A true history of the several honourable families of the right honourable name of Scot in the shires of Roxburgh and Selkirk, and others adjacent. Gathered out of ancient chronicles, histories, and traditions of our fathers. By Captain Walter Scot, an old souldier, and no scholler, and one that can write nane, but just the letters of his name.

Satchels's Post'ral: Humbly presented, to his Noble and Worthy Friends of the Names of Scot and Elliot.

WHen restles Phoebus seem'd himself to rest, His flaming Car descending to the West, And high Spyro obscured his twinckling Light, Then in a Sable Mantle Madam Night, Took of the World the sole command and keep, Charging the eyes of mortals fast asleep: She send dull Morphaeus forth; and summons both, The Ledean Potentates of sleep and slouth, Who unto every one good rest imparts, Save Lovers guilty minds, and careful hearts, The stealing houres crep't on with sleeping pace; When masked mid-night shewed her ebon'd face, When Hags and Furies, Witches, Faries, Elss, Ghosts, Sp'rits and Goblins do separat themselves, When fond imaginary Dreams do reign, In formless forms, in mens molested brain, An un-accustomed Dream came in my head, I thought as it were near by a River-side; Within a pleasant Grove I did abide, That all the feathered Birds that sweems and flees, Betwixt the breeding Earth and skyes, One at the least of every several sort,

Did for their recreation there resort, Then there was such varieties of Notes, Such whirling and such whistling from their throats, The baess, the tenor, treble and the main, All acting various actions in one strain. I thought twenty four Shepherds did draw near, To hear the Musick of that feath'red Quite; These feathr'ed fidlers change their Notes most sweet, And lull'd Apollos Daughters fast asleep, Mean time the Shepherds tript upon the mould, Their Flocks they did remain in Cupids Fold, And the four and twenty did appear, In three squadrons, like martial men of wear: If that my memory fail me not, They were Friends and Kindred of the Name of Scot: It's my happy hap to be Of these Scots Relations, Therefore I'le dyte their Pedegree To the eight or ninth Generations.

TO speak the truth, no man shall me controul, Of worthy Garrenberry, Rennal-burn and Wall, Todrick, and Gilmans-cleugh, they were in my Dream, And good Grass-yeards, and Adam in Delorian, William in Milsinstoun, a Gentleman of Note; And worthy Gaudy-lands, and Wauchops Walter Scot, Sheills-wood and Langup also did appear, And Henry Scot of Pallace-hill he cal••••d up the rear; These appeared to be Scots, who in the first squad came; The second Squad was Elliots, I was not so well acquaint with them,

The second Squad that appeared all into my Dream, Was the Name of Elliot, and all sine Gentlemen,

I am not vers'd to know from whence they came, But sure at first they seem'd most from Las'distoun, Except Iohn Elliot, where I have had good Cheir; That dwells in Unthank, he's Brother to Dunlibire, The rest of their Pedegree, I know them not, Except Bewly and Muckldean that's related to Scot.

The third Squad are men that's void of harms, For they are Shepherds Swains trained up from Bairns, It is their daily Exercise and Gain, To tend all sort of Sheep, VVeather Ew and Ram, That name of Shepherd Swain came first from Greece; As plainly doth appear, by Iasons Golden Fleece; Although it be not well, I caused insert't with speed, The faillings of a Fool, it is no cause of feed, Sage wisdom should accept the VVill for the Deed; Had I Ovids Muse, and Virgils Vein, And wit to use Ulysses Pen, T'extoll these Shepherds Swains, I would incline, From Titan's rise, according to my Dream. To Iohn Elliot in Unthank in a Storm, I came late, But now to Henry of Hare-wood I mind for to skip, And to his Brother Iohn, and Iohn of Thorslee-hope, To see VVilliam Elliot of Swin-side, it is my full desire, And good Iohn Elliot in Unthank that's brother to Dunlibyre, VValter Elliot of Erkelton, he is a man of Note; So is Muckildean his Brother, he's son to Ianet Scot, Robert Elliot in Diuslies, the Laird of Clacks his Frier, And good VVilliam Elliot of Bewly, he drives up the rear; The Rear's the second place, if Souldiers be but stout, He is sure to have the Van, if the word be face about, This was the second Squad appeared into my Dream.

This is the third consciencious Squad, My Author doth me assure, Although they be but Shepherd Swains, They do relieve the Poor; As for Iohn Grieve in Garwold, He keeps both Board and Bed, So doth Iames Grieve in Lennup, And the Grieves on Common-side: And it is true, Iohn Robertson, Is a Comerad good enough, And for House-keeping he excels, He dwells in Cauterscleugh; Wheat-bread, Salt-beef, Mutton, and old Cheese, I rydding by, he did my hunger ease, With Capon, and Lamb, Brandy and good Ale, He feasted me in May, as I had been an Earl: George Curror in Hartwood-myres, He is a Religious Man; So is Michael Andison in Annalshope, And his Brother Iohn in Thirlston, Iohn Tod that dwells in Tushilaw Can many Sheep afford; And Thomas Anderson is not smal, That dwells in the How-foord. Unto my Dream, these were the Men, Which did appear to me, They were four and twenty at the first, But since I've added three.

Dedicated to the Right Honourable Walter Earl of Tarras.

My Lord,

THe lives and deaths of Knights, Lords and Earls, This little Book unto your Honour tells, Protection and acceptance if you give, It shall, as shall your self, for ever live. Of all the VVonders this vile VVorld includes, I muse how Flatt'ry such high Favour gains, How Adulation cunningly deludes Both high and low from Scepter to the Swain, But if thou by Flattery could'st obtain, More than the most that is possess'd by men, Thou coul'dst not tune thy tongue to falshood strain, Yet with the best can use both tongue and pen, Thy secret Learning can both scan and ken, The hidden things of Nature and of Art, It's thou hast rais'd me from Oblivions Den, And made my Muse from obscure Sleep to start; And to your Honours censure I commit, The first-born Issue of my worthless Wit, Fresh-water Souldiers sails in shallow Streams, And Leith-wynd Captains venture not their lives, A Brain disturb'd brings furth idle Dreams, And guilded Sheaths have seldom golden Knives, And painted Faces none but Fools bewitch, My Muse is plain, but witty fair and rich: VVhen thou didst first to Agnanipa float, VVithout thy knowledge as I surely think, VVhere Grace and Nature filling up thy Fountain, My Muse came flowing from Parnassus Mountain,

So long may she flow as it to thee is fit, The boundless Ocean of a Christian wit: For VVit, Reason, Grace, Religion, Nature, Zeal, VVrought altogether in thy working Brain, And to thy VVork did set this certain Seal, Pure is the Colour that will take no stain: My Lord, although I do transgress, You know that I did never yet profess, Until this time in print to be a Poet, And now to exercise my VVit I show it; View but the Intrals of this little Book, And you will say that I some pains have took, Pains mix'd with Pleasure, Pleasure joyn'd with Pain, Produc'd this Issue of my labouring Brain. My dear Lord, to you I owe a countless Debt, VVhich though I ever pay, will ne're be payed. 'Tis not base Coyn, subject to Cankers fret, If so in time my Debt might be defray'd, But this my Debt I would have all Men know, Is Love, the more I pay the more I owe; VVit, Learning, Honesty, and all good parts, Hath so possess'd thy Body and thy Mind, That covetously thou steals away mens Hearts, Yet 'gainst thy Shaft there's never one repay'd: My Heart that is my greatest worldlie Pelf, Shall ever be for thee as for my self; Thou that in idle adulating words, Canst never please the humors of these days, That greatest VVorks with smallest Speech afford, VVhose wit the Rules of VVisdoms love obeys, In few words then, I wish that thou may'st be, As well belov'd of all men as of me.

To Vertue and to Honour once in Rome, Two stately Temples there erected was, Where none might into Honours Temple come, But first through Vertues Temple they must pass; Which was an Emblem and an Document, That Men by Vertue must true Honour win; And how that Honour shall be permanent, Which only did from Vertue first begin. Could Envy die if Honour were deceas'd, She could not live for Honours Envys food, She lives by sucking of the noble blood, And scales the lofty top of Fames high Crest, Base thoughts compacted in the Objects breast, The meager Monster doth neither harm nor good, But like the wain, or wax, or ebb, or flood, She shuns as what her age doth most detaste, Where Heaven-bred Honour in the noble Mind, From out the Cavern of the Breast proceeds, There Hell-born Envy shews her hellish kind, And Vulture-like upon the Actions feed, But here's the odds, that Honours-Tree shall grow, When Envy's rotten Stump shall burn in low.

My Lord, I know your Honour knows, That I must speak the truth; Iohn Scot he was a Natural son, To Walter Earl of Buckcleugh, Begot on Madam Drummond, A noble Lady by birth, By Kindred Cousin-german To the Right Honourable Earl of Perth: He promis'd her Wedlock, and prov'd unto her so, As Prince AEneas did to the Carthage Queen Did,

But yet let their Succession Live still in Memorie, He was a worthy valiant Squire; Iohn Scot of Gorinberrie, At the Beauty of all the nine, He hit the Mark, And Married Sir Iohn Riddels Daughter, Knight Barron, and Barronet; And betwixt these Worthy Couple, procreat there be, This present Francis Scot, the good Laird of Gorinberry, He hath gain'd the constant and true Penelopy, He's married to Sir Iohn Wachops Daughter That Old Barron of Niddrie, Whose Names and Fames, Birth and Antiquity, Surpasses many Ladies of some Nobility, I have declared the Family, Of the worthy Lairds of Gorinberry, And hopes his Honour thinks no shame, For to be call'd a Shepherds Swain.

Our Father Adam's second son a Prince, As great as any man begotten since, Yet in his Function he a Shepherd was, And so his mortal Pilgrimage did pass, And in the sacred Text it is compil'd, That he that's Father of the Faithsul stil'd, Did as a Shepherd live upon th' increase Of Sheep on Earth until his days did cease, And in these days it was apparent then, Abel and Abram both were Noblemen: The one obtain'd his title righteously, For his unfeigned serving the most High, He first did offer Sheep, which on Record,

Was Sacrifice accepted of the Lord, Since Patriarchs were Shepherds, In Arcadia, and Greece; I wish the Wool in Etherston-sheills, May grow like Iasons Fleece.

Dedicated to the very Honourable, and Right-worshipsul, Sir Francis Scot of Thirlston.

SIr, my weak Collections out hath took, The Sum and Pith of sundry Chronicle-books; For Pardon and Protection I intreat, The Volumn's little, but my presumption's great.

Sir, since all memorandums of fore-past Ages, Sayings, and Sentences of Antient Sages, The Glory of Apollos radiant chine, The Supporter of the sacred Sisters nyne, The Attullus that all Historians do bear, Throughout the World, here and every where; Who ever went behind you, I would ken, Whose worth throughout the spacious Nation ring. Since Rennal-burn your Worships Kins-man near, He hath those Sheep which Golden-Fleeces wear, And it may be, it is such Beast and Fleece, Which Iason brought from Cholcos into Greece, Iohn Scot the Squire of Newburgh-hall, Alias of Rennal-burn as men him call. To the first Iohn Scot of Rennal-burn late, He was the Son, and Heir to his Estate, Who was the Son of that Sir Iohn Scot of worth, The Prince of Poets, and Knight of New-burgh, Chancer Glovet, and Sir Thomas Moir, And Sir Philip Sidney, who the Lawral wear:

They never had a more Poetical Vein, Than New-burgh's Iohn, that was Mr. Arthurs Son. And Mr. Arthur was a learned Man, Son to Simon Scot of New burgh than. This Simon Scot's call'd Simon with the Spear, Tutor of Thirlston was, both for Peace and Wear, That Simon Scot, a bold and resolute Man, He was Son to Iohn Scot of Thirlston; Iohn Scot of Thirlston, My Guid-sir let me knaw. He was Son to Dayid Scot of Howpaslaw, That David Scot he did excell, Mongst all Hunters he bore the Bell; He did abound for wit and skill; All his Associats did wear a Tod-tail; Which they esteem most by their engadges, More than French gallants do of their Plumages. David of Howpaslaw, he was the Son Of the first Sir Walter, e're was of that Roum, He was a man of Credit and Renown, He Married Elliot Daughter to the Laird of Lariston, David of Howpaslay, Sir Walters Son; He married with Scot, a Daughter of Robertoun, His Son Iohn Scot of Thirlston, a man of worth, He married Scot, the Daughter of the Laird of Allenhaugh. Iohns Son, Robert, was Warden in his time, The fight of Roberts-hill he did gain, He for his King, and Countrey, did maintain the Truth; He married Scot, Daughter to the Laird of Buckcleugh, The first Sir Robert Scot of Thirlston was his Son, He married Margaret, daughter to the Laird of Cranston, Sir Robert Scot his Son, for whose death I mourn,

He married Lyon, daughter to the Master of Kinghorn. His death was sad to all his near Relations, A worthy man was he, And died without Succession: Then Patrick Scot, his Father-Brother Son, Took on the designation of Thirlston, A very worthy Courteous man was he, He married Murray daughter to the Laird of Black-barony, His Son Sir Francis Scot, Knight-barronet of Thirlston, Is now married to Ker, daughter to William Earl of Louthian. Of his Genealogy I said enough, His Original it is of Buckcleugh; Yet were it no more but so I dare be bold, To think this Land doth many Iasons hold; Who never yet did pass a dangerous wave, Yet may with ease its Golden Fleeces have. My little Book whoso doth intertain, It's dedicat to none but Gentlemen; Sometimes to Old, sometimes to Young, Sometimes to the Father, sometimes to the Son, Sometimes to the great, sometimes to the small, So my Book it keeps no rule at all.

Dedicated to that worthy and compleat Gentleman, Robert Scot, second Son to Sir William Scot of Hardin.

