Sad and Deplorable NEWS FROM New England. Poetically Related by an Inhabitant there, and Newly sent over to a Merchant in LONDON.  
BEING A TRUE NARRATIVE OF NEW-ENGLANDS Lamentable Estate at present, Occasioned by many un-heard of Cruelties, Practised upon the Persons and Estates of its United Colonies, without Respect of Sex, Age or Quality of Persons by the barbarous Heathen thereof.   depiction of scene of David and Goliath 
With Allowance  
LONDON, Printed for H. J. Anno Dom. 1676.   

THE PROLOGUE.  
THE times wherein old Pompey was a Saint,  
When men fared hardly yet without complaint  
On vilest Cates; the dainty Indian Maize  
Was eat with Clamp shells out of wooden Treys  
Under thatched Huts without the cry of Rent,  
And the best Sauce to every Dish, Content.  
When Flesh was food, and hairy skins made coats,  
And Men as well as Birds had chirping Notes.  
When Cimnels were accounted Noble Blood,  
Among the tribes of common herbage food.  
Of Ceres' bounty formed was many knack,  
Enough to fill poor Robin's Almanac.  
These golden times (too fortunate to hold)  
Were quickly sinned away for love of gold.  
'Twas then among the bushes, not the street,  
If one in place did an inferior meet,  
Good-morrow Brother; Is there ought you want?  
Take freely of me what I have, you han't.  
Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current now,  
As ever since, Your Servant Sir, and bow.  
Deep skirted doublets, Puritanick capes,  
(Which now would render men like upright Apes)  
Was comelier wear our wiser Fathers thought,  
Then the cast fashions from all Europe brought.  
'Twas in those days an honest Grace would hold  
Till an hot Puddin grew at heart a cold.  
And men had better stomaches to Religion,  
Then I to Capon, Turkey cock or Pigeon.  
When honest Sisters met to pray, not prate  
About their own, and not their Neighbour's state.  
During Plain-dealing Reign, that worthy Stud  
Of th' Ancient Planters Race before the Flood.  
These Times were good, Merchants cared not a rush  
For other fare than Jonakin and Much.  
Although men fared and lodged very hard,  
Yet Innocence was better than a Guard.  
New England's Beauties, which still seemed to me  
Illustrious in their own simplicity.  
'Twas ere the Neighbouring Virgin-land had broke  
The Hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoke.  
'Twas ere the Islands sent their Presents in,  
Which but to use was counted next to sin.  
'Twas ere a Barge had made so rich a freight  
As Chocolate, dust Gold and bits of Eight.  
Ere Wines from France and Moscovadoe too,  
Without the which the drink will scarcely do.  
From Western Isles, ere fruits and delicacies,  
Did rot Maids teeth, and spoil their handsome faces▪  
Or ere these times did chance, the noise of War  
Was from our towns and hearts removed far.  
No  Comets in the Crystal Air,  
To drive our Christian Planters to despair.  
No sooner Pagan malice peeped forth,  
But Valour snibed it; then were men of worth  
Who by their Prayers slew thousands, Angel like,  
Their weapons are unseen with which they strike.  
Then had the Church's rest, as yet the coals  
Were covered up in most contentious souls.  
Freeness in Judgement, Union in Affection,  
Dear Love, sound Truth, they were our grand Protection;  
These were the Twins which in our Counsels sat,  
These gave Prognostics of our future fate;  
If these be longer-lived our hopes increase,  
These wars will usher in a longer Peace:  
But if New England's love die in its youth  
The Grave will open next for blessed Truth▪  
This Theme is out of date, the Peaceful Hours  
When Castles needed not but pleasant Bowers.  
Nor ink but blood and tears now serve the turn  
To draw the figure of New England's Urn.  
New England's hour of passion is at hand,  
No power except Divine can it withstand;  
Scarce hath her Glass of fifty years run out,  
But her old prosperous Steeds turn heads about,  
Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings,  
To fear and far upon their fruits of sinnings:  
So that the Mirror of the Christian world  
Lies burnt to heaps in part, her Streamers furled  
Grief reigns, joys flee, and dismal fears surprise,  
Not dastard spirits only, but the wise.  
Thus have the fairest hopes deceived the eye  
Of the big swollen Expectant standing by.  
Thus the proud Ship after a little turn  
Sinks into Neptune's arms to find its Urn.  
Thus hath the Heir to many thousands born  
Been in an instant from the Mother torn.  
Even thus thine Infant-cheeks begin to pale.  
And thy supporters, through great losses, fail.  
