Dumbritons' Castle doleful Commendations  
To all the rascal Rogues within their nations.   

WE your wretched Brethren in Dumbriton fort,  
Compassions objects, now in saddest port,  
Times gazing stocks, and spectacles of shame,  
Misfortune map, the branders of our name,  
To you our baleful brethren in much ill,  
Who do remain in Eden's fatal hill,  
Those lured lines in tragic term we send,  
And in salt tears to you we us commend;  
Acquainting you with our most woeful case,  
And our bad entertainment in this place,  
Our souls, our bodies, credit, states, and name  
Are stained all with never dying shame:   

Most dismal was that day, accursed that hour,  
When first we saw Dumbritons' doleful tower.   

Our souls are by an evil conscience crossed,  
And for man's favour God's love is near lost:  
Hell's furies night and day do us torment,  
For guiltless murders, wrongs, and time misspent:  
Our bodies strong, and healthful once a day,  
Now weak and sick, weedwyne, and melt away,  
Cold, hunger, thirst, and scrubies cut our breath,  
And turn our corpse anatomies of death,  
Our carcases most ugly to behold,  
Our sores, and sorrows moe nor can be told:  
Our coal-black faces to the world portend  
Our loathsome lives, and most unhappy end;   

No pen, nor pencil can our woes paint out,  
Which in each place shall still be blazed about.   

Hels-fire-brands, and unnatural vipers we,  
Who wished our country lost, though we sold die  
And for the favour of an earthly King  
We cared not what ill on our souls to bring.  
Woe to the time when first we entered in  
That hellish rock, where we did act such sin:  
Let not that day be numbered with the year,  
Nor hence into times calendar appear,  
Our hellish hopes which we conceived in May,  
In doleful August all were cropped away:  
Our Cannon, Ball, and Powder, nought prevail,  
Sickness, and thirst made all our courage fail:   

And in the fruitless hopes of new supply,  
Like dogs, not men, we in a madness die.   

We cashiered Scots with sorrow from our soil,  
Exiled for aye, must take a shameful foil:  
And to succeeding times must bear the blame:  
As enemies to our native country's fame:  
All lost at home, which we acquired abroad:  
And fighters wee'gainst country, and our God,  
Whose heavy hand with his verminian host  
Hath quelled our courage, and laid all our boast,  
We English gallants, whose top reached the Skies,  
At our first entry, now full low it lies,  
And we who once threated earth, & heavens most high  
Some dead, some dying, some with shame now fly,   

And to aggredge our shame and final woes,  
Now we must yield to Covenanting foes.   

Whose mercies we unto the full have found,  
While as our barbarous bowtcheries did abound  
When Marah's bitter waters all were gone:  
At Glasgow we found Elim streams anon,  
You Heavens and celestial powers above:  
Rewarders of true piety and love,  
Let not Times-date Argyle's rare favour smore,  
But flourish still while Time shall be no more:  
When we deserved most shamefully to die.  
And spectacles be made of misery,  
He spared our wretched lives, and all our fellows  
Who merit stili to hing, and rote on gallows.   

O miracle most rare, great courtesy!  
Which Fame shall blaze with endless memory.   

Ah! if our gracious King informed could be,  
How Scotland honoured him, then happy we;  
But bloody Romists who the Court now sway,  
And subtle Atheists bear the game away:  
Our governor, brave Hennirsoun, whose time  
Was spent in martial feats in youthly prime,  
By frowning Fates borne down, diseased, and gone,  
His fortune's dismal lot doth stili bemoan.  
Our Preacher Lamount with dririetraine  
Of Scots and English who on life remain,  
Do out of sad experience sense now see,  
God's hand, not man's, made us thus dwyne and die   

And with Gamaliel now we must confess,  
This work is God's, which no man can oppress.   

The cause is his, no strength can him gain-stand,  
No human bulwark can resist his hand,  
Truth must triumph, proud Rome in end must fall,  
God's work must through, in despite of us all.  
Then valiant general Ruthwen take to heart,  
Those our sad ills, and play the wiseman's part:  
Let Sheepmen none, nor Swinzeours mad advice,  
No Sutheron rogues, nor viperous Scots entice  
Your martial mind to stain your honour more,  
By holding out, as you have done before:  
Mix not your honour, and renowned fame  
With these base titles, and scarce honest name,   

Consider your souls good, your country's case,  
And to God's will, not to your wits, give place.   


when our army returns with glad victory,  
And a gracious peace concluded shall be:  
when Eden's strong Hold to our country shall yield,  
when Truth shall triumph, and Rome loss the field.  
when Papisits and Atheists, Court-grandour declines.  
That day you shall know who made these few lines.    
Finis  
quod A.B.C. zions friend.   


Quod cum Trojanis bellum fatale gerebant  
Ductores Danaûm, pro meretrice fuit:  
Et cum papanis bellum exitiale, quod instat,  
Scotigenûm Proceres pro Meretrice ferunt.  
Sed voto haud simili; Romanum Scotia scortum  
Respuit at repitit Gracia coeca suum.   

Englished thus.  
These ten years' wars which Graecia did endure  
Against the Trojans, all was for a whore:  
These which 'gainst Papists Scots peers have in hand,  
Is for a whore, jived too long in their land,  
Different the case 〈◊〉 Greece would have home, their whore.