UNlearned Azo, Store of Books hath bought, Because a Learned Schollar he'l be thought, counsel'd him that had of Books such store; To buy Pypes, Flutes, the Viol and Bandore, And then his Musick, and his Learning share, Being both alike, with either might compare, He did both beat his brain, and try his wit,

In hopes thereby to please the Multitude; As soon may ride a Horse without a Bit, Above the Moon or Suns high altitude; Then neither flattery, nor the hope of Pelf, Hath made me writ, but for to please my self: Thoug Sin and Hell work mortals to betray, Yet 'gainst thy Malice, God still arms thy way; Thou canst be have amongst those Banks and Briers, As well as he who to Cedars-top aspires, Or to the lowest Cherub, or Branch of Broom, That hath its breeding srom Earths stumbling womb. And now I talk of Broom, of Shrubs and Cedars, Me thinks a World of Trees, are now my Leaders, To prosecute this travel made with pain, And make Comparison betwixt Trees and Men; The Cedars, and the High-clouds kissing Pines, Foecunds, Olives, and tke crooked Vines, The Elm, the Esk, the Oak, the mastie Beech, The Pear, the Apple, and the rough gound Peach; And many more, for it would tedious be, To name each fruitful and unfruitsul Tree. For to proceed, and shew how Men and Trees, In Birth, and Breed, in Life and Death agrees. In their beginning they have both one Birth, Both have their natural being from the Earth; Those that scape Fortune, and the extreams of Love, Unto their longest home by Death are drove, Where Cesars, Kesars, subjects objects most, Be all alike consum'd to dirt and dust: Death eudeth all our cares, or cares increase, It sends us unto lasting pain, or bless; Where Honor is with Noble Vertue mixt;

It like a Rock stands permanent and fix't. The snares of Envy, or her traps of hate, Could never, nor shall ever hurt that state. Like Adamant it beats back the battery, Of spightful Malice, and deceiving flattery. For it with pride can never be infected, But humbly is supernally protected; A Supporter, or Prop I wish Robert be, As Rowlin call'd Robert was to Normandy. Robert call'd Iohn-Fernyear was in Scotland, So was Robert Bruce his revenging powerful hand. I wish thee Health, Wealth and Renown, Without any expectation of a Crown: This Dedication which to your hands takes Scop, Concerns a Shepherd from Will Scot of Langup, Who 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a Prudent, Wise and civil Gentleman; As many that lives in this part of the Land. Who sprung from a worthy Stock of late, Who was named Iohn Scot of Langup, Who was the Son, I very well knew, Of Iohn Scot of Headshaw; And Iohn Scot, we all do ken, Was Son to George Scot of Sinton. And George Scot, called How-coat, VVas Son of Sintons youngest VVat; And young VVat was VValters Son, That was Laird of Sinton, whence Hardin sprung, And Walter he was George Son, And George he was the Son of Iohn, For Walter and William was two-Brether, His Name was George that was their Father; My memory is Lord keeper of my Treasure,

And great understanding gives true Iustice measure, To good, to bad, to just and to unjust, Invention and Remembrance waits the leasure, Of memory and understanding most, Hath wisdom sor her fellow and her guide; Else Princes, Peers, and Commons stray aside: For William Scot in our south part of Greeces, I wish may ne're want such as Iasons Golden Fleeces.

Dedicated to the Worthy and well-accomplished Gentleman, William Scot of Rae-burn.

THe Iustice, Mercy, and the Might I sing, Of Heavens Iust; Merciful, Almighty King, By whose fore-knowledge all things were elected, Whose power hath all things made, and all projected; Whose Mercies flood hath quencht his Iustice Flame, Who is, shall be, one, and still the same. Who in the Prime, when all things first began, Made all for Man, and for Himself made Man: Made, not begotten, or of humane Birth, No Seir but God, no Mother but the Earth, Who ne're knew Child-hood, or the Sucking-teat, But at the first was made a Man compleat; Whose inward Soul in God-like form did shine, As Image of the Majesty Divine; Whose Super-natural wisdom beyond nature, Did name each sensible and sensles Creature; And from whose Star-like, Sand-like Generation, Sprung every Kindred, Kingdom, Tribe and Nation: All People then one Language spoke alone, Interpreters the World then needed none, There lived then no learned deep Grammarians,

There was no Turks, no Scythians, nor Tartarians; Then all was one, and one was only one, The Language of the universal Ball, Then if a Traveller had gone as far, As from the Artick to the Antartick Star, If he from Boreas into Auster went, Or from the Orient to the Occident, VVhich way so ever he did turn or wind, He had been sure his Country-man to find, One hundred thirty Winters since the Flood, The Earth one only Language understood, Until the Son of Cush, the Son of Cham, A proud Cloud-scaling Tower began to frame, Trusting, that if the World again were drown'd, He in his lofty building might rest sound, All suture Floods he purpos'd to prevent, Aspyring to Heavens glorious Battlement, But High-Iehovah with a Pust was able, To make ambitions Babel but a Bable. These Shepherd Swains, I send into your view, Are thirty one, a very worthy Crew; Fifteen of them are Gentlemen of Note, All of the renown'd Name of Scot; Whereof Henry Scot in Palishil is one, The youngest Shepherd Swain of all the name: He's natural Son unto that bold Barron. Sir Iohn Scot the Knight of Ancrum; Both wealth and wisdom his Father doth embrace, And he abounds in Iasons Golden Fleece.

Dedicated to the illustrious and worthy Gentleman, Thomas Scot of Whitslade.

MOst worthy Sir, I have with pain and labour took, To search some Histories for this little Book, I have it all gathered from thence, Especially things of greatest consequence; And though the Volumn, and the Work be small, Yet it does contain the sum of all; To you I give it with a Heart most fervent, And rests your humble and obedient Servant.

For Shepherd Swains they have been long The Glory of their Land, The best of men has been a Swain, Behold brave Tammerlane; Then Walter Scot now of Todrick, Since thou'rt a Gentleman, I'm sure thou'll not offended be, To be call'd a Shepherds Swain; Thy Father Thomas did the like, Since he to Todrick came: Thomas thy Good-sir was a Swain, When he from Whitslade sprung: Thy Grandsire brave Walter of Whitslade, Was call'd the Hawk compleat, A man of note and good report, Yet had many Flocks of Sheep; His Father Robert thy great Grandsir, Of Stirches was design'd, Because his Father Walter Scot Liv'd at Whitslade, in his time He was a worthy Gentleman, And kept a great Menzie: There was ninety years past o're his head

Before that he did die, The rest of thy Genealogie, I can you well declare, They were all worthy Gentlemen; But I will talk no mair.

To speak of Whitslades Family, Or when it did begin, It's above two hundred years ago, It was in the fourteen hundred eighty seven, VValter the first of VVhitslade then, VVas Hardin's elder Brother, He married a fair comely Dame, Daughter to the Laird of Riddel; Robert his Father did succeed, In Heretages, Mains and Miln, And married with one Rutherford, Daughter to the Laird Hunthill; His son Walter, sharp as a Hawk, For Valour he did pass, He married with a comely Dame, Daughter to Cavers of Dowglas; His son Sir Walter Scot, if I should forget, I should be much to blame, He married with Susanna Scot, Daughter to the Laird of Thirlston, And after her he married again, Which I do know for truth, Unto a very comely Lass, Sister to Sir Iohn Scot of Newbrugh; His son Robert Scot of worthy note, Hollands Iean married he, Natural-daughter to Walter Lord of Buckcleugh,

She was a frugal Lady. Sir Walter Scot brother to Robert, He married a Lady fair, Daughter to Sir Robert Stuart of Ormstoun, Which is Brother to Iohn Earl of Traquair; Thomas his Brother did him succeed, A man of worthy fame, A vertuous Lady he did wed, Madam Mitchel was her name. Thomas his son doth now remain, The eight Laird of that part, He's married to a frugal Dame, Daughter to Sir Iohn Hay of Park. Thomas the last that of Whitslade we lost, Was a man of good esteem, He departed in the year of Grace, Sixteen hundred and seventy one. Sir Walter Scot his brother, that At Innerkeithing was slain, It was into the year of Grace, Sixteen hundred and fifty one; His brother Robert that bold Baron; It was an woful hour, At Yorks great Fight he lost his life, In the sixteen hundred and fourty four. Their Father brave Sir Walter Scot, The chief of Chivalry, In the sixteen hundred twenty eight year, At Whitslade he did die. Of Whislades worthy Family, I will no further dite, For he does know assuredly,

I can neither Read nor Write. Ulysses was a happy man of men, In that his acts were writ with Homer's pen; And Virgil wrote the Actions of the glory, Of brave AEneas and his wandring Story; The Shepherds live, and thus they end their lives, With good and brave and just prerogatives.

Dedicated to that worthy Gentleman, Iohn Scot of Wall, Broiher∣german to Sir William Scot of Hardin elder.

MOst worthy Sir, Into your hands I give, The sum of that which makes me be so brief, I humbly crave acceptance at your hand, And rests your Servant ever to command.

Since I've begun, I hope to make an end, And as I can my Shepherd Swains defend, For Walter Scot of Wall, These Lines I do design; For there are many Gallants That have Shepherds been; Romes fond Romulus was bred and fed, 'Mongst Shepherds where his youthful days he led. The Persian Monarch Cyrus he did pass, His youth with Shepherds, and a Shepherd was, Wherefore I humbly thee intreat, If I do call thee Shepherd, not to sret; For I know ye are all Gentlemen, To the seventh or eight Generation: And I will do to you that I'le not do to others, For I'le describe you both your Fathers and Mothers; Because erroneous Liars the old Famil; did not ken, Call'd Harden, this and that said, they're not Gentlemen;

Wherefore I will at William begin, Brother-german to Walter of Sinton, Who was a man of great command, He enjoy'd all Sintons Lordship, And the Beat-up Land; He was the son of George Who did enjoy the same, So did his Father, his name was Iohn: George left his second son, it is most clear, 'Twixt four and five thousand merks a year, Into that Possession at that time, I know not what Charter and Evidence was then: Yet to let misbelieving people ken, These Lands as they ly I will design, Therefore William was a valiant man, Who was the first Laird of Hardin: In his possession he had then no less Nor Hardin, Totshaw, Mebenlaw, and High-chesters, With Todrick, which good Sheep afford, VVester-Essenside, Burn-foot and Sheils-wood, These were the Lands I do explain, That George of Sinton gave his son VVilliam, VVhy should ramping Liars blast his Fame, And say that he was not a Gentleman; He wanted nothing of Gentrie, But only the title of Dignitie: The first Lady that he did gain, VVas daughter to the Baron of Chisim, Then in Hardin place he did sit down, And on her there begat one onely son; For within short process of swift time, She dy'd ere she came to her prime: The Laird a Widdower did remain,

How long a time, I do not ken; But his Son he grew up to be a Man, The first Walter Scot of Hardin: Then Hardin did to Riddel ride, The old Laird of Riddel being dead, In suit of his Relict there came he, She was a Daughter of Fairnilie; She was a fair and beauteous Dame; And at that time she was but young, Her beauty others did excel, She had one Daughter to Riddel, Brave William Scot he did her gain, They had not long been in that Roum, While the Ladies, Daughter married the Lairds Son; Then they left the young Folk in Hardin, And the oldFolk in Todrick they sat down, And there they did two Sons beget, Robert of Burn-foot, and George of Todrick, And both of them prov'd stout able men, They were the first Cadents come of Hardin. Now to the Young Folks I return, The Laird and Lady of Hardin, Betwixt them was procreat a Son, Call'd William Bolt-foot of Hardin; He did survive to be a Man, And then to the Fairnilie he came; And Fairnilies Daughter he did wedd; For they were related by Kindred: Betwixt them two was Procreat, The stout and Valiant Walter Scot., Of Hardin, who can never dy, But live by Fame to the tenth Degree: He became both able, strong and stout,

Married Philips Daughter, Squire of Dryhope, Which was an antient Family, And many broad Lands enjoyed he; Betwixt these Scots was procreat, That much renown'd Sir William Scot: I need not to explain his Name, Because he ever lives by Fame: He was a Man of Port and Rank, He married Sir Gideon Murrays daughter of Elibank; Betwixt them there was procreat, This old Sir William that's living yet: This old Sir William married A sister of the house of Boyd, And there's procreat them betwixt, Sir William Scot, now call'd youngest, Because his Father does remain, Therefore he's call'd young Sir William; And young Sir William married, The only daughter of Sir Iohn Nisbit; He late was Advocat to the King, And now is call'd Lord Dirltoun: This Genealogie is true, And the old was as good as the new. Now worthy Wall, I wish thee Life and Health, Hoping thou'l ne're marry inferior to thy self, Yet Ambition, Pomp, and Hell-begotten Pride, And damn'd adulation thou will still deride; The Complemental flattery of Kings Courts, I hope shall ne're be mixt amidst thy sports: For Homer was the Prime of Poets stil'd, And worthy Actions still he did compile; That he did both in Arcadia and Greece; Extol the Shepherds with Iasons Golden Fleece.

Dedicated to the Honourable and well accomplished Gentleman, Sir William Scot of Hardin Knight.

UNto the prospect of your Wisdoms eyes, I consecrat these silly Lines, Not that I think them worthy of your view, But, because in Love my thoughts are bound to you; I do confess my Self unworthy far, To dite in such like cases as they are; Which, Homer, Virgil, nor the fluent Tullie, In fitting terms could scarce express them fully: For Francis Scot of Gillmans-cleugh, To you I do commend, In hopes your Worship still will be his Friend, The Son of Iohn, the Son of Robert, call'd Truth, Who was the Son of Iames, The first of Gillmans-cleugh, A valiant Gentleman, who well deserv'd renown, He was the youngest Son to Iohn Scot of Thirlston; The which Iohn Scot he did excell, Being Son to David with the Tods-tail; And David Scot, my Author let me know, He was Son to Walter of Howpaslaw: Sir Walter, he was Williams Son, Of the worthy House of Buckcleugh he sprung, The Lads in Gillmans-cleugh, In hunting did excell; So did their Father David, That carried the Tods-tail, Who had as much delight, In hunting of that Beast, As Iason had in Greece To bear the Golden-fleece.

Dedicated to the Right Honourable, Sir Iohn Scot of Ancrum Knight, wishes Mirth and Happiness be still your attendance.