This is the Prologue to thy future woe  
The Epilogue no Mortal yet can know.   

Sad and Deplorable News from New-ENGLAND.  

IN Seventy Five the Critic of our years  
Commenced our war with Philip and his Peers.  
Wither the Sun in Leo had inspired  
A feverish heat, and Pagan spirits fired?  
Wither some Rom●sh Agent hatched the plot?  
Or whither they themselves? appeareth not.  
Wither our Infant-thrivings did invite?  
Or whither to our Lands pretended right?  
Is hard to say; but Indian spirits need  
No grounds but Lust to make a Christian bleed.   

And here, methinks, I see this greasy Lout  
With all his Pagan slaves coiled round about,  
Assuming all the Majesty his throne  
Of rotten stump, or of the rugged stone  
Can yield; casting some bacon-rine-like looks,  
Enough to fright a Student from his books,  
Thus treat his Peers, and next to them his Commons,  
Kenneled together all without a summons.  
My friends, our Fathers were not half so wise  
As we ourselves who see with younger eyes:  
They sell our Land to English Men, who teach  
Our Nation also fast to pray and preach.  
Of all our country they enjoy the best,  
And quickly they intent to have the rest.  
This no wunnegin so big matchit law  
Which our old father's fathers never saw.  
These English make, and we must keep them too,  
Which is too hard for them or us to do.  
We drink we so big whipped, but English they  
Go sneep, no more, or else a little pay.  
Me meddle Squaw me hanged, our fathers kept  
What Squaws they would whether they waked or slept  
Now if you'll fight I'll get you English coats,  
And wine to drink out of their Captain's throats:  
The richest Merchants houses shall be ours,  
We'll lie no more on mats or dwell in bowers.  
We'll have their silken wives, take they our Squaws,  
They shall be whipped by virtue of our Laws:  
If ere we strike, 'tis now before they swell  
To greater swarms than we know to quell.  
This my Resolve, let neighbouring Sachems know,  
And every one that hath Club, Gun or Bow,  
This was assented to, and for a close  
He stroked his smutty beard, and cursed his foes.  
This counsel lightning like their tribes invade,  
And something like a muster's quickly made,  
A ragged regiment, a naked swarm,  
Whom hopes of booty doth with courage arm,  
Set forth with bloody hearts, the first they meet  
Of men or beasts, they butcher at their feet.  
They round our skirts▪ they pair, they fleece, they kill,  
And to our bordering towns do what they will.  
Poor Hovills (better far than Caesar's Court  
In the experience of the meaner sort)  
Receive from them their doom next execution;  
By flames reduced to horror and confusion:  
Here might be seen the smoking funeral Piles  
Of wildred towns pitched distant many miles.  
Here might be seen the infant from the breast  
Snatched by a pagan hand to lasting rest:  
The mother Rachel-like shrieks out my child,  
She wrings her hands and raves as she were wild.  
The brutish wolves suppress her anxious moan  
By crueltyes more deadly of her own.  
Will she or nill the chastest turtle must  
Taste of the pangs of their unbridled lust.  
From farms to farms, from towns to towns they post  
They strip, they bind, they ravish, flea and roast.  
The beasts which want their master's crib to know,  
Over the ashes of their shelters low.  
What the inexorable flames do spare  
More cruel Heathen lug away for fare.  
These tidings ebbing from the outward parts,  
Makes Tradesmen cast aside their wont Arts  
And study Arms: the craving Merchants plot  
Not to augment but keep what they have got.  
And every soul which hath but common sense  
Thinks it the time to make a just defence.  
Alarm every where resound in streets,  
From West sad tidings with the Eastern meets.  
Our common Fathers in their Counsels close  
A martial treaty with the Pagan Foes;  
All Answers centre here, that Fire and Sword  
Must make their Sachem universal Lord.  
This arms the English with a resolution  
To give the vapouring Scab a Retribution.  
heavens they consult by Prayer, the best design  
A furious foe to quell or undermine.  
RESOLVED that from the Massachusets bands  
Be pressed on service some Herculean hands;  
And certainly he well deserved a jerk,  
That slipped the Collar from so good a work.  
Some Volunteers, some by compulsion go,  
To range the hideous Forest for a foe.  
The tender Mother now's all bowels grown,  
Clings to her son as if they'd melt in one.  
Wives clasp about their Husbands as the Vine,  
Hugs the fair Elm while tears burst out like Wine.  
The new sprung love in many a Virgin-heart  
Swells to a Mountain when the Lover's part.  
