two repulles me back.  
I kindle Fire, and that same Fire I quench,  
And swim the deeps, but dare not downward drench.   

I grieve at this, prolonged in my desire,  
And I rejoice, that my delay is such:  
I try, and knows, my trial may aspire,  
But flees the place, that should this time avouch.  
In stinging smarts, my sweet converts in sour,  
I build the Hive, but dare not suck the Flower.   

Well Honney Combe, since I am so faint hearted,  
That I flee back, when thou unmaskst thy face:  
Thou shalt be gone, and I must be decarted,  
Such doubtful stays enhance, when we embrace.  
Farewell, we two, divided are for ever,  
Yet undivided, whilst our Souls dissever.   
Thine, as I am mine, WILLIAM LITHGOW.   

A SONNET, Made by the Pilgrim, when he was almost Ship-wracked, betwixt the Isle's Arrane and Rossay, anno 1617. Sebtemb. 9  

WHat foaming Seas, in restless hateful rage,  
Strive to surmatch, the never-matched Skies?  
Can bounded Reason, boundless Will not swadge?  
Nor spiteful Neptune, pity my poor cries?  
Now down to Hell, now up to Heaven I rise,  
Twixt two Extremes, extremely make debate,  
heavens thundering winds, my half harmed heart denies  
All hoped-for help, to my hurt hapless state,  
I am content, Let fortune rule my fate,  
times altering turns, may change in joy my grief,  
Roar forth ye Storms, rebel, and be ingrate,  
I scorn to beg, from Borean blasts, relief.  
Long-winged Boat, quicke-shake thy trembling oars,  
And correspond these waves, with demi-roares.    

The Pilgrim Entering into the Mouth of CLYDE, from ROSSAY, to view DUNBARTANE Castle, and LOCHLOWMOND, anno 1617. Sebtemb. 18. He saluted his native River with these Verses.  

HOw sweetly slide the Streams of silent CLYDE,  
And smoothly run, between two bordering Banks:  
Redoubling oft his Course, seems to abide,  
To greet my traveles, with ten thousand thanks,  
That I, whose eyes, had viewed so many Floods,  
Deigned to survey, his deeps, and neighbouring woods.   

Thrice famous Clyde, I thank thee for thy greeting,  
Oft have thy Brethren, eased me of my pain:  
Two contrary extremes, we have in meeting,  
I upward climb, and thou fallest down amain.  
I search thy Spring, and thou the Western Sea:  
So farewell Flood, yet stay, and mourn with me.   

Go steal along with speed, the Hyberne shore,  
And meet the Thames, upon the Albion coast:  
join your two Arms, then sighing both, deplore  
The Fortunes, which in Britain I have lost.  
And let the Water-nymphs, and Neptune too,  
Refrain their mirth, and mourn, as Rivers do.   

To thee great Clyde, if I disclose my wrongs,  
I fear to load thee, with excess of grief:  
Then may the Ocean, bereave thee of my Songs,  
And swallow up thy Plaints, and my relief.  
Tell only Ists, So, and so, and so:  
Conceal the truth, but thunder forth my woe.   

My Blood, sweet Clyde, claims interest in thy worth,  
Thou in my Birth, I in thy vaprous Beams:  
Thy breadth surmounts, the Tweed, the Tay, the Forth,  
In pleasures thou excell'st, in glistering Streams:  
Seek Scotland for a Fort, O then Dunbertaine!  
That for a Trophy stands, at thy Mouth certain.   

Ten miles more up, thy well-built Glasgow stands,  
Our second Metrapole, of Spiritual Glore:  
A City decked with people, fertile Lands:  
Where our great King, got Welcome, welcomes store:  
Whose Cathedral, and Steeple, threat the Skies,  
And nine arched Bridge, out o'er thy bosom lies.   

And higher up, there dwells thy greatest wonder,  
Thy chiefest Patron, glory of thy Bounds:  
A Noble Marquis, whose great virtues thunder,  
An aequivox back to thy Pleasant Sounds.  
Whose Greatness may command thine head to foot,  
From Aricke stone, unto the I'll of Boot.   

As thou alongst his Palace slides, in haste,  
Stay, and salute, his Marquesadiane Dame:  
That matchless Matron, Mirror of the West,  
Deigns to protect, the Honour of thy Name.  
So ever famous Flood, yield them their duty,  
They are the only, Lamps, of thy great Beauty.   

And now, faire-bounded Stream, I yet ascend,  
To our old LANERKE, situate on thy Banks:  
And for my sake, let Corhouse Lin disbende,  
Some thundering noise, to greet that Town with thanks.  
There was I borne: Then Clyde, for this my love,  
As thou runs by, her ancient Worth approve.   

And higher up, to climb to Tinto Hill,  
(The greatest Mountain, that thy Bounds can see:)  
There stand to circuit, and strive t' run thy fill,  
And smile upon that Baron dwells by thee.  
Carmichell thy great Friend, whose famous Sire,  
In dying, left not, Scotland, such a Squire.   

In doing these Requests, I shall commend thee,  
To fertile Nile, and to the sandy jore,  
And I record, The Danube, lately send thee,  
A thousand greetings, from his stately Shore.  
Thus, for thy pains, I shall augment thy Glory,  
And write thy Name, in Times Eternal Story.  
So, ever-pleasant Flood, thy loss I feel,  
In breathing forth this word, Dear Clyde, Fareweele.    

The hermits Welcome, To the Pilgrims third Pilgrimage.  

NOW long-worne Pilgrim, in this Vale of Tears,  
Thrice welcome, to thy thrice austiere Assays:  
In thee, my second self, it well appears,  
For in thy Map, I see my pensive Ways.  
I live alone, upon this desert Mount,  
And thou comest forth alone, as thou wast wont.   

Me thinks thou seem'st a solitary man,  
That, for some sorrow, hadst forsook thy Soil:  
Or else, some long-made Vow, which makes thee than  
To undertake this misery of Toil.  
feign would I ask, the cause, why thou dost wander?  
But thy sad show, doth seem, no count to render.   

Yet in thine heavy Face, I see thy pain,  
Thine hollow Eyes, deep sunken in thine Head:  
Whose pale clapped Cheeks, and wrinkled Brows again,  
Show me what grief, disasters, in thee breed.  
Thy sight, poor wretch, tells me thou hast no pleasure,  
In Rest, in Toil, in Life, nor worldly treasure.   

So happy thou, sit down here by my side,  
And rest thyself, thy pain is wondrous sore:  
For I, I still, in this one place do bide,  
But thou all-where, thy Penance dost explore.  
Thou never supst, nor dynst, into one part,  
Nor liest two nights, unchanging of thine airte.   

Thy life is hard, I must confess, dear Brother,  
For where I live, my Friends dwell here about me:  
But in thy change, thou seest now one, now other,  
And all are Strangers, that each day may doubt thee.  
I judge the cause of this, good GOD relieve thee:  
To see a Soul so vexed, it quite doth grieve me.   

My solitary life, is hard indeed,  
And I chastise myself with hungry Fare:  
On Herbs, raw Roots, on Snails, and Frogs I feed:  
And what GOD gives me, freely ay it share.  
Three days in eight, I fast, for my Souls better.  
And in this time, I feed on Bread and Water.   

All this is nought to thine, with mine I rest:  
For thou must toil, and fast against thy will.  
If it fall late, than thou must run in haste,  
To seek thy Lodging, fortunate, but Skill.  
I have the shelter of this Her'mitage,  
But universal is thy Pilgrimage.   

Alace, dear Son! I mourn to see thy life,  
Though in the passions of thy pains thou joys:  
Wouldst thou turn Hermit, thou mightst end thy strife,  
My Fare is rude, but Prayer me employs.  
Rest, rest, and rest, the Heavens as soon they won,  
That rest with me, as they all-where that run.   

Yet I confess, thy Penance doth exceed,  
My merit far, won by these austiere means:  
For thou with Turks, and Pagans, eatest thy Bread,  
Hast fear of death, when thou none other weens.  
They plague thy Purse, and Hunger plagues thy Belly,  
While in this Cottage, I contentment swellie.   

I see no stormy Seas, where Pirates live:  
No Murderer dare encroach upon my State:  
I fear no Thief, nor at wild Beasts do grieve:  
I need not buy, nor spend, nor lend, nor frate.  
All these, and many more, attend thy ways:  
Ah, poor slain Pilgrim, so the Hermit says.   