THe Guns proclaim'd aloud on every Hill, The joyful acclamations of the Scots People; The which did Thunder with so high a strain, As if Great Mars they mean't to entertain: True Mirth and Gladness was to every Face, And Healths run bravely round in every place; That sure I think the seventh day of Iuly, At the Reid-swair should ne're forgotten be; That was a day to his everlasting Fame, The valiant Laird Wat brought in the worthy Name, That day should ever be dedicat to Mirth, As if it had been a Soveraign's Birth: VVhen valiant VVat that worthy Man, Brought in the Name of Scot, well to be seen; It was nothing ye'll say to bring them in, But to th'effusion of his Blood, He brought them back again, The Executors and Tutors, that hath been in our time, The Honour of the Scots did ne're so much proclaim: The old Verse I must give in, Though men should say I'm drunken, How VVat thy Guid-sir, that worthy Man, To the Red-swair brought his Troup, The seventh day of Iuly, the sooth to say, At the Red-swair the tryst was set; Our Wardens they did fix a day, As they appointed, so they met. The Lord Buckcleugh he was but young,

Carmichael was Warden in his place, The Laird Wat, that worthy Man, Commanded the Sirname with great Grace: Thy Pedegree is soon discribed, I think I may do it well enough. Thy Father Charles was Laird VVats Son, VVho was natural Son to Scot of Buckcleugh, Their Generations is formerly described, I need them not describe again, Both Walters and Williams and Sir Arthur; Unto the ninth Generation; From whence such men may gather their relief, That though a Ram-head may be cause of grief, Yet nature hath a remedy found out, They should have Lyons hearts to bear it out; Though I call'd thee Shepherds Swain, Yet I deserve no blame; I hope that Iasons Golden-fleece VVith thee still shall remain.

Dedicated to the Right VVorshipful, and very Honourable, and most Generous Gentleman, Sir VVilliam Scot of Hardin younger.

THe Prince of Princes, and the King of Kings, VVhose eye of Providence foresees all things, To whom, what ever was, or ever shall be, I present still before his Majesty, VVho doth dispose of all things as he list, And graspeth time in his eternal fist; He sees and knows for us what's Bad or Good, And all things is by him well understood, Mens weak conjecture no man can arreid, VVhat in th'eternal Parliaments decreed;

And what the Trinity concludeth there, VVe must expect it with obedience here, Then let not any man presume so far, To search what the Almighties Councils are; But let our wills attend upon his will, And let his will be our Direction still: Let not Plebeians be inquisitive, Nor into any profound State-business dive. VVe into the thousand and sixteenth year, Since Fergus our first King did appear, Have many Hopeful Royal Princes had, VVho, as Heaven pleas'd to bless, were good or bad. Fergus was the first which we had Crown'd, For Learning, and for VVisdom high renown'd: Beyond the Verge of Christendoms swift Fame, Did make the VVorld admire his Noble Name. A hundred and Eleven Kings we have had sincesyne, VVhereof one of them was a Queen; Their valour and triumphant Victories, Have sill'd the VVorld, and mounts into the Skyes: As Kenneth the second, that King of victory, And Gregorius Magnus, whose Fame can never dye. Robertus Brucius, that King of high Renown, King Iames the sixth, that united the three Crowns; These victorious Princes govern'd well, But more has been of the contrair strain; Love sometimes made the gods themselves disguise, And mussle up their mighty Deities, And vertuous Princes of the gods have odds, When Princes goodness doth out-go the gods, I'm a foolish man, this is no work of mine, It's an operation of the Power Divine. Let God alone, for what he hath in hand;

It's saucie, folly and madness to withstand, What his eternal Wisdom hath decreed, Who better knows than we do, what we need. To him let's pray for his most safe Protection, Him we implore for his most sure Direction, Let his assistance be the seventh King Iames's Guido, That in the end God may be glorified: Let us amendment in our lives express, And let our Thanks be more, our Sins be less. Thy Cusing William Scot in Milsington, He is an Gentleman, Come of a worthy Family, For he from Whitslade sprung, Of his Brother Todrick I have writ, And given a true Relation, Of his most worthy Pedegree, Unto the seventh or ninth Generation; Therefore it is needles unto me, To writ them over again; For if I please, I could revise Them to the fifteen Generation. According to my Dream, he is the Shepherds Swain, I hope Iasons Golden Fleece with him shall still remain.

Dedicated to the very Worshipfull, and much honoured Generous Gentlemen, Hugh Scot of Gallow-shiells, and VValter Scot in VVauchop.

O! For a Quil of that Arabian wing, That's hatch't in Embers of some kindled fire, VVho to her self, her self doth issue bring, And three in one is young, and Dame and Sier: O! that I could to Virgils Vein aspire,

Or Homers Verse, the Golden Language Greek, VVith polish'd Phrases, I my Lines would tire, Into the deep of Art my Muse should seek, Mean time amongst the vuglar she must throng, Because she hath no help from my unlearned tongue; Great is the Glory of the Noble Mind, VVhere Life and Death are equal in respect, If Fates be good or bad, un kind, or kind; Not proud in Freedom, nor in Thrall deject, VVith courage scorning fortunes worst effect, And spitting in fond Envies cankered Face, True Honour thus doth baser thoughts deject; Esteeming Life a slave that serves disgrace, Foul abject thoughts become the mind that's base, That deems there is no better life nor this, Or after death doth fear a worser place, VVhere guilt is payed the guardian of a miss; But let swoln Envy swell untill she burst, The Noble Mind desies her, do her worst; If Homers Verse in Greek did merit praise, If Naso in the Latine won the bayes, If Maro amongst the Romans did excell, If Tosa in the testine tongue wrot well; A Souldier that could never lead a Pen, Shows to the eight or ninth Generation, Although I him enrol, and call him Shepherds Swain, Yet hereby I approve he is a Gentleman; The Son of Adam, who was by Lot, The Brother of the worthy Collonel Scot, VVho died with honour at Dumbars fight, In maintenance of King and Countries Right: He was the Son, I know it for truth

Of William Scot, Laird of Whitehaugh, And William Scot was the eldest son Of Walter Scot, stil'd of the same; Walter Scot was Robert's son, And Robert he was Walter's son: The first of Whitehaugh that from Borthwick sprung, That Wat of Whitehaugh was Cousin-german, To Iohn of Borthwick, who fasted so long, Three sundry times he did perform To fast fourty days, I do aver; Bishop Spotswood, my Author is he, A profound learn'd Prelat that would not lie: When Iames the fifth he was Scotlands King, In the Castle of Edinburgh he incarcer'd him, And would not believe the Country says, That any Mortal could fast fourty days; Bear-bread and Water the King allow'd for his Meat, But Iohn Scot refus'd, and would not eat: When the fourty days were come and gone, He was a great deal lustier than when he began. Then of the King he did presume, To beg recommendation to the Pope of Rome, Where there he fasted fourty days more, And was neither hungry, sick, nor sore: From Rome he did hastily return, And arrived in Brittain at London, VVhere Henry the eight he got notice, That Iohn Scot had fasted twice fourty dayes; The King would not believe he could do such thing, For which he commanded to incarcerate him; Fourty days expir'd he said he had no pain, Than his Fast had been but ten hours time:

Here Walter Scot I'le draw near an end, From Iohn of Borthwick thy Fathers did descend; He was the son of Walter, I have said enough, Their Original is from Buckcleugh. In the Fourscore Psalm we read, That like a Flock our God did Ioseph lead; And ev'ry day we do confess almost, That we have err'd and stray'd like Sheep that's lost, For Oaths, and passing words, and joyning hands, Is like Assurance written in the Sands, The silly Sheeps-skin turn'd to Parchment thin, Shows that Iasons Golden Fleece with thee remains.

Dedicated to the Right Worshipful and truely Generous, my well ap∣proved good Friend, Sir Patrick Scot of Long-newton, appearant of Ancrum, Knight.

IT's such a Title of Preheminence then, To bear the name of Shepherds Swain, That David who so well his words did frame, Did call our great Creator by that name; Our bless'd Redeemer God's eternal Son, Whose only Merits our Salvations won, He did the harmless name of Shepherd take, For our Protection, and his Mercies sake, Which makes thy rest like those that restless be, Like one that is pursued, and cannot flee; Or like the bussie bussing bumming Bee, Or like the fruitless naught respected Flee, That cuts the subtile Air so swift and fast, Till in the Spiders-web he's fetter'd fast. So falling fast asleep, and sleeping in a Dream, Down by that Dale which flows with Milk and Cream,

Thy dearest Dame did to thee say, Francis, Francis, Come away, I wondred when I heard that name begun, Francis, Francis, that was Adams son, And Adam in his time deserv'd no misreport, He was the son of Gilmanscleugh Robert, And Robert was a pretty Gentleman, The Heir to Iames, he was his eldest son, The first of Gilmanscleugh Iames was then, Who was the youngest son of Thirlston, And Iohn of Thirlston I let you know, Was son to David Scot of How paslaw, And David Scot that worthy man, Was son to Sir Walter of the same, For Gilmanscleugh I've said enough, His first original is from Buckcleugh; Now of all Beasts that ever were or are, None can for goodness with a Sheep compare, Indeed for Bone and Burthen I must grant, He's much inferiour to the Elephant, The Drumadarie, Camel, Horse, and Ass, For Load and Carriage doth the Sheep surpass; Strong Taurus, Eunuchs son, the labouring Ox, The stately Staig, the bobtail crafty Fox; These and all rav'nous Beasts of Prey must yield, Unto the Sheep, the honour of the Field; Where Sheep abounds in Scotland more or less, There's still a part of Iasons Golden Fleece.

Dedicated to the Worshipful and truely Generous Gentleman, Robert Scot Laird of Horsliehill, son to VVilliam Scot of Horsliehill, who was son to Robert-Scot Portioner and Baillie of Hawick,

who was fon to VVilliam Scot, who was second son to the Laird of Midgup, Walter Scot of Midgup was grand-child to Adam Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to the foresaid David Scot of Howpaslaw, who was son to the first Sir Walter Scot of Howpaslaw, their ori∣ginal was from Buckcleugh.

A Simple Sheeps-skin proves the only ty, And stay whereon a World of men rely, VVhich hold a crew of Earth-worms in more awe, Than both the Tables of the secret Law; For as the Ram and Ewe doeth fructifie, And ev'ry year a Lamb doeth multiply, So doeth a Sheeps-skin bound make many breed, And procreat, as seed doth spring from seed, It's one mans freedom and anothers loss, And like the Pope, it both can bind and loose; Adam Scot in Delorian I do nominate, And for thy Generation, it cannot be forgot, Unto Grass-yard thy Brother it is declar'd by me, VVhich may serve all that is of one Posterity: And in conclusion this I humbly crave, That ev'ry one the honesty may have, That when your frail Mortality is past, Ye may be the good Shepherds at the last; Be not offended at the stile of Shepherds-swain, For Iasons Golden Fleece is still worthy of Coyn.

Dedicated to that worthy and valiant Souldier, Captain Iames Scot, a Brigadier in his Majesties most Honourable Life-guard, son to Wal∣ter Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to Robert Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to Sir Walter Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to Robert Scot of Tushilaw, who was son to Adam Scot of Tushilaw.

WHose former Genealogie is already spoken, The Fable of the Golden Fleece began,

Because Sheep did yeeld such store of Gold to Men, For he that hath great store of VVoolly Fleeces, May when he pleases, have store of Golden Pieces; Honest Iames Scot of Sheils-wood, Whose like there is not many, Whose love and piety doth feed and help so many; It is no doubt, but these good deeds of his, Will help to lift his Soul to endless bless. Of his Genealogie I will speak no more, Because his Brother Grass-yards is set down before; I hope Iasons Fleece shall never from him flee, Because he is inclin'd to Hospitality.

Dedicated to the worthy and much respected generous Gentleman, Iames Scot of Bristo, Son to Mr. Iames Scot, late Parson of An∣crum, who was Son to Iohn Scot of Cachlack-know, who was Son to Walter Scot of Mount-bernger, who was Son to Robert Scot of Mount-bernger, who was Son to Simon Scot of Mount-bernger, who was Son to Simon Scot of Dryhop, who was Son to the Laird of Howpaslaw, whose Original is from Buckcleugh.

MY worthy Cusing, I must to thee commend, Him who of his Talent surely has made ten, Like as Ioseph did in AEgypt long remain, Whilst his Brether did for Food unto him come, So Gideon privately did live, and made no scroup, Whilst that his Brethren swaggred round about; But now of Iasons Fleece he hath more store, Than ever his Brethren had before, This Gideon Scot he is a pretty Man, Amongst the rest of worthy Shepherds Swain, Of Outer-siderig now he is Laird, He was Son to Robert of Har-wood,

Robert he was a worthy Man, He was Son to Walter of Erckletoun, VValter sprung from that same Stock, That was call'd Iohn Scot of the New-wark, And Iohn he was Iames's Son, My sleeping Muse is now layen down, But when she wakes out of her Dream, The rest of's Pedegree I'le explain; Since he and Iason is so well acquaint, His Golden Fleeces he has to him lent.

Dedicated to that Generous, and well approved Gentleman, Iames Scot, Laird of Bow-hill.

MIraculous Monsters in the British clyme, Monsters of nature sprung from putrid Shem, Sampson that pull'd the gates of Gaza down; Nor Libian Hercules, whose furious frown, Would maze strong Gyants, tame the Lyons Rage, VVere not so strong as Gallants of this Age; VVhy you shall see an up-start cock-brain'd Iack, VVill bear five hundred aikers on his back, And walk as stoutly, as if it were no Load, And bear it to each place of his abode; A Love-sick woer would a sonnet write, In praise of her who was his Hearts-delight, Hoping thereby his wished love to win, And to obtain it, thus he did begin.

Star of the Earth, and Empress of my Soul, Thy Love and Life, that doth my thoughts controul, Sole Queen of my affections and desire, That like to AEtna sets my heart on sire, Thy Golden Locks resembling Titans Amber,

Most fit to Grace some mighty Monarchs Chamber: Thine Eyes Ecclipssing Titan in his rising, Thy Face surpassing natures best devising, Thy lips evaporats most sweet perfums, Thy voice the Musick of the Sphers assums; Perfections wound more than Loves shast and bow, Thy Red the Rose doth shame, thy White the Snow, Thou worlds wonder, Natures clearest feuel, Stain not thy vertues with thy being cruel, Besides it is an easie thing to prove, It is a soveraign remedy for Love, As suppose your thoughts at hourly strife, Half mad, and almost weary of your Life: All for the Love of some fair female Creature, And that you are intangled with her Feature; That you are glad, and sad, and mad, and tame, Seeming to burn in Frost, and frieze in Flame; In one breath, singing, laughing, weeping, Dream as you walk, and waking in your sleeping, Accounting hours for years, and months for ages, Till you enjoy her that your heart engages, And she hath sent you answers long before, That her intent is not to be your whore; And you, for your part mean upon your Life, Ne're while you live to take her to your wife; The VVest-border Seed, it is not sit for you, You may procure better than there doth grow; Thou art the Brother by thy place unto a lovely Swain, The son of that renowned Squire, Iohn Scot of Rennal-burn, Thy Father Robert yet survives, Thy Guid-sir was by the Napiers slain, Thy Grand-sir the first Laird of Bow-hill, VVas son to Iohn Scot of Thirlston?

A worthy Squire Iohn Scot of Rennal. burn, He was the Son of that Sir Iohn Scot, VVhom the Muses lov'd, and hovered at his Gate, And Sir Iohn was son of that learned Man, Mr. Arthur Scot who was stil'd of New-burgh than, And Mr. Arthur was brave Simons son, He who was Tutor to the Pupills of Thirlston; And Iohn of Thirlston that brave fellow, Was Son to David Scot of Howpaslaw, And David was the first Sir Walters son: So, Iames, thy Genealogy I have done, And spoken nothing but the very truth, Thy Original is from Buckcleugh; Since Fates allow the harmless beasts such store, I hope of Iasons Fleece thou shalt have more and more.

Dedicated to the Honourable and truly Noble, Sir William Elliot of Stobs, Knight and Barronet.

IT's not in expectation of Reward, That I this Book into your hands do tender, But in my humble Duty in regard, That I am bound my dayly thanks to render; If my Verse be defective, and my accent rude, My Stile be harsh, and my Learning slender, I am defended against a multitude, If that your Patronage be but my Defender. This to avoid Hells-hatcht ingratitude, My duteous Love, my Lines and Life shall be, To you devoted, ever to conclude; May you, and your most vertuous Lady see, Long happy dayes, in honour still encreasing, And after death true honour never ceasing.

Your Worships Parents were so well known by me, That I'm bold to show them to the fourth Degree, These worthy Families I must needs commend, From whom Sir William Elliot of Stobs did descend: I here set down the number what they are. And then I'le nominate them in particular. Thy thirty Ancestors I would have men to ken, Thy eight great Grandsirs, and thy eight great Grandames, Thy Grandsirs and Grandames eight, that makes twenty four, Thy Goodsirs and Goodames four, with Father and Mother, Thy thirty Ancestors I have set down, And thou thy self makes thirty and one; This true account from whence your worship sprung, Is just to the sourth Generation of your Kin: Thy first great Grandsir and Grandam, it's of truth, Was Elliot of Lariston, and Scot of Buckcleugh, To thy second great Grandsir and Grandam now I trot, They were Scot of Hardin, and Scot of Dryhop; Thy third great Grandsir and Grandam to their name, Was Dowglas of Cavers, and a Sister of Cranston, Thy fourth great Grandsir to his name, Was Dowglas the Laird of Whittinghame, I am not certain, yet have heard some mean, He was married to Hepburn a daughter of Waughton; Thy fifth great Grandsir to whom I flee, Was Sir Iohn of Cranston, and Ramsey of Dalhousie; Thy sixth great Grandsir and Grandam I set down, Was Cranston of Moriston, and Cockburn of Lanton, Thy seventh great Grandsir and Grandam I reveal, Was Lord Seton of Seton, and Maxwel of Maxwel, Thy eight great Grandsir and Grandam no less, Then Earl Bothwel and Dowglas sister to the Earl Angus.

Now to the first Grandsir and Grandam I come, Elliot of Stobs, and Scot of Hardin; To the second Grandsir and Grandam now I run, Sir William of Cavers, and Dowglas of Whittinghame; Thy third Grandsir and Grandam I must proclaim, Was William Lord Cranston, and Sarah daughter to Sir Iohn: Thy fourth Grandsir was the Lord Coldinghame. Now to thy first Goodsir I do rehearse, Which was Elliot of Stobs and Dowglas of Cavers, Thy other Goodsir and Goodam of much renown, Was Mr. of Cranston, and daughter to Lord Coldinghame, Thy Father and Mother who still lives by Fame, Sir Gilbert of Stobs, and sister to Lord Cranston; Although I cannot write, yet I have spent my breath, In dilating thy Descent from good King Iames the fifth. Earl Bothwel thy great Grandsir, Was a valiant man, He was King Iames the fifth His own Natural-son.

And now I humbly crave your Worthiness excuse, For the boldness of my unlearned Muse, That hath presumed so high a pitch to flee, In praise of Vertue and Gentilitie; I know this Task is fit for learned men, For Homer, Ovid, or for Virgils Pen; Boldly to write true Honours worthiness, Whilst better Muses pleased to hold their peace; And this much to the World my Verse proclaims, That neither Gain nor Flattery are my ends, But love and duty to your Familie, Has caus'd my Muse these Lines to publish'd be: And therefore I intreat your generous Heart,

To accept my duty, and pardon my neglects, Bear with my weakness, wink at my defects, Good purposes do merit good effects. Poor Earthen-vessels may hold precious Wine, And I presume that in this Book of mine, In many places ye shall something find, To please its noble well affected Mind, And for excuse, my Muse doth humbly plead, That ye'll forbear to judge before ye read.

The Persians, Egyptians, and the Israelites, And raging Razin, King of Aramites, Then the Assyrians twice, and then again The Egyptians over-run them all amain. Then the Chaldeans, and once more they came, Egyptian, Ptolomey, who them overcame; Then Pompey next King, Herod last of all, Vespasian was their universal fall, As in Assyria Monarchie began, They lost it to the warlike Persian, Of Nimrods race a race of Kings descended, Till in Astiages his stock was ended, For Cyrus into Persia did translate, The Assyrian Soveraign Monarchizing State; Then after many bloody bruising Arms, The Persian yielded to the Greeks Alarms: But smoak-like Grecian-glory lasted not, Before 'twas ripe it did untimely rot: The Worlds Commander Alexander died, And his Successors did the World divide, From one great Monarch in a moment Springs, Confusion, Hydra-like from self-made Kings; Till they all wearied, slaughtered and forlorn,

Had all the Earth dismembred, rent and torn; The Romans took advantage of their fall, And over-ran, captiv'd and conquered all: Thus, as one Nail another out doth drive, The Persians the Assyrians did deprive, The Grecians then the Persian pride did tame, The Romans then the Grecians overcame, Whilst like a Vapour all the World was tost, And Kingdoms were transferr'd from Coast to Coast, And still the Iews in scattered multitudes, Deliv'red were to sundry Servitudes, Chang'd, given, bought, and sold from Land to Land, Where they not understood nor understand, To every Monarchy they were made Slaves, Egypt, Aram, Chaldea, them out-braves, Assyria, Persia, Grecia, lastly Rome, Invaded them by Heavens just angry doom; Four Ages did the Sons of Heber pass, Before their final Desolation was; Their first Age, aged Patriarchs did guide, The second reverend Iudges did decide, The third by Kings, nought, good, bad, worse and worst, The fourth by Prophets, who them blest or curst, As their dread God commanded or forbid, To curse or bless, even so the Prophets did.

Good Reader, I have writ these Lines to let thee know withall, What Desolations did in former Ages fall, And here within sixscore of year, By many Families it doth appear, Who were Men of note, and their Substance did abound, Yet to great Servitude their Children came, But yet I think men should not fret,

For a Suspension never pays no Debt; For if a man according to the Laws, He be captivat for an onerous Cause, And then from Bondage he again return, This is no act of Credit left by him; In Histories it's often read, That Kings sons have been Tradesmen bred, Crispin and Crispianus the English sing, Was son to Braenus the British King, Of such a change men they may admire, From a Crown to become a Cordiner, If his Sons son did live to be a man, And if that he did rightly play his Game, Durst any Poultry Pismee call him down, By Exclamation to be a Sutors son. These idle Questionists, and these Schismaticks, I hold no better than rank Hereticks; But this I think not well when honest Hearts, Shall have this undervaluing Name without Deserts; If every Hair upon the Heads of Men, Were Quills, and every Quill a Pen, Were Earth to Paper turn'd, and Seas to Ink, And all the World were Writers, yet I think, They could not write enough of Mischiefs strain, Calumnious Boasters, Bloody tongued Men, Of Persians, Pagans, Asians, or Rome, I need not write, there's Division enough at Home.

For the Elliots brave and worthy men, Have been as much oppress'd as any Name I ken, For in my own time I have seen so much odds, No Elliot enjoy'd any Heretage, but Dunlibire, Fanash and Stobs; Stobs being sine qua non, and obedient to the truth,

A beloved Sister son to the Family of Buckcleugh: Yet in the Border-side the Elliots did remain, Since King Robert the first, they with him from Angus came. The Town of Elliot was their Antiquitie, Which stands in Angus on the foot of Glenshie, With brave King Robert the Bruce they hither came, Which is three hundred and eighty years agone, In west Tiviotdale these Gentlemen did dwell, They were twelve great Families, I heard my Goodsir tell; Their Chief was then a Baron of renown, Designed Reid-heugh, which is now call'd Laristoun; Stobs and Dunlibyre is of the antient kind, Cobshaw, Brugh, Prickinhaugh and Gorinberries gone, Yet there's more Elliots by other Stiles that supplies their room; Erckletoun it was long out of the Elliots name, But now it is return'd to the self same again, Elliot of Bewlies, some say, he's not a Gentleman, But I protest they do him wrong to his ninth Generation; What if a man have sons three, Procreat and born from one belly, Can one of them be a Gentleman, And another be a Pesants son, He neither descends from Kill nor Mill, He's sprung from the Laird of Horsliehill, Thereof his Grandsir was a younger brother-son, Though he was Servant to the Laird of Hardin, Hardin the foresaid William did so much esteem, That he in Marriage his Natural-daughter did gain, And betwixt them two was procreat I must reveal, That Robert Elliot that lived in Borthwick-sheil, And Robert Elliot married a gentle Dame, Hately from the Family of Mellarstain,

Betwixt them two was procreat sure, Good Thomas Elliot in Borthwick-sheils, That much reliev'd the Poor, And Thomas Elliot married then, The daughter of the Laird Chamberlain Newton, And procreat betwixt them be, William Elliot of Bewlie; William Elliot of Bewlie, ye understand the man, He's married with the sister of Scot of Sinton, Who him callumniats with a mis-report, I'le say he is a Liar in his Throat; For Romulus that builded Rome, Was nurs'd upon a Bear, yet was a Princes son; The Father of the Faithful, Abram, Abel, and Lot, Were Shepherds in their time, yet Types and Patriarchs, The Schythian Shepherd a Conqueror compleat, Tammerlane the great, yet he attended Sheep; He is but mala fama whatever be his Coyn, That says that Bewlie is not a Gentleman: Walter of Erckleton these mis-reports may clear, For he was called nothing but Shepherd fourty year, And yet he is the just and very man, Whose Goodsir and Grandsir was Lairds of Erckleton; Even though Horsliehill were to sell at this time, And William Elliot were he that should it gain, It were but a Suspension he had underline, Being truely descended from that self same kind, And though that his Grandsir was a Servant-man, For the want of Means to the Laird of Hardin, And he by his Service and good Husbandry, Had purchased Means might set Horsliehill free; But being not to sell he purchas'd other Lands,

Doth that make out that he's not a Gentleman, The Elliots of the Yare they are of that same kind, And the Elliots of Selkirk they are of the same, If Iames Elliot late of Bridgeheugh be a Gentleman, Then William Elliot of Bewlie must needs be one; For their Grandsirs were two Brother-sons, Though in Occupation there was difference, The one a Magistrat in Selkirk Town, The other kept the Sheep upon the Doun; The one did live by Polling of the Poor, Being Magistrat was counted great Honour; The other was a Shepherds Swain, and reliev'd the Poor that came, VVith Bed and Board, though but a Servant-man, Sixty years ago I have both heard and seen, And knew that Robert Elliot was the Laird of Hardins man, Yet he was the Poors reliefs, For he fed and clad them both with Flesh and Fleece, But for the Magistrat few Poor he did relieve, He was still ready to take, but never to give: Sir Baillie, if't please your Worship, Was the word of every one, The other was Will or Hab, Yet both from Brethren came, Their foresaid Marriages they are set down by me, To be a truth I will affirm, and that they are no ly; I have both eat and drunk, and merry with them been, All of them except the first William, Which my Father knew, and that very well, To be of the Family of these of Horsliehill, And since Horsliehill was thy Fore-fathers stile, Bewlie it hath been the same for a pretty while;

And I still do wish that Stile do remain, With thee and with thine, till the period of time: Yet pardon my Lines, though they be out of frame, For I could never any write but the Letters of my Name, And although that they be not pleasant to the view, Yet they are both honest, modest, chaste and true; And though Iason fetch'd his Golden Fleece from Greece, Thy Fleece in Scotland it is many Poors relief.

Dedicated to the very honourable, and much respected generous Gentle∣man, the Laird of Lariston.

COuld my unpractis'd Pen advance thy Name, Thou should be mounted on the Wings of Fame, Thy Ancestors they were of good renown, They being all the Lairds of Lariston, Into thy hands I do commit the sum Of Walter Elliot of Erckleton, By Maxwels rage out of their hands it got, And was possess'd by Cunninghame and Scot, Now Providence has brought it back again, To the Lineal heir of Elliots kind, For Walter Elliot he was Adams son, And Adams Goodsir was Laird of Erckleton, Though they were suspended for an Age or twain, The Lands return'd to Elliot of Muckildine, He is the Laird of Erckletons Brother, And Ianet Scot she is Muckildines Mother, A worthy Wife she of long time hath been, And hath fill'd many poor and hungry Womb, She is my Friend, therefore I do her ken, She's daughter to Iohn Scot call'd of Rennalburn, An honest Gentleman, he was known well enough,

In Esdail-muir he was Baillie to Buckcleugh, Who was son to Iohn Scot an able Lad, Who then was called Iocky ill to had, His Father also he was called Iohn, He was Natural-son to Scot of Thirlston, He was Natural-brother in the while To Thirlston, Newburgh and Bowhill, Gilmanscleugh, Hundelshope, and Kirkhope, Were all Brethren to the said Iohn Scot; These seven Brethren were stout valiant men, They would not been afraid for other ten, No more of Muckildine since Adam is deceast, Who left them store like Iasons Golden Fleece.

Dedicated to the very Worthy and Valorous Gentleman, William Elliot of Dunlibire, Esquire.

I Humbly now according to my Dream, Present to you the young Laird of Erckleton, From's Goodsir and Grandsir that Land was reft and riven, Before they purchas'd Coyn to buy it back again, And now 'tis their own, I wish they may't enjoy, From Envys canker, better than Helen did Troy; That Trojan and that Greek that fought in Sama sand, Achilles gain'd the day, and did Hector command; Troys fruitful Queen did many Children bear, So brave, heroick, and so stout a Crew, Who all in noble Actions did accrue, When Age had made their Parents bald and bare, They made their dauntless Courage to appear, Amidst the throngs of Danger and Debate, But Blood on Blood their Fury could not fate: In former times the South may understand,

Many Gallants losed all their Land, Through Blood and want of Government, Which to this time Successors may repent; They were not like these Arcadians in Greece, That rejoyc'd in Iasons Golden Fleece.

Dedicated to that Worthy and Generous Gentleman, Robert Elliot Laird of Midliemill.

SIr, in my Sleep I was much troubled, And dream'd of Henry Elliot of Harewood, Mongst many more that I thought I saw, And knowing he was your Father in Law, Therefore my weak Iudgment thought it fit, Those Lines to you that I should dedicat; Knowing him to be a worthy man, And much honour'd by your Generation; Though all in one ye now joined be, Yet ye're a Peer grew higher on the Tree; For I believe there is so much odds, Few Elliots compar'd with the House of Stobs; For Heav'ns high-hand where he doth please to bless, Makes Trees, or Men, fruitful, or fruitless; In sundrie uses Trees do serve mens turn, To build, adorn, to feed, or else to burn; This is mens State in all degrees like theirs, Some are got to the top of Honours Stairs. Securely sleeping on Opinions Pillow, Yet is as fruitless as the fruitless Willow, And fill up room, like worthless Trees in Woods, Whose goodness consists all in ill got Goods, He like a Cedar makes a goodlie show, But now good Fruit will from his greatness grow,

Until he die, and from his Goods depart, And then gives all away in the spight of his Heart, Then shall his Friends with Mourning-cloaths be clad, The in-side merry, and the out-side sad; He thinks his life Angelical, because Among the Angels he his time doth pass; And with his Nobles he ordaineth Laws, That base Extortion shall not be a Crime, He marks how Kingdoms, Provinces and Towns, Are over-ruled by his cursed Crowns, But if he note his Angels what to be, Not heavenlie, nor these from Heaven that sell, But they are in a third and worse degree, Damn'd sensless Monsters, even that are of Hell, They cannot hear, feel, taste, hear, nor smell, A thousand times being told yet cannot tell, They're lock'd and barr'd and bolted up in thrall, Which shews their nature not Angelical, Thy industrious Loyalty doth daily tell, Thou aims at Honour, and thou levels well, And with your trusty Service shot compleat, That in the end ye sure will hit the VVhyte; Thus thy Industries doth let the VVorld ken, That Iasons Golden Fleece with thee shall still remain.

Dedicated to that worthy and well approved Gentleman Iohn Elliot, Brother to Sir VVilliam Elliot of Stobs.

GOod Sir, If Fortune frown or smile, thou art content, Thou bears a Heart that is still ready bent, God is thy Captain, thy Defence and Hold, Through Faith in Him thou art still armed bold, To thank Iohn Elliot I humbly thee desire,

He dwells in Unthank, he's Brother to Dunlibire, When kind-kissing Phoebus was gone to her rest, In a Winters-night in a most furious blast, I driving Beasts because I wanted Fodder, I did assault his House into tempestuous Weather, For god AEolus biew, and Boreas did assist, And Neptunes wat'ry Planets he brake in betwixt, The Snow being deep, the Weather tempestuous ill, I was five days in driving twenty Mile; In great distress into his House I came, He with his Wife made me kindly welcome, With Bed and Board, good Brandie and good Ale, Which might have serv'd the best in Tiviotdale. I wish Iohn Elliot never want such Fleeces Which yearly may bring in ten thousand golden pieces.

Dedicated to that much renowned generous Gentleman, William Elliot Uncle to Sir VVilliam Elliot of Stobs.

MOst worthy Sir, I hope I do no wrong, In dedicating to you one of my Shepherds Swains; Take not a Shepherd Swain to be a vulgar name, For Kings and Emperors have gloried in the same, Therefore no Shepherd Swain my Muse will e're deride, And far less VVilliam Elliot the good Laird of Swoonside, Since thou art a worthy and a lovely one, Not like Envy, all consum'd to Skin and Bone. Sir, I do declare what Labour thou hast spent, VVas neither to Honour nor Vertues detriment; And thrice worthy Sir, thy Vertues do proclaim, How Honours noble mark it is still thy aim, And when thou the head-strong Taurus soon forsakes, And to his summering Progress thou haste makes,

Then shall the Earths celestial light afford, And in sad darkness clad the ample Glob; Since I was born, when Wit was out of Town, That's the reason that I have so little of my own; Pardon me, I cannot writ, and very litle read, Or else in thy worthy praise, I further would proceed; As for Swoonside, I wish his Golden-fleece, May shine as bright, as Iasons did in Greece.

Dedicated to that vertuous and well approven Gentleman, Master Gavin Elliot, Uncle to Sir William Elliot of Stobs.

MOst worthy Sir, according to my Dream, I speak of Shepherds, and of Shepherds Swain; Into your gentle hands, Sir, I do commit, Iohn Elliot the Laird of Thorilshope, And Sir, I do hope that ye'l not dissallow, That I have been so bold to dedicat him to you, For a man must more than humane wit possess, To escape the Baits and Snares of wickedness, The Artist of the Scripture can dispute the same, That one would deem him a Religious Man; Since that God gave Life to Herbs, and Plants, and Trees, A beast hath Sense, and Life, Moves, Feels and Sees, For if they wanted Life, how could they then grow, And in some sort, do both good and evil know; But man he is before all Creatnres in degrees, God, Life, Sense, and Reason, He unto him gives; And least that these blessings should be transitory; He gave him Life and Sense, Reason, Grace and Glory; So I hope Thorlishope shall keep his Golden-fleece, As glorious as Iason did his in Greece.

Dedicated to that worthy and compleat Gentleman, Robert Elliot appearant of Dunlibire.

MOst worthy Sir, I do upon the wings of Fame, Dedicat to you one of your worthy Name, Iohn Elliot he who's called a valiant Lad, He's Brother to Henry Elliot of Hare-wood; It was into my dream he did appear to me, For I into the Ale-house did him never see, In Iasons Golden Fleece it's said he doth abound, And now he is of late a Person much renown'd, Therefore I him consecrat to thee, And with happiness to you, and your Posterity, Wishing to him when he his Sheep doth shear, They may improve their Fleece four times a year, For that man that hath store of Wool, and woolly Fleeces, May when he please, have store of Gold, and Golden Pieces.

Dedicated to the valorous and compleat young Gentleman, Robert Elliot appearant of Lariston.

SIr, these Lynes unto your hands I send, Wishing your Worship will but them commend, And begs that you'l not be a gast, For nominating, some first that should be last; Therefore, good Sir, I hope ye will pardon give, And oblidge your humble Servant while he lives; This I lay open to your Worships view, And Simon Elliot of Tarras, I dedicat to you, For Summer-fruit it is pleasant to eat, But Winter fruit it will a long time keep; Although the Hills of Tarras they be black, Yet in his Golden-fleece there is no lack,

Black moisty Fleeces when they are well scour'd, Unto the owners yeeld good, clear, and currant gold; Pure Spanisb gold it's very fine, But of Wool our Merchants makes more gain, Through Christendom your Woolly Fleeces, Are still compar'd to golden pieces, So he that is a Shepherd Swain, Can be no less than a Gentleman: Monarchs and Kings, Royal Majesty, Were Shepherds Swains in Arcadie.

Dedicated to the young and very hopeful Gentleman, Gilbert Elliot, son to Sir William Elliot of Stobs, Knight-Barronet.

IF Homers Verse in Greek did merit praise, If Nason in the Latin tongue wan Bayes, If Maro 'mongst the Romans did excel, If Tasso in the Tuscian tongue spoke well: Sweet Sir, pardon him that's so much unperfect, In Scots can scarely read, and never yet could write; If my poor shallow brain could but advance your Name, Ye should be mounted high upon the wings of Fame; And if that my poor thoughts had strength to enterprize, I would advance your Name as far as Titans rise, And that Shepherd Swain that I do simulize, Is Robert Elliot that dwells in the Dewslies: Be not offended at the name of Shepherd Swain, For formerly that name was Noble-men; And as Iason setcht his Golden Fleece from Greece, I wish that Robert Elliot his Fleeces may increase.

Dedicated to the very Honourable, and right Worshipful generous Gentleman, Iohn Hoppringil, Laird of Torsonce.

IF the value of Offerings were alwayes to be equall to the Grandure of the Persons, to whom they are presented, I should not dar to make this bold address; but the greatness of my de∣votion, that hath no other way to manifest it self at present, will I hope, make a mends for the means of this, and perswade your Worship to condescend to the acceptance of this poor expression of my respects; if these Treaslises may be so happy, as to give un∣to your Worship, some satisfaction, and recreation in the pe∣rusall of them, I shall attain unto the advantage, which is chiefly aimed at by this Dedication,

Your Worships most obedient, most humble and faithful Servant, Walter Scot.

MOst worthy Sir, ye know this well by me, That the love of Brandie made my self merrie, For when the High-born Bastard of the thundring Iove, When Mens inventions are of Wit most hollow, He with his sprightful Iuice their spirits doth move, To the harmonious Musick of Apollo, And in a word, I would have all men know it, He must drink Brandy that means to be a Poet; I understand, or know no forraign Tongue, But their translations I do much admire, Much Art, much Pains, much Study it doth require, And at the least regard should be their hyre; When Adam was in Paradice first placed, And with the rule of mortal things was graced, Then Roses, Pinks, and fragrant Gilly-slowers, Adorn'd and deckt forth Edens blessed bowers;

Love is a dying life, and living death; A vapour shaddow, a Bubble, and a Breah, An idle Bable, and a poultry Toy, Whose greatest Patron is a blinded Boy; But pardon Love, my judgement is unjust, For what I speak of Love, I mean'd of Lust, Bess she dislikes the Surplice and the Cap, And calls them idle Vestments of the Pope; And Mistris Maud would go to Church right fain, But that the corner Cap makes her refrain; And Madam Idle is offended deep, The Preacher speaks so loud, she cannot sleep; Lo thus the Devil sowes contentions Seed, Whence Sects, and Schisms, and Heresies do breed; Since Providence has given you Wit in store, Live as your worthy Fathers did live you before. By night I in a vision did Dream, That four and twenty Shepherds I had seen, Whereof Iohn Andison was one; A Shepherd Swain that dwells in Thirleston, A civil Person, and one that is true, And therefore I dedicat him to you, I hope the Name of Shepherd ye'l not despise it, Since Kings and Princes hath it enterprized, Besides the learned Poets of all times, Have chantited out their praises in pleasant Rymes, The harmless lives of rural Shepherd Swains, And beauteous Shepherdesses on the plains, They have recorded most delightfully, Their Love, their Fortune, and Felicity; And sure if in this low terrestrial round, Plain honest happiness is to be found,

It with the Shepherd is remaining still, Because they have least power to do ill; And whilst they on the feeding flocks attend, They have the least occasion to offend; I wish God bless the Shepherds and their Fleeces, And then I hope they'l ne're want Golden Pieces.

Dedicated to the very Honourable, and right Worshipful generous Gentleman, Iohn Riddel of Haining, Sherif-principal of the Sherifdom of Selkirk, and Provost of that Burgh-Royall.

I Humbly wish peace, truth, and constancy, Remain with you and your worthy Family, That Sailer gains renown that well does know, To gain his point either at ebb or flow, When Boreas dust doeth drive thee from the Land, Then AEolus blasts puts thee in Neptuns hand; To wonder and admire is all one thing, As Synonymies the word betake, But if a double meaning from them come, For double sense your judgement then must look, As once a man all soul'd with dirt and myre, Fell down and wondred not, but did admire; To you whose ears, and eyes have heard and seen, This litle Pamphlet, and can judge between, That which is good, tolerable, or ill, May be with Artless nature wanting skill: Have I writ ought that may your hearts content, My Muse hath then accomplisht her intent, Your favour can preserve me, but your frown, My poor inventions in oblivion drown, With tolerable friendship let me crave, You will not seek to spill what you may save.

The Asp that quakes with sun, He doth me much deride, The Webster and the Smith, They shake their brainless head, And sayes my Education, or my State, Doth make my Verse esteem'd at lower rate; To such as those this answer I do send, And bid them mend before they discommend, Their Envy unto me will Favours prove, The hatred of fools breeds wise mens Love; My Muse is Iocund, that her Labours merits, To be malign'd and scorn'd by envyous carriage; This humbly I beg pardon of the best, Which being granted, Sir, a reverence for the rest, Why should they vex in their malicious brain, For I have done no wrong to you n or them, A greedy wretch did on the Scripture look, Found it recorded in the Sacred Book, How such a man with God should sure prevail, Who clad the naked, and visited them in Ioal, And their he found how he had long mistaked, And oftentimes had made the cloathed naked, In stead of visiting the opprest in moans, He had consum'd them to the very bones; Yet one day he at leasure would repent, But sudden death repentance did prevent; Then he was dead, and laid into his Tomb, In hopes repentance from Purgatory come, There lay the Stuart of the valiant ten, Who, whilst on life his beloved life remain'd, Apollos Daughter, and the Heirs of Iove, The memorable bounty did approve;

His life was life to Statius, and his death, Bereaved the Muses of Celestial Breath, Had Phoebus fir'd him from the lofty skies, That Phenix-like another might arise, From out of his odoriferous sacred Embers, His loved life the Country still remembers, Amongst a million there is hardly any, That like your self, so well can govern many. Now I think well I will reveal, My Dream I must proclaim, And dedicat unto your hands, my honest Shepherds Swain, That mirrily upon the plain doth sing with joking lees, His Shepherdess she does not miss, to crown his head with bayes, Love, Bounty, Valour, Charity with Shepherds did remain, It's Kings and Emperors liberty to be a Shepherds Swain, In Meadows green where flowers do spring There they do feed their flocks, Sometimes on Mountains and on Hills, Sometimes amongst the Rocks, Their worthy generosity to Love is a strong fort, With triumph doth that trumpet sound, At the Shepherd Swains port, The best of men are Shepherd Swains, As I before design'd, The Eastern-coasts did brag and boast, Of their brave Shepherds Swain; George Currors then a Shepherd Swain, That gains both Corn and Store, And doth afford both Bed and Board, And much relieves the poor; In Hart-wood-myres his Barns and Byres, And Shepherds do remain,

His Flocks proceed, and sweetly seed Upon the morning due; And when bright Phoebus takes her Coatch, They are in Hainings view, Of that Shepherds truth I cannot dyte enough, But now I'm run ashore; For Shepherds Swains, their Ewes and Lambs, I have spoken much before, Though Iason fetcht his Fleece from Greece, And was call'd the Golden Swain, George Curror that dwells in Hart-wood-myres, For Wool more guilt doth gain.

Dedicated to the learned and well approved generous Gentleman, Andrew Plummer Laird of Midlestead.

Most worthy Sir, Sedition and a Common-wealth was intimated by two Lobsters, fighting one with another, the Land-Lobster is a great enemy to the Serpents and Snakes, therefore the Egyptian Priests did put it to signisie a temperat man, who suppresseth his Lusts and wicked Affections, that are the most dangerous Serpents unto his soul.

THis Pamphlet I send to your view, Is to let your Worship ken, It's known to be the first Issue Of my dull idle Brain, It's known as yet, I could ne're write, My reading is but small, For refuge, I flee to your hands, In hopes you'l warrand all; Shepherds I thought were three times eight, Appear'd into my Dream, Wherefore one to you I dedicat,

A civil honest Man, He in Analshope doth dwell, His Mame's Michael Andison; That Shepherd Swain will no man wrong, In Religion he is strong, The foulest Feinds assume the fairest Forms, The fairest Fields doth feed the foulest Toad, The Sea at Calmest most subject is to Storms, In choicest Fruit the Canker makes abode; So in the Shop of all believing trust, Lyes Toads invenom'd treason couched fast, Till like a Storm his toothless thoughts out-burst, Who Canker-like had lyen in trusts repose; For as the fire within the flint's confin'd, In deepest Ocean still unquencht remains, Even so the false, through truest seeming mind, Despight of truth the Treason still retains, Yet maugure Treason, Trust deserveth trust, And Trust survives when Treason dies accurst, Since Michael Andison hath great store of Wool'n-fleece, I wish they more abound than Iasons did in Greece.

Dedicated to that worthy valiant and generous Gentleman, Iames Gladstains of that ilk, Laird of Cocklaw.

MOst worthy Sir, I send into your view, This litle Pamphlet, most of it is true, According to my Dream, I yet commend, I know no foolish man can you offend, Of four and twenty Shepherds I did Dream, Whereof Iames Grieve in Common-side was one, An honest Man you know it sure, And one that doth relieve the Poor,

Your Generous Noble Sp'rit, as I do understand, Emboldens me to dedicat him to your hand, He that may hunt in every inclosed Ground, A Park of's own he needeth not to found, The stately Staig, when he his horns hath shed, In sullen sadness he deplores his loss; But when a Wife cornuts her Husbands Head, His gains in horns he holds an extream cross, The Staig of lossing doth his loss complain, The man by gaining doth lament his gain, Thus whether horns he either loss or found, They both the Loser and the Winner wound; Hunting is pleasant, but yet wearisome, To him that can no Venison obtain, Thou worthy Swain chuse in Dianas stream, Amongst the Sisters nine, and pick out one of them, Wit, Courage, Valour, Stature, and State Remain with thee, don't fear a horned Pate, Now good Iames Grieve, I wish thy Flocks increase, That thou may chant and sing, and still keep Iasons fleece.

Dedicated to the very worthy and much respected generous Gentle∣man, Robert Langlands of that Ilk.

WHen fond imaginary Dreams do ring, In formless forms in mens molested brain, On such a time, I sleeping in my bed, An unaccustom'd Dream came in my head, I thought four and twenty to me came, All Gentlemen, and Shepherds Swain, Whereof Iames Grieve Lenup he was one, Which I have dedicated unto your Worships hand, You know him well to be an honest man,

And is a just and harmless Shepherd Swain, His Fleece doth clothe the naked, that there's non deny, His Food relieves the needy, as they pass him by; The Orphan, Widow, and the indigent, For Bed and Board from him have supplement, These Shepherd Swains, as I do understand, Relieves more poor, nor all the Lairds of the Land, Their Butter, Cheese, their Milk, their Whey, Their Flesh and Wool they part continually, That I dar say, were there not such men, Five thousand in the year would starve and pine; God bless their Substance, that helps the poor folks Messes, And send them store of Wool to bring them Golden Pieces.

Dedicated to the worthy and much respected Gentleman, Francis Gladstains of Whitlaw.

MOst worthy Sir, do not disdain, That I my Dream so oft explain; Unto your hands I do it commit, The Issue of Barren Wit, A great deall more from me might appear, Within this seventy and two year, But what is past, I cannot now recall, I hope ye'l think this makes amends for all, I never was at Shool, I cannot write, Pardon my Lines though they be unperfyte, The best of Gallants indeed may controul, A wise man will ever countenance a fool, Although in wrong he will not bear him up, Yet he will laugh at his foolish sate; The four and twenty of my Dream, William Grieve of Common-side was one,

Which I have dedicat to you, He is an honest man and true; A worthy Shepherds Swain, who lives upon his Store, And relieves the Poor and Needy, as I have said before. I wish his Golden-fleece with him may still remain, While I fetch Iasons Fleece from Greece into Scotland.

Dedicated to the generous, and much respocted Gentleman, Walter Scot of Burn-foot.

MOst worthy Sir, according to my Dream, Into this Pamphlet remains to be seen, I hope your goodness will allow, That I dedicat Walter Grieve to you, He is a true and honest man, He's both your Neighbour, and Shepherds Swain, One dedication might have serv'd for all, VVhat I have said before, to mention it again, It is a needless labour, and puts the writer to more pain; I wish ye miekle joy of all your Golden Pieces, And like to Walter Grieve with increase of his Fleeces.

Dedicated to his worthy, and well respected good friend, Francis Scot, Brother-german to the Laird of Burn-foot in Ail.

SIr, this Pamphlet to your hands I send, In hopes that ye will it commend, For Pens ye know I can use none, I can hardly read the Catechism, Yet four and twenty Shepherds, I saw into my Dream, Whereof good Thomas Anderson, In Howfoord he was one,

Seing ye are a Gentleman, and my Friend, I have dedicate him into your hand: VVhen Iupiter the son of Saturn Had put his Father to the flight, The Empire of the World he did divide then, Betwixt himself and his Brother Neptune, Neptune set Pluto for to dwell in Hell, Amongst the Priests where still they do rebell; The sacred Records they do demonstrate, The Idols which the Israelites did prostrate, So do we find into the present time, That there are Priests of every kind, Kings, Prophets, Priests, by all were Shepherds Swains, And did attend all kind of Sheep, Both Weathers, Ewes and Lambs, For Thomas Anderson I wish his Flocks may still abound, If Iason lost his Golden Fleece, I'm sure he has it found.

Dedicated to the worshipsul and very much respected and generous Gentleman, Henry Forrester of Stonegirthside, in the Kingdom of England, Iustice of Peace and Coram in the said Kingdom, in the Reign of King Charles the Second.

COme, Pamphlet, take thy VVings, flee from my hand, Arrive in England, in the County of Cumberland, There stands a House, and that a worthy one, By Kersup-foot in the Eye of the Sun; A stately Building, all of plain hew'n Stone, All built within this year or twain, All Cumberland except Castle and Abbay, Such another House in prospect you'll not see; Unto that English Squire I do dedicat, Honest Iohn Robertson, he was born in the Flat,

His Father was an English man, Francis Robson kept good order, There was no English compar'd with him, Seven Mile within the Border, Iustice Forrester an English Squire, And Iohn Robson a Scot, Yet it is scarce a Mile betwixt, VVhere they were born and got, It's true Iohn Robson is A Comrade good enough, And for House-keeping he excels, He dwels in Cauterscleugh, VVhite-Bread and Salt-Beef, Good Mutton and old Cheese, As I was riding by, He did my Hunger ease, He feasted me in May as I had been an Earl, VVith Capon and good Lamb, Brandie and good Ale, And for his Father Francis, I knew him well enough, To be a Gentleman, Store-master To VValter Earl of Buckcleugh: I wish that Iasons Fleece VVith him may still appear, And that his Flock would change, Their Coats twelve timos a year.

Dedicated to that worthy and generous Gentleman, Iohn Scot ap∣pear and of Headshaw.

I Thought four and twenty Shepherds Swain, In my Dream I did see, VVhereof I have dedicated one of them to thee; Iohn Grieve of Garwald a right honest one,

Which relieves the poor, and proves a Christian Man; And with his small substance he is well content, Though in late times he prov'd a Puritant. I wish his Fleeces be no worse, Than Iasons Fleeces was in Greece.

Dedicated to the Right Reverend, and truly Pious, and vertuous generous Gentleman, Mr. Richard Scot, Parson of Askirk.

THese Lynes, good Sir, I present to your hand, Is a Genealogy of the old Family of Sinton, Which your self doth represent, I know, Except your Nephew the Laird of Bonraw, It is four hundred Winters past in order, Since that Buckcleugh was Warden in the Border, A Son he had at that same tide, Which was so lame could neither run nor ryde, The Laird wist not what to do with him, For Border service he was sit for none, At his place cal'd Scotstoun, He did there remain, Four Ages, or he went to Mordistoun, And since he went, I can make appear, It is more nor three hundred year, Iohn his Lam'd Son, If my Author speak true, He sent him to St. Mungos in Glasgow, Where he remain'd a Scholars time, Then married a Wife according to his minde, Aud betwixt them two was procreat, Both Sons and Daughters of the Name of Scot; What time his Posterity did there remain, My Author sayes, to the third Generation,

Yet from that Stock there sprung a man, That was the Arch-bishops Chamberlain, A quick Mettel'd little Man, For which they cal'd him Wat the Ratten, This worthy Ratten did begin, When Robert cal'd Fern-year was Scotlands King. The Bishop lov'd Wat well enough, And recommended him to Buckcleugh, His Chamberlain he did continue still, And at the Burn-foot in Aill, He built both Kill and Mill, Then down the Water he sought with speed, And married Head-shaws Daughter, Her Name was ShortReid, And betwixt them two was procreat, Head-shaw, Askirk, Sinton, and Glack, George was the first did Sintons sweet Knows Flock, He married Turnbuls daughter, The Knight of Falshope, Walter his Son was cal'd a pretty man, He married with Scot the Laird of Hassindean, Iohn, Walters Son, I have heard relation, Married the Laird of Riddels Daughter, And died without Succession; Walter succeeded his Brother Iohn, And married a Daughter of the Laird Iohnston, Then George he was Walter's Son, He married Scot daughter to the Laird of Roberton, This George was the very Man, That was Father to Sinton, White-slade and Hardin. For Walter he was George's Son, The elder brother of William of Hardin,

This Walter Scot ye's understand, He married Cockburn a Daughter of Henderland, And betwixt them they got one only Son, The Lady died when she was young, Their Son Walter did to Riddel ride, And took the Lairds Daughter to his Bride, His Father Walter was not an old man, He married another Daughter of Riddels then, And left Sinton unto his Son, And then in White-slade he sat down, Betwixt him and Margaret Riddel was procreat, Twelve Bairns that was all married, Robert of Whit-slade was their first Son, And William of Huntly was his Brother-German, Iames of Satchels he was niest, And Thomas of Whithaugh-bray made up the messe. The eight daughters, I'le let you ken, The eldest was the Lady Black-Ormston, So was the Lady Langlands, and the Lady Tost turnbul, The Lady Ailmor she was nixt, And the good wife of the Fanash, And the Lady Chapel Middelmiss, The youngest I have almost forgot, She was first married to Philip of Kirk-up, He was a Brother to Robert of Thirleston, Then she was married to Walter Scot of the Wall, But to neither of them she bore Children, Then Alexander Chisholm of Park-hill did her gain, And to him she bore twelve or thirteen bairns.

Now my wearied Muse, thou hast been long astray, These are the first Whitslades Posterity; Now to George Howcoat I must return,

He was young Walter of Sintons Son, A brave House-keeper, a worthy Man, He married Adimston daughter to the Laird of Ednem, Then Walter Scot was George Howcoats son, He married Dowglas a daughter of Whittinghame, And George his Son a hopeful Lad, He married Gladstains daughter to the Laird of Dode, There was procreat betwixt these two, Good Mr. George Scot, the Laird of Bon-raw, George of Bon-raw married was, To Dowglas a Brother daughter of Cavers, And there is procreat betwixt them twa, This present young Laird of Bon-raw. Most reverend Sir, I hope you'l pardon me, For waiding so deep in your Genealogie: If any man think he can amend it, Poor Wattie Scot shall never be offended.

MY Noble Friends, at you I aim, And of my self I do complain, To all bad vices I've been bent, And yet there's small amendement; The Devil, the Flesh, the World doth me oppose, And are my mighty and my mortal foes, The Devil and Flesh do draw me still, The World on wheels run after with good will, For that which I the World may justly call, I mean the lower Glob Terrestrial, Is as the Devil, and an VVhore doth please, Drawn here and there, and every where with ease; These that there lives to vertue here do frame: Are in the World, but yet not of the same;

Some such there are, who neither Flesh nor Devil, Can willfully draw on to any evil, But for the World, as it's the World you see, It runs on wheels, and they the Palfrey be, Which Emblem to the Reader doth display, The Devil, the Flesh do run doth swist away, The shrewd insnared World do follow fast, Till all into Perditions Pit be cast: Let no man be offended, or think I do him wrong, In comparing of the Gentry unto a Shepherd Swain, Many Ages past a Shepherd was of such dignity, That Gentry he surpast and best Nobility; Cain and Abel brethren were in the first Age of Man, The elder was a Husbander, the younger a Shepherd Swain, The younger offer'd Sacrifice to please the High Majesty, The elder was a Murderer, given to all Villany, Some Shepherds past were Kings at last, So were never Husbandmen; Generals, Conquerors and Emperors, They have been Shepherds Swains: The renown of a Shepherd Swain, Doth reach unto the Sky, The Charles-Wain signifies the same To the Mariners on the Sea; When you have read and understood my Mind, I hope your wonted favours I shall find; In spight of railing baseness whose lewd Tongues Are Satans Instruments for slandrous Wrongs, A thousand Rim of Paper it would not contain, To justifie the worthy Shepherd Swain. Much hath the Church our Mother propagated, By venerable Fathers Works translated.

St. Ierom, Gregory, Ambrose, Agustine, St. Basil, Beries, Cyprian, Constantine, Eusebius, Epiphanius and Origen, Ignatius and Lactantius (reverend men) Good Luther, Calvin, learned Zwinglius, Melancton, Beza, Orcalampadus; These and a world more that I can recite; Their Labours would have slept in endless night, But that in Paper they preserv'd have been, And instruct us to shun Death, Hell and Sin. How should we know the change of Monarchies, The Assyrian and the Persian Empyres, Great Alexanders long small lasting glory, Or Romes high Cesar often changing Story. How should Chronologies of Kings be known Of either othersCountrys or our own: Shepherds have been Priests, and Shepherds have been Kings, And Shepherds have been Emperors, as my Muse fings, Which makes me to compare The worthy Name of Scot, To Shepherds and to Shepherds Swain, For they Flocks and Lands have got, I would have none think these I call Shepherd Swain, Is all the Name of Scot, and that there's none but them, There's fourty eight that I have set apart, All Landed Gentlemen that live upon their Rent; And for the Shepherds Swains, I have dedicate them, Each one to a Gentleman of that same Name, All Landed Gentlemen that are Infeft and Siez'd, In sive Month in the year they pay the King his Fee, All besides Burgers in City and in Town, That number Heretors of respect and renown:

And for the fourty eight that live upon their Rent, Unto the Reader I'm minded to relate, Because I have not nominate them in fore-time, I here rehearse them in my following Rime.

Sir Francis Scot of Mengertoun he hath a good Estate, Although he be but young in years, he is Knight-Baronet, And Iohn Scot of Sinton he is a pretty man, He outstrips in Wisdom any man I ken, Headshaw and Burnfoot into the Water of Ale, They are both Gentlemen, they dwell in Tiviotdale, Chappel's a Gentleman, Lochthirlston's another, And Gladswood he's the same old Gallowsheils's Brother, The Laird of Langshaw him I have no mind to flee, He is a Gentleman, and is of Kin to me, The Laird of Lochquharret he lives in good report, So likewise doth the Laird of good Hundelshope, The Laird of Langhope is a very young man, But the Laird of Broad-meadows is both great and strong, Into Annandale three Lairds of Scots there be, Heuk, Bagra, and the Laird of Gillisbie, In Esdail-muir there does two Lairds remain, The Laird of Iohnstoun and Laird of Devingtoun, I'm now for Tiviotdale, if the fates do please, And not miss the Laird of the Mirrinies, And the Laird of Harwood is a pretty man, As is any in the South of them that I do ken, The Laird of Glack he may not be omitted, He sold the Lands of Gaudilands long ere he got it, The Laird of Alton-crafts I know him well enough, The last lineal male-branch that's sprung of Buckcleugh, The Laird of Whitoch I do him well know, He is representative of the old Family of Headshaw.

The Laird of Caudhouse he is but a brood, He is representative to the old House of Howfoord, Three Lairds all Scots I must exprime, Tandlaw, Gallalaw, and Clarilaw's their name, The Laird of Bonraw, a very young man, The representative of the old Family of Sinton, The Laird of Newton he is a Gentleman of note, So is the Laird of Alton on Tiviots Burnfoot, The Laird of Brierie-yard I cannot him refer, Nor yet the Laird of Winns, nor Laird of Boonchaster, Scots-Zarbet and Ardross they are Lairds in the North, But sprung from the loins of Haining in the South; Bevely and Hallyards I had almost forgot, They descended from Lawrence Scot Advocat, The Laird of Carnwathmill he is a Gentleman, And the representative of the old House of Bonnitoun, There's another Bonnitoun into West-Lothian, But I believe he be of Clarkintons kind, The Laird of Deans-houses he is a Gentleman, Descended from the House of Gaudilands, The Laird of Chappel-know I need him not explain, Through Tiviotdale h'es known a Gentleman, The Laird of Lies if that ye wou'd him knaw, He is brother to the Laird of Clarilaw, The Laird of Clarklands is a Gentleman indeed, From his youth he has been a Souldier bred, Iohn Scot a Quarter-master sometime in command, He married the Heretrix of Clarklands, Betwixt them two was procreat, That French Scots Souldier, call'd William Scot: The Laird of Lethen, and the Laird of Vogrie, From the South they have their Pedegree.

Here's an hundred and ten Heretors of Credit and Renown, All Gentlemen, besides Burgesses in Towns, And for every one of these sivescore, Of the worthy Name of Scot there's above a hundred more, Which the number of ten thousand doth exceed, In the Forrest and Tiviotdale on the South-side of Tweed, All of one Kindred into that Country-side; I mean not the spacious Nation long and wide, But from one Root these worthy Branches sprang Like Iacobs Seed, when they to Egypt came: I wish Apollo from great Etlas Mountain Assist them with his Grace to fulfil their Fountain; That Vertue, Love and Grace amongst them ever grow, And that their Fountain still may overflow. Like Trees in Wood, some great, some small, So is our Heretors, yet Gentlemen all; There's many moe that to me is not known, For never a man to me a single one has shown, If I should pick from Burgh or stot, Landed Gentlemen of the Name of Scot, Although it unto me would be a cumber, Yet I could have added fourty to the number, An hundred Heretors of one Name, The like in Scotland l've not seen. When Walter Earl of Buckcleugh he did to Holland wain, There went with him a hundred Gentlemen of that Name, For besides privat Souldiers these did gang, But Friends and Relations to attend his own person, If he had been alive in the bygone troublesome time, He might have raised a thousand, all of his own Name, And never a man been threatned by force,

But all Voluntiers for Foot and Horse; My Verse is honest, true, seemly and mild, My Muse shall wade through dirt, and not be fil'd; The Sun on loathsome Dunghill shines as well, As on fair Flowers that hath a fragrant smell; The Air, by which we live, doth every where Breathe still al ke, upon the rich and poor; The Sea bears many an old despised Ship, Yet on the Sea the best Ship doth but float: And Earth allows to call his scatter'd brood, Food, Cloathes, and Lodging either good or bad; Yet Sun, Air, Sea and Earth thinks it disgrace, For any bounty which they give the base; Even so my Muse free from all foul Intents, Doth take example from the Elements; Yet will I not my Sense nor Meaning mar, With Terms obscure, nor Phrases fetch'd from far, Or will I any way equivocat, With Words sophistical or intricat; Small Eloquence men must expect from me, My Schollarship will name things as they be; I may set out this little Book indeed, Yet cannot Write, and little thing can Read: And now I fear I have done wrong, In calling my Friends Shepherds Swain, So many sorts of Shepherds constantly do grow, That where there is no Shepherds, it is hard to know; Cast but your Eyes upon the Man of Rome, That stiles himself the Head of Christendom, Christ's universal Vicar and Vicegerent, In whom Fools thinks the Truth is inherent, That he can Souls to Heaven or Hell prefer,

And being full of Errors cannot err, Although his Witchcraft a thousand have imbrac'd, Yet he'll be call'd the Lievtenant to Christ, Who by that false Conventicle of Trent, Made Laws that neither God, nor good Men meant, Commanding Worshipping of Stone and Stocks, Of Reliques, Dead Mens Bones, and sensless Blocks, From which Adultery, painted Adulation, Men worte than Stock or Block must seek Salvation. Great Iulius Cesar was so free and common, And call'd a Husband unto ev'ry Woman; Proculus Emperor (the Story says) Deflowr'd an hundred Maids in fifteen days: If all be true that Poets use to write, Hercules lay with fifty in one night; When Heliogabulus Romes Scepter sway'd, And all the World his lawless Laws obey'd, He in his Court caused Stews be made, Whereas (cum privilegio) Whores did Trade, He invited two and twenty of his Friends, And kindly to each one a Whore he lends; To set Whores free that then in bondage lay, A mighty mass of Money he did pay, He in one day gave to each Whore in Rome, A Ducat, a large and ill bestowed Sum; He made Orations unto Whores, and said, They were his Souldiers, his Defence and Aid; And in his Speech he shew'd his Wits acute, Of sundry forms of Bawdry to dispute, And after giving unto every Whore, For listning to his Tale three Ducats more, With Pardon unto all and Liberty,

That would be whores within his Monarchy, And yearly Pensions he freely gave, To keep a Regiment of whores most brave; And oft he had, when he in progress went, Of Whores, Bawds, Pandresses, such a Rablement, Six hundred Wagons, as Histories reports, Attended only on these brave consorts: This was a Royal Whore master indeed, A special benefactor in their need; But none since Heliogabulus deceast, I think the World with Whores is so increast, That if it had an Emperor as mad, He might have twice so many as he had. Here I leave Whores and Whore-masters, Unto the Man of Rome; And to the worthy Shepherd Swain, I presently return.

Because I know, and presently maintain, That he that laboureth to be a worthy Man, May with a better conscience sleep in Bed, Then with the Gout and Gravel as I'm speed, Yet to keep my health from falling to decay, When I am most tormented, I terrifie, A thousand times it is more pains than dead, I'm sure it by antiquity hath stood, Since the Worlds drowning universal Flood; Though my Wits be like my Purse, but bare, With Poets I dare not compare, Yet to dite Verse, provided that they be, No better skill'd in Schollar-ship than I, And then come on as many as you will, And for a wager, I'le Verse with them still;

My self I liken to an untuned Vial, For like a Vial I'm in a case, And whoso of my Fortune makes a tryal, Shall like to me be strung and tuned base; And treble troubles he shall never want: But here's the period of my mischiefs all, Though Base and Treble Fortune did me grant, And Means, but yet alas it is too scant; Yet to make up the Musick, I'le venture a fall, To the Tenor in the Carset Town-hall: A Poet rightly may be termed sit, An Abstract, or Epitome of Wit, Or like a Lute, that other pleasures breed, Are sweet and Strong their curious eyes to feed, That scornfully distaste it, yet it's known, It makes the hearers sport, but it self none: A Poet's like a Taper burnt by night, That wastes it self in giving others light, A Poet's the most fool beneath the skyes, He spends his wit in making others wise, Who, when they should their thankfulness return, They pay him with disdain, contempt and scorn, An Independant is like a Poet's Purse; For both do hate the cross, what cross is worse? His holy Hymns, and Psalms for consolation, For reprehension, and for contemplation; And sinally to show us our salvation, The Prophet Amos unto whom the Lord, Reveal'd the sacred secrets of his Word, God rais'd him from the Sheepfolds to fortel; What plagues shall fall in sinful Israel; True Patience Patern Prince of his afsliction.

Most mighty tamer of his imperfections, Whose guard was God, whose guid's the Holy Ghost, Blest in his VVealth, of whom Sheep was the most; Iu't Iob's last riches doubled was again, Who liv'd belov'd of God, admir'd of men: The first of happy tydings on the Earth, Of our all only blessed Saviour's birth; The glorious Angels to the Shepherds told, As Luke the Evangelist doth unfold, And should my Verse a little but decline, To humane Stories, and leave Divine; There are some mighty Princes I can name, VVhose breeding at the first from Shepherds came; Romes founder Romulus was bred and fed 'Mongst Shepherds, where his youthful dayes he led; The Persian Monarch Cyrus he did pass, His youth with Shepherds, and a Shepherd was, The terror of the World, that famous man, Who conquer'd Kings, and over Kingdoms ran; His stile was, as some Histories do repeat, The Schythian Shepherd, Tammerlane the Great, 'Tis such a title of preheminence, Of Reverence, and such high Magnisicence; That David who so well his words did frame, Did call our Great Creator by that Name; Our blest Redeemer, God's Eternal Son, VVhose only Merits our Salvation won, He did the harmless Name of Shepherd take. Apollo Father of the Sisters nyne, I crave thee, and inspire this Muse of mine, Thou that thy golden Glory didst lay by, As Ovid doth relate most wittily,

And in a Shepherds shape didst design to keep, Thy loves beloved Adamus Sheep, And rural Pan thy help I do intreat, That to the life thy praise I may repeat; Of the contented life, and mighty Stock; Are happy Shepherds, and their harmless Flocks; But better thoughts my errours do controul, For an offence most negligent and foul, In this involving like an heathen man; Help helpless from Apollo, or from Pan; When as the subject which I have in hand, Is almost infinit, as stars, or sand, Grac'd with antiquity upon record, In the eternal never failing Word; There 'tis ingraven, true and manifest, That Sheep and Shepherds were both best and blest, I therefore invocat his gracious aid, Of him whose mighty hand hath all things made; I Israels great Shepherd humbly crave, That his assur'd assistance I may have; That my unlearn'd Muse no Verse compile, Which may be impious, prophane or vile, And though through ignorance or negligence, My poor intention fall into offence, I do implore that boundless grace of his, Not strictly to regard what is amiss; But unto me belongeth all the blame, And all the glory be unto His Name; Yet as my Book is Verse, so men may know, I might some Fictions and Allusions show: Some shreds or remnants, reliques, or some scrapes, The Muses may inspire me with perhaps,

Which taken literally, as't lyes may seem, And so mis-understanding may misdeem. Of Sheep therefore before to work I fall, To show the Shepherds first original; These that the best records will read and mark, Shall find just Abel was a Patriarch, Our Father Adams second Son a Prince; As great as any man begotten since, And in his function he a Shepherd was, And so his mortal pilgrimage did pass; And in the Sacred Text it is compil'd, That he that's Father of the Faithful stil'd, Did as a Shepherd live upon th'increase Of Sheep, untill his dayes on earth did cease; And in these times it was apparent then, Abram and Abel both were Noble-men; The one obtain'd the title righteously, For his unfeigned serving the most High, He first did offer Sheep, which on record, Was Sacrifice accepted of the Lord; He was before the Infant World was rype, The Churches Figure, and our Saviour's Type; A murdered Martyr, who, for serving God, Did first of all feel Persecutions Rod, And Abram was in account so great, Abimelech his friendship did intreat, Faiths Patern, and obedience Sample he, Like Stars, or Sand, was in prosperity, In him the Nations of the Earth were blest, And now his Bosom figures heavenly rest; His Sheep almost past numbring multiplied, And when as he thought Isaac should have died,

Then by the Almightie's Mercies, Love and Grace, A sheep from out the Bush supplied the place; Lot was a Shepherd, Abrams Brother Son, And such great favour from his God he won; That Sodom could not be consum'd with sire, Till he and his did out of it retire; They felt no vengeance for their soul offence, Till righteous Lot was quite departed hence; And Iacob, as the Holy Ghost doth tell, Who afterward was called Israel, Who wrestled with his God, and to his Fame Obtain'd a Name, and Blessing for the same; He under Laban was a Shepherd long, And suffer'd from him much ingrateful wrong; For Rachel and Leah he did bear, The yoke of servitude full twenty year: He was a Patriarch, a Prince of might, Whose wealth in Sheep was almost infinite; His twice six Sons, as holy Writ describes, Who were the famous Fathers of twelve Tribes, Were for the most part Shepherds, and such men, Whose like the VVorld shall ne're contain again: Young Ioseph 'mongst the rest especially, A constant mirror of true chastity, Who was in his afflictions of behaviour, A mortal Type of his immortal Saviour, And truth his Mother Rachel doth express, To be her Father Labans Shepherdess. Meek Moses whom the Lord of Hosts did call, To lead his People out of AEgypts thrall, Whose power was so much as none before, Or since his time hath any mans been more,

Within the Sacred Text it plainly appears, That he was Iethroes Shepherd twenty years. Heroick David, Iesses youngest Son, Whose Acts immortal memory hath won, Whose valiant vigour did in pieces tear A furious Lyon, and a ravenous Bear, Who arm'd with faith, and fortitude alone, Slew great Goliath with a slinging stone; Whose Victories the People sang most plain, Saul hath a thousand, he ten thousand slain, He from the Sheep-fold came to be a King, Whose Fan e for ever through the VVorld shall ring, He was another Type of that most High, That was, and is, and evermore shall be, For our protection and his mercies sake, Those that will read the sacred Text, and look With diligence throughout that heavenly Book, Shall find the Ministers have Epithets, And named Angels, Stewards, VVatch-men, Lights, All Builders, Husband-men, and Stars that shine, Inflamed with the Light that is Divine, And with these Names within that Book compil'd, They with the stile of Shepherds are instil'd; Thus God the Seer and Son the Scriptures call, Both Shepherds Mystical and Literal; And by similitudes comparing, do All Kings and Church-men bear that title too. Wise and unscruteable, Omniscient, Eternal, Gracious and Omnipotent, In love, in justice, mercy, and in might, In honour, power, and glory Insinite, In works, in words, in every attribute;

Almighty, All commanding, Absolute, For whoso notes the Letters of the Name, Iehovah shall perceive within the same, The vowels of all tongues included be, So hath no name, that e're was named but He. And I have heard some Scholars make relation, That H, is but a breathing aspiration, A Letter that may be left out and spared, Whereby is clearly to our sight declared, That great Iehovah may be written true, With only vowels, a, e, i, o, u. And that there is no word but this, That hath them alone, but only this, So that the Heaven, with all the mighty host, Of Creatures there, Earth, Sea, or any Coast, Or Climat, any Fish, or Fowl, or Beast, Or any of his VVorks, the most and least, Or thoughts, or words, or writing with the pen, Or deeds that are accomplished by men; But have some of these Letters in them all, And God alone hath all in general: By which we see according to his will, He is in all things, and does all things fill; And all things said or done he hath ordain'd, Some part of his great Name's therein contain'd, All future, present, and all past things, seing, In Him we live, and move, and have our being; Almighty, All, and all in every where, Eternal, in whom change cannot appear; Immortal, who made all things mortal else, Omnipotent, whose Power all power excels, United three in one, and one in three,

Iehovah, unto whom all glory be.

Besides the learned Poets of all times, Have chanted out their Praises in pleasant Rhimes, The harmless lives of rural Shepherd Swains, And beauteous Shepherdesses on the Plains, In Odes, in Roundelays, and Madrigals, In Sonnets, and in well penn'd Post'rals, They have recorded most delightfully, Their Loves, their Fortunes and Felicity, And sure it in this low terrestrial round, Plain honest Happiness is to be found, It with the Shepherds is remaining still, Because they have least power to do ill; And whilst they on their Feeding flocks attend, They have the least occasions to offend, Ambition, Pomp, and Hell-begotten Pride, And damned Adulation they deride, The complemental-slatt'ry of Kings Courts, Is never intermix'd amids their sports, They seldom envy at each others state, Their love and fear is Gods, the Devil's their hate; In weighty Business they not mar, or make, And cursed Bribes they neither give nor take, They are not guilty as some great men are, To un lo their Merchant and Embroiderer; Nor is't a Shepherds Trade by night or day, To swear themselves, and never pay, He's no State-plotting Matchivilian, Or Project-Monger Monopolitan, He hath no Tricks or Wiles to circumvent, Nor fears he when there comes a Parliament, He never wears Cap, nor bends his Knee,

To feed Contention with an Advocats Fee, He wants the Art to Cog, Cheat, Swear and ly, Nor fears the Gallows, nor the Pillory, Nor cares he if great men be Fools or Wise, If Honour fall, and base dishonour rise; Let Fortunes mounted Minions sink or swim, He never breaks his Brains, all's one to him: He's free from fearful Curses of the Poor, And lives and dies content with less or more. He doth not waste the time as many use, His good Creators creatures to abuse, In drinking such ungodly Healths to some, The veriest Canker-worms of Christen dome; My Lord Ambition, and my Lady Pride, Shall with his quaffing not be magnified, Nor for their sikes will he carouse and feast, Until from Man he turn worst than a Beast; Whereby he 'scapes vain Oaths and Blasphemy, And Surfeits Fruits of drunken Gluttony, He 'scapes occasion unto Lusts pretonde, And so escapes the Pox by consequence; Thus doth he hate the Parator and Proctor, The Apothecary, Chirurgeon and Doctor, Whereby he this Prerogative may have, To hold while he be laid into his Grave, Whilst many that his betters far have been, Will very hardly hold the laying in: Crook, Blanket, Terkit, Tarriur-tike, call'd Crouse, Shall breed no Iars into the Parliament House. Thus Shepherds live, and thus they end their lives, Adorn'd and Grac'd with those Prerogatives, And when he dies, he leaves no wrangling Heirs,

To Law, till all be spent, and nothing theirs, Peace and Tranquillity was all his life, And dead, his Goods shall breed no cause of strife. Thus Shepherds have no Places, Means or Times, To fall into these Hell-deserving Crimes, Which Courtiers, Lawyers, Tradesmen, men of Arms Commit unto their Souls and Bodies harms.

And from the Shepherds now I turn my Stile, To' sundry sort of Sheep another while; The Lambs that in the Iews Passover died, Were Figures of the Lamb that's crucified; And Esay doth compare our heavenly Food To a Sheep, which dumb before the Shearer stood, Whose death and merits did this title win, The Lamb of God, which freed the World from sin; The Anagram of Lamb is blame and blame, And Christ the Lamb upon him took our blame, His precious Blood God's heavy Wrath did calm, 'Twas the only balme for sin to cure the same; All Power and Praise and Glory be therefore Ascribed to the Lamb for evermore: And in the fourscore Psalm we read, That like a Sheep our God doth Ioseph lead; Again of us he such account doth keep, That of his Pasture we are called Sheep, And every day we do confess almost, That we have err'd and stray'd like Sheep that's lost; Our Saviour that hath bought our Souls so dear, Hath said, his Sheep his Voice will only hear, And thrice did Christ unto St. Peter call, In which he spake to his Disciples all, If ye do love me, feed my Sheep (quoth he)

And feed my Lambs, if ye love me; Moreover, in the final Iudgment day, There is the right-hand, and the left-hand way, VVhereas the Sheep he to himself doth gather, VVith saying, come, ye blessed of my Father, &c. And to the Goats in his consuming ire, He bids depart to everlasting fire. Thus our Redeemer and his whole Elect, The name of Sheep had ever in respect, And the Comparison holds reference, To profite, and to harmless innocence, For of all Beasts that ever were or are, None can for goodness with a Sheep compare, Indeed for Bone and Burden I must grant, He's much inferiour to the Elephant, The Dromadary, Camel, Horse, and Ass, For Load Carriage doth a Sheep surpass, Strong Taurus, Eunuchs son, the labouring Ox, The stately Staig, the bobtail'd crafty Fox; These and all ravenous Beasts of Prey must yield, Unto the Sheep the honour of the Field; I could recount the names of many more, The Lyon, Unicorn, the Bear, and Boar, The VVolf, the Tyger, the Renoscerat, The Leopard, and a number more I wot; But all these greedy Beasts great Ovid's Pen, Calls metamorphos'd into Men: For Beast to Beast afford more Conscience can, And much less Cruelty than Man to Man; I'le therefore let such Beasts be as they be, For fear they kick and snarl at me. Unto the Sheep again my Muse doth flee,

For honest Safety and Commoditie, He with hsi Flesh and Fleece doth cleed and feed, All Languages and Nations, good and bad. What can it more than die, that we may live, And ev'ry year to us a Liv'ry give? 'Tis such a Bounty, and the Charge so deep, That nothing can defray the Charge but Sheep; For should the World want Sheep but five whole year, Ten thousand Millions would want Cloaths to wear: And wer't not for the Flesh of this kind Beast, The World might Fast when it doth often Feast; There's nothing doth unto a Sheep pertain, But 'tis for Mans Commodity and Gain, For Men to Men so much untrusty are, To lie, to couzin, to for swear and swear, That Oaths, and passing Words and joyning hands, Is like Assurance written in the Sands, To make Men keep their Words, and in end this The silly Sheeps-skin turn'd to Parchment is; There's many a wealthy man whose whole Estate, Lyes more in Parchment than in Coyn or Plate, Indentures, Leases, Evidences, Wills, Bonds, Contracts, Records, Obligations, Bills, With these, although the Sheep-skin be but weak, It binds men strongly that they dare not break: But if a man eats Spiders how and then, The Oyl of Parchment curcs him oft again, And what rare Stuffs which in the World are fram'd, Can be in value like to Parchment nam'd? The richest Cloath of Gold that can be sound. A Yard of it was ne're worth five hundred pound. And I have seen two Foot of Sheep 〈◊〉〈◊〉 drest,

Which hath been worth ten thousand pound at least; A piece of Parchment well with Ink laid over, Helps many Gallant to a starving power, Into the Merchant it some Faith doth strick, It gives the Silkman hope of no dislike, The Taylor it with charity assails, It thrusts him last betwixt his Bill and Vails, And by these means a piece of Parchment can, Patch up and make a Gull a Gentleman, The nature of it very strange I find, It's much like Physick, it can loose and bind, It's one mans freedom and anothers loss, And like the Pope it doth both bind and loose, And as the Ram and Ew doth fructifie, And ev'ry year a Lamb doth multiply, So doth a Sheep-skin bound make Money breed, And procreat, as Seed doth spring from Seed.

Thus is a Sheep-skin prov'd the only ty, And stay whereon a world of men rely, Which holds a crew of Earth-worms in more aw, Than both the Tables of the sacred Law: Past number I could Functions name, Who as it's Parchment live upon the same; But it's sufficient this small homely touch, Should more be writ, my Book would swell too much. Now for the Ram, the Ew, the Lamb, and Weather, I'le touch their Skins as they are touch'd to Leather, And made in Pursses, Pouches, Laces, Strings, Gloves, Points, Books, Covers, and ten thousand things; And many Tradesmen live and thrive thereby, Which if I would I more could amplify, Their Guts serve Instruments which sweetly sound,

Their dung is best to make most fruitful Ground, Their Hoofs burnt will most venomous Serpents kill, Their grated Horns are good for Poyson still, Their Milk makes Cheese that has no fellow, The best that's made in Etrick or, in Yarow, Their Feet for the Healthy or the Sick, Drest as they should be, are good Meat to pick; The Cook and Butcher with the Ioynts do gain, And poor Folks cat the Gedder, Head and Brain, And though all wise-mens Iudgments will allow, A Sheep to be much lesser than a Cow. Now for the honour of the valiant Ram, If I were learn'd more treble than I am, Yet could I not sufficiently express, His wondrous worth and excellent worthiness, For by Astronomers it is verified, How that the Ram in Heaven is styllified, And of the twelve is plac'd Head Sign of all, Where Sols keep first his Equinoctial, For having with the Bull drunk Aprils Showers, And with the Twins doth deck the Earth with Flowers, And scorch't the Crab in Iune with burning Beams, Made Iulys Lyon chaff with fiery Gleams, In August solace to the Virgin given, With Ballance in September made time even, October Scorpion with declyning course, And passing by Decembers Archers force, Then having past Novembers frozen gate, He next to Ianus watry Sign doth float, He to the Lentil Sign in February, And so bright Phoebus ends his years Figarie; Then to the Ram in March in his Carrier,

He mounts, on which this Sonnet's written here; Now chearful Sol in his illustrious Car, To glade the Earth his Iourney 'gins to take, And now his glorious Beams he doth unbar, Whiles absence marr'd, his presence now doth make, Now he Earths weeping 'gins to dry, With Eolus breath and his bright Heavenly heat, March-Dust like Clouds through Air doth march and fly, And seeming Trees, and Plants now life doth get; Thus when the Worlds Eye-dazler takes his time, At the Celestial Ram then Winter's done, And then Daine Nature doth her Livery spin, Of Flowers and Fruits, which all the Earth puts on; Thus when Apollo doth to Aries come, The Earth is freed from Winters Martyrdom. Thus have I prov'd the Ram a lucky Sign, Wherein Sun, Earth, and Heaven, and Air combine, To have their universal Comfort harl'd, Upon the time of our decaying World; With twelve Signs each mans body is govern'd, And Aries of the Ram doth rule the Head; Then are the Iudgments foolish, fond and base, That take the name of Ram-head in disgrace, 'Tis honour for the Head to have the name, Derived from the Ram that rules the same; And that the Ram doth rule the Head I know, For ev'ry Almanack the same doth show.

From whence such men may gather this relief, That though a Ram-head may be cause of grief, Yet Nature hath this remedy found out