Nephews and Kindred turn all springs of tears,  
Their hearts are so surprised with panic fears:  
But doleful shrieks of captives summon Forth  
Our walking Castles, men of noted worth,  
Made all of life, each Captain was a Mars,  
His name too strong to stand on wat'rish verse:  
Due praise I leave to some Poetic hand,  
Whose Pen and Wits are better at command.  
Methinks I see the Trojan-Horse burst ,  
And such rush forth as might with Giants cope:  
These first the Natives treachery felt, too fierce  
For any but eye witness to rehearse.  
Yet sundry times in places where they came  
Upon the Indian skins they carved their name.  
The trees stood Sentinels, and bullets flew  
From every bush (a shelter for their crew)  
Hence came our wounds and deaths from every side,  
While skulking enemies squat undescried,  
That every stump shot like a Musketeer,  
And Bows with Arrows every tree did bear.  
The Swamps were Courts of Guard, thither retired  
The straggling blue-coats when their Guns were fired  
In dark Meanders, and these winding Groves,  
Where Bears and Panthers with their Monarch moves.  
These far more cruel slily hidden lay,  
Expecting English men to move that way.  
One Party lets them slip, the other greets  
Them with the next thing to their winding sheets;  
Most fall, the rest thus startled back return,  
And from their bypast foes receive an urn.  
Here fell a Captain, to be named with tears,  
Who for his Courage left not many Peers,  
With many more who scarce a number left  
To tell how treacherously they were bereft.  
This flushed the Pagan-courage, now they think  
The victory theirs, not lacking meat or drink.  
The ranging Wolves find here and there a prey,  
And having filled their paunch they run away  
By their Hosts light, the thanks which they return  
Is to lead Captives, and their Taverns burn.  
Many whose thrift had stored for after-use  
Sustain their wicked plunder and abuse.  
Poor people spying an unwonted light,  
Fearing a Martyrdom, in sudden fright  
Leap to the door to fly, but all in vain,  
They are surrounded with a Pagan train;  
Their first salute is death, which if they eat,  
Some are condemned the Gauntelet to run;  
Death would a mercy prove to such as those  
Who feel the rigour of such hellish foes.  
Posts daily on their Pegase●● Steeds,  
Bring sad Reports of worse than Nero's deeds;  
Such brutish Murders as would paper slain,  
Not to be heard in a Domitian's Reign.  
The Field which Nature hid is common laid,  
And Mother's Bodies ripped for lack of aid.  
The secret Cabinets which Nature meant  
To hid her Masterpiece is open rent;  
The half-formed Infant there receives a death  
Before it sees the light, or draw its breath;  
Many hot welcomes from the Natives arms,  
Hid in their skulking holes, many alarms  
Our brethren had, and weary weary trants,  
Sometimes in melting heats and pinching wants:  
Sometimes the Clouds with sympathising tears,  
Ready to burst, discharged about their ears;  
Sometimes on craggy hills, anon in bogs  
And miry swamps better befitting hogs,  
And after tedious Marches, little boast  
Is to be heard of stewed, or baked, or roast,  
Their b●ds are Hurdles, open house they keep  
Through shady boughs the sta●s upon them peep;  
Their Crystal drink drawn from the Mother's breast  
Disposes not to mirth, but sleep and rest.  
Thus many days and weeks some months run out  
To find and quell the vagabonding Rout,  
Who like Enchanted Castles fair appear,  
But all is vanished if you come but near;  
Just so we might the Pagan Archers tract  
With towns and Merchandise upon their back;  
And thousands in the South who settled down,  
To all the Points and Winds are quickly blown.  
At many Meetings of their fleeting crew,  
From whom, like hail, arrows and bullets flew:  
The English courage with whole swarms dispute,  
Hundreds they hack in pieces in pursuit.  
Sed haud impune, English sides do feel,  
As well as tawny skins, the lead and steel;  
And some such gallant Sparks by bullets fell,  
As might have cursed the Powder back to Hell:  
Had only Swords these Skirmishes decided  
All Pagan Sculls had been long since divided.  
The lingering War outlives the Summer-Sun,  
Who hence departs hoping it might be done  
E'er his Return at Spring; but ah, he'll find  
The Sword still drawn, men of unchanged mind.  
Cold Winter now nibbles at hands and toes  
And shrewdly pinches both our friends and foes.  
Fierce Boreas whips the Pagan tribe together,  
Advising them to fit for Foes and Wether:  
The Axe which late had tasted Christian blood,  
Now sets its steely teeth to feast on wood.  
The forests suffer now, by weight constrained  
To kiss the Earth with soldiers lately brained.  
The lofty Oaks and Ash do wag their head  
To see so many of their Neighbours dead;  
Their fallen Carcases are carried thence  
To stand our Enemies in their defence.  
Their Myrmidous enclosed with clefts of Trees,  
Are busy like the Aunts or nimble Bees:  
And first they limber Poles fix in the ground,  
In figure of the Heavens convex ● all round  
They draw their Arras-mats, and skins of beasts,  
And under these the E●ves do make their Nests.  
Rome took more time to grow then twice six hours,  
But half that time will serve for Indian bowers.  
A City shall be reared in one days space  
As shall an hundred Englishmen outface.  
In several Precincts there swarms unite,  
Rather to keep a Winter-Guard then fight;  
A dem and dismal Swamp some Scout had found  
Whose bosom was a spot of rising ground,  
Hedged up with mighty Oaks, Maples and Ashes,  
Nursed up with springs, quick bogs, and miry plashes,  
A Place which Nature coined on very nonce  
For tigers, not for Men to be a Sconce.  
'Twas here these Monsters, shaped and faced like men,  
Took up their Rendezvouz and brumal den,  
Deeming the depth of snow, hail, frost and ice,  
Would make our Infantry more tame and wise,  
Then by forsaking beds and loving Wives,  
Merely for Indian skins to hazard lives:  
These hopes had something calmed the boiling passion  
Of this incorrigible warlike Nation.  
During this short Parenthesis of Peace  
Our forces found, but left him not at ease.  
Here English valour most illustrious shone,  
Finding their numbers ten times ten to one.  
A shower of leaden Hail our Capt●ins feel,  
Which made the bravest Blades among us reel.  
Like to some Anthill newly spurned abroad,  
Where each takes heels and bears away his load:  
Instead of Plate and Jewels Indian Treys,  
With baskets up they snatch, and run their ways.  
Sundry the Flames arrest, and some the blade,  
By bullets heaps on heaps of Indians laid.  
The Flames like lightning in their narrow streets,  
Dart in the face of every one it meets.  
Here might be heard an hideous Indian cry,  
O● wounded one's who in the Wigwams fry.  
H●d we been Cannibals, here might we feast  
On brave Westphalia Gammons ready dressed.  
The tawny Hue is  made  
Of such, on whom Vulcan his clutches laid.  
Their fate was sudden, our advantage great  
To give them once for all a grand defeat;  
But tedious travel had so cramped our Toes,  
It was too hard a task to chase the foes.  
Distinctness in the numbers of the slain,  
Or the account of Pagans which remain,  
Are both uncertain, losses of our own  
Are too too sadly felt, too sadly known.  
Warr digs a common Grave for friends and foes,  
Captains in with the private soldier throws.  
Six of our Leaders in the first assault,  
Crave readmission to their Mother's Vault,  
Who had they fell in ancient Homer's days,  
Had been enroled with Hecatombs of praise.  
As Clouds dispersed, the Natives Troops divide,  
And like the Streams along the thickets glide.  
Some breathing time we had, and short God knows,  
But new alarms from recruited foes  
Bounce at our ears, the mountain clouds of smoke  
From martyred towns the heavens for aid invoke;  
Churches, Barns, Houses, with most ponderous things  
Made volatile, fly o'er the Land with wings.  
Hundreds of  now they sacrifice  
For airy spirits up to gourmandise;  
And to the Molech of their Hellish guts,  
Which craves the flesh in gross, their Ale in Butts.  
Lancaster, Mendon, Medfield, wildred Groton,  
With many Villages by me not thought on,  
Die in their youth by Fire that useful foe,  
Which this grand Cheat the world will overflow.  
The wand'ring Priest to every one he meets  
Preaches his Church's Funeral in the streets.  
Sheep from their Fold are frighted. Keeper's too  
Put to their trumps not knowing what to do.  
This Monster War hath hatched a beauteous Dove  
In dogged hearts, of most unfeigned love;  
Fraternal love, the livery of a Saint  
Being come in fashion, though by sad constraint;  
Which if it thrive and prosper with us long  
Will make New-England forty thousand strong.   

But off the Table Hand, let this suffice  
As the Abridgement of our miseries.  
If Mildew Famine, Sword, and Fired Towns,  
If Slaughter, Captivating, Deaths and Wounds,  
If daily Whip once Reform our Ways,  
These all will issue in our Father's Praise;  
If otherwise, the Sword must never rest  
Till all New-englands' Glory it divest.    
FINIS.