Thou seemest to be, of some far Northern Nation,  
And I do marvel, that thou walkest alone:  
Good Company, should be thy chief Solation,  
For thou hast Plains, and Hills, to wander on:  
Long Woods, and Deserts, every where must find:  
Hadst thou a second, thou hadst a quiet mind.   

But wandering Son, these things no more I touch,  
I must refresh thee, with some hermits cheer:  
For I, poor I, can here afford but such,  
As Herbs, raw Roots, brown Bread, and Water clear.  
Yet, if thou wilt conceal this gift of mine,  
I have good Flesh, good Fish, good Bread, good Wine.   

Although to common Pilgrims I not show it,  
Yet for jerusalem, which thou hast seen,  
Thou shalt have part, although the World should know it,  
Thou art as holy, as ever I have been.  
So welcome, Son, welcome to me, I swear:  
Thou shalt find more with me, than Tavern cheer.   

here on this green grown Hill, I spread my Table,  
Well covered o'er, with Leaves of diverse sorts:  
Who say that hermits fast, is but a fable,  
We have the best, the Peasantes have the orts.  
And Pilgrim hold thy peace, we shall be merry.  
For here's good Wine, which tastes of the true Berrie.   

Fill, and content, thy long desires apace,  
And be not shamefast, Pilgrims must be forthie:  
We hermits seldom use to say a Grace:  
To pray too much at Meat, that's unworthy.  
And what thou leav'st thy Budget shall possess,  
I cannot want, when thou mayst find distress.   

And there a Carouse, of the sweetest Wine,  
That grows twixt Piedmont, and Callabrian shore;  
Hast thou enough? now tell me, all is thine,  
When this is done, I'll find another Boar:  
And give me out thy Callabast to fill,  
That thou mayst drink, when thou descends this hill.   

Thus pensive Pilgrim, thy humble Hermit greets thee,  
And yet me thinks, thou looks not like a Frater,  
If thou be Catholic, my Soul she treats thee,  
For this good work of mine, to say a Pater:  
Thou seems to smile, and will not fall a Prayer,  
I lay my life, thou art a mere betrayer.   

O Pilgrimagious son, now faith, I know thee,  
At Mount Serata, nine years past and more;  
I asked at thee, What wast thou? Who did owe thee?  
And thou replied, A stranger seeking Ore.  
I answered, Hermits, never keep no Gold,  
O Pilgrim now, on faith, now you are sold.   

How dar'st thou man, within our bounds repair?  
An Heretic, would make a Christian show:  
Hast thou no conscience, for thy Soul to care?  
There is but one way, to the Heavens we know.  
And wilt thou live a Schismatic or Atheist?  
No rather Pilgrim, turn with me a Papist.   

Our ghostly father, Christ's Vicar on earth,  
Is highly with thy old done deeds displeased:  
And I do know, for all thy show of mirth,  
If thou be found, these tricks can not be meased:  
A sudden blast, will blow thee in the air,  
Therefore when free, to save thy life beware.   

And yet it seems, thou carest not what I speak,  
But thinks me damned, for all my poor profession;  
I stand in doubt myself, the truth I seek,  
And of my life, there is my true confession:  
When I was young, luxurious vice I loved,  
Libidinous, abominably moved.   

I know, thou know'st, what Priests do, with young boys,  
It is a common sin, in young and old;  
O strange, 'gainst Nature, man his lust employs!  
They seem as Saints, and Hellhounds are enrolled:  
Their filthy deeds, make my poor conscience tremble,  
And with Religion, 'gainst my heart dissemble.   

I will be plain, I am thy Country man,  
And father Thomson is my Christian name;  
In Angus was I borne, but after when  
I left the Schools, to Italy I came:  
And first turned Friar, of great Saint Francis Order,  
But loathing that, turned Hermit on this Border.   

knowst thou Father Mophet, that jesuit Priest?  
As I hear say, he lay in Prison long:  
It's said, that once he should have thee confessed:  
If not, the worlds wide voice, doth thee wrong.  
And Father Crichton, is he yet alive?  
For Lechery, they say, he could not thrive.   

And I hear say, that Father Grace is dead,  
And Father Gordon, draws near to his Grave,  
And Father White, at Rhynsberg hath great need,  
And Father Browne, would seem to play the Knave:  
And Father Hebron, we call Bonaventure,  
He studies more than his Wits well may venture.   

They say, Father Anderson hath left Rome,  
For strife, which in our Scots College fell out,  
And Father Leslie, he doth brook his Room:  
There none of them, dealt honestly, I doubt.  
Our young Scots Students, they hunger to the heart,  
The Pope allows good means, and they it part.   

That jesuit green, in Wolmets is come rich,  
And Father Cumming, in Venice's gone mad:  
And Lylle, at Bridges, is become a Wretch.  
For Ogelbie, alas, I must be sad:  
They say at Glasgow, he was hanged there:  
he's now a Martyr, so Roman Writs declare.   

That Veizen Bishop, of the Chissome Blood,  
Hath Noble Parts, and worthy of his Breath:  
He is benign, and kind, and still doth good  
To Passengers, unasking of their Faith.  
And Curate Wallace, is a loving Priest:  
But Father Rob, at Antwerp, plays the Beast.   

Thou canst not tell, how signor Ferrier grease,  
With David Chambers, where in Rome they dwell:  
Ferrier is false, and takes the Pilgrims Fees,  
And Chambers makes a show the Pope to tell.  
They say in Rome, as many Scots they be,  
The one high hanged, would the other see.   

Alace, if I might safely Home return,  
My Conscience knows, the time that I have spent,  
And if they would accept me, I should mourn,  
In public show, and private to repent.  
Alace, alas, we're Hypocrites each one,  
We make a Show, Religion we have none.   

So, to be brief, dear Friend, my Counsel take,  
Tread not in Italy, Portugal, or Spain:  
These Hellish Priests, of whom I mention make,  
Will strive to catch thee, to thy dear-bought pain.  
Go all-where else, but not within those Bounds,  
These Gospelers, are bloody hunting Hounds.  
So farewell son, GOD guide thee where thou wanders,  
And save thy Soul from harm, thy Life from slanders,    

To the Noble, Illustrious, and Honourable LORDS, Lodowick, DUKE OF LENNOXE, etc. JAMES, MARQVES OF HAMILTON, etc. GEORGE, MARQVES OF HUNTLEY, etc.  

TO you great three, three greatest next our Crown,  
This smallest mite (though weak in mean) I bring:  
Three Noble Peers, true Objects of Renown,  
Strong Columns, still to whom the Muses sing.  
Two in the West, divided by a Flood,  
The other Patron in the North for good.   

First thou, brave Duke, on Clydes North-coasted Banks,  
(The Lennoxe Lands, thy chiefest Style, their Glore,)  
Dost there illustrate, all inferior Ranks,  
Forth from thy love, their standing, settle more:  
Thrice happy Duke, in whom the Heavens enshrine,  
True human Virtues, Faculties divine.   

And now, bright Pole, of our Antarctic Clyde,  
Mirror of Virtue, Glory of these Bounds:  
In thee, the Worths of thine Ancestors bide,  
Whose Greatness, Honour, to this Land redounds.  
So as thou liv'st, great Marquis, great in Might,  
This Albion's Orb, admire, adore, thy sight.   

And thou, Chief Marquis, in the Noble North,  
(Their Articke-Splending Light, their Hemisphere)  
What shines in thee? But wonders of great worth?  
For from thyself, true Crystal Gifts appear.  
The glorious gordon's, Guerdon of thy Name,  
Thou art their Trophy, they maintain thy Fame.   

Thus in you three, three matchless subjects great,  
I humbly here, entomb, my Muse, my Pains▪  
Next to our triple Lamps, your triple State,  
Is placed, in which true honoured Worth remains.  
So from your Greatness, let some favour shine,  
To shadow my Farewells, my rude Engine.   
Your Lo. most Obsequious, etc. William Lithgow.   

AN ELEGY, Containing the Pilgrims most humble Farewell to his Native and never conquered Kingdom of SCOTLAND.  

Tu vero, O mea Tellus, & Genitorum Patria  
Vale: Nam viro licet plurimum malis obruatur  
Nullum est suavius solum, quam quod nutrivit eum.   

To thee, O dearest Soil, these mourning Lines I bring,  
And with a broken bleeding Breast, my sad Farewell I sing,  
Now melting Eyes dissolve, O windy Sighs disclose,  
The airy Vapours of my grief, sprung from my watery woes:  
And let my Dying-day, no sorrow vncontrole,  
Since on the Planets of my Plaints, I move about the Pole.  
Shall I, O restless I, still thwarting, run this round?  
Whiles resting Mortals restless Mount, I mouldarize the ground  
And in my wandering long, in pleasure, pain, and grief,  
Begs mercy of the mercielesse of sorrow, sorrows chief.  
Sith after two Returns, my merits are forgot,  
The third shall end, or else repair, my long estranging Lot.  
Then kindly come distress, a Fig for Foreign care,  
I gladly in Extremes must walk, whiles on this mass I fare.  
The Moorish frowning face, the Turkish awful brow,  
The Sarasene and Arabe blows, poor I, must to them bow.  
These Articles of Woe, my Monster-breeding pain,  
As Pendicles on my poor state, unwished for, shall remain.  
Thus fraught with bitter Cares, I close my Malcontents,  
Within this Calendar of Grief▪ to memorise my Plaints.  
And to that Western Soil, where Gallus once did dwell,  
To Gallowedian Barons I, impart this my Farewell.  
A Foreign Debt I owe, brave Garlees, to thy worth,  
And to my Genrous Kenmure Knight, more than I can sing forth  
To Bombee I assign, low Homage for his love:  
And to Barnebarough kind & wise, a breast whiles breath may move.  
Unto the worthy Boyde, in Scotland, first in France,  
I owe effects of true goodwill, a low-laide countenance.  
And thou grave Lowdon Lord, I honour with the best,  
And on the Noble Eglinton, my strong affections rest.  
Kilmaers I admire, for quick and ready wit:  
And grave Glencarne, his Father dear, on honour's top doth sit:  
And to thee gallant Rosse, well seen in Foreign parts,  
I sacrifice a Pilgrims love, amongst these Noble hearts.  
From Carlisle unto Clyde, that south-west shore I know:  
And by the way, Lord Harreis I, remembrance duly owe.  
In that small progress I, surveying all the West,  
Even to your Houses, one by one, my Lodging I addressed:  
Your kindness I embraced, as not ingrate, The same  
I memorise to future times, in eternised fame.  
Amongst these long Goodnightes', farewell ye Poets dear,  
Grave Menstrie true Castalian fire, quick Drummond in his sphere.  
Brave Murray ah is dead, Aiton supplies his place,  
And Alens high Pernassian vein, rare Poems doth embrace.  
There's many more well known, whom I cannot explain,  
And Gordon, Semple, Maxwell too, have the Pernassian vein  
And ye Collegians all, the fruits of Learning grave  
To you I consecreate my Love, installed amongst the leave.  
First to you Rectors, I, and Regentes, homage make,  
Then from your spiring Breasts, brave Youths, my leave I humbly take.  
And, Scotland, I attest, my Witness reigns above,  
In all my Worlde-wide wandering ways, I kept to thee my Love:  
To many Foreign Breasts, in these exiling Days,  
In sympathising Harmonies, I sung thine endless Praise.  
And where thou wast not known, I registered thy Name,  
Within their Annalles of Renown, to eternize thy Fame.  
And this twice have I done, in my twice long Assays,  
And now the third time thrice I will, thy Name unconquerd raise.  
Yea, I will stamp thy Badge, and seal it with my Blood:  
And if I die in thy Defence, I think mine End is good.  
So dearest Soil, O dear, I sacrifice now see,  
Even on the Altar of mine Heart, a spotless Love to thee.  
And Scotland now farewell, farewell for many Years:  
This Echo of Farewell brings out, from me, a world of tears.   
Magnum virtutis principium est, ut dixit paulatim exercitatus animus visibilia & transitoria primum commutare, ut postmodum possit derelinquere. Delicatus ille est adhuc, cui patria dulcis est; fortis autem jam, cui omne solum patria est: perfectus vero, cui mundus exilium est,  
FINIS.