Monmouth Worsted In the WEST: OR, His Care and Grief for the Death of his poor SOLDIERS.  
Together with his Worthy Say, while he remained obscure in a silent Grove, in presence of some of his particular Friends.  
To the Tune of, The Soldier's Departure.  
 

NOw we see the Fight is over,  
now poor Monmouth must away,  
All our strength they do discover,  
and seek my life for to verray:  
Come let us away to Holland,  
there we shall be safe I'm sure,  
And my Men will follow after,  
there we shall be all secure.   

It I had but An unition,  
I could quickly win the Field,  
But I'm left in a bad condition,  
in my Enemies I must yield;  
Yet I have so great a Spirit,  
that I will not thus give o'er,  
Tho' I may a while defer it;  
yet I'll face my Foes once more.   

Britain's Rights I am renewing,  
can this give a just offence?  
Those that glory in my Ruin,  
I in time may recompense:  
For I'll have a stronger Army,  
and of Ammunition store,  
I'll have Drums & Trumpets charming,  
when as I come on England's shore.   
 

I will give them thundering Battle,  
when I do return again,  
And when roaring Guns do Rattle,  
who dare say that I am slain?  
Charge them to the highest Centre,  
for to make the Papists fly,  
Life and Fortune I will venture,  
to reward their Cruelty.   

My poor Soldiers they was taken,  
and in droves to Prison sent,  
This may protestants awaken,  
to behold Rome's black intent:  
They show not a grain of pity,  
which does grieve my heart full sore,  
For in every Town and City,  
they were Hanged at their own door.   

There they ripped their Bellies open,  
and their Bowels burned hard by,  
Tell me, is not this a Token  
of the Acts of Cruelty?  
Nay, they cut them into Quarters,  
while they reekt in purple Gore,  
Never was there such like Creatures,  
in a Christian Land before.   

Tho' poor Souls, their Lives were ended,  
yet, alas! this would not do,  
Malice further still extended,  
for they boiled their Quarters too:  
All to terrify the Nation,  
with my poor dead mangled Men,  
While each tender dear Relation,  
needs must be afflicted then.   

This is now my greatest trouble,  
for to hear their fatal Doom,  
I for this will Strokes redouble,  
on the Scarlet Whore of Rome;  
Who delights in nought but Murder,  
as in truth it does appear,  
But I'll send her flying further,  
when I bring next Army here.   

Tho' this is a Dismal Story,  
of the fall of my design,  
Yet I'll come again in Glory,  
Protestants with me will join  
With fresh Forces I will Rally,  
scorning thus to be controlled,  
At the Head of each Battalia,  
Noble great Commanders bold.   

Tho' I come with flying Banner,  
to the Land which I belong,  
I declare upon my Honour,  
not a Subject will I wrong  
Of the Protestant Profession,  
whom I ever did adore,  
Think upon this dear Expression,  
Heavens Bless you evermore.   

He no sooner this had ended,  
but they seized his Royal Grace,  
And his Person they attended  
to a more secure place:  
After that to London City,  
where on Tower-Hill he Died,  
All his Friends was moved with pity,  
while his Foes was satisfied.    

Printed for G. H. in the Year 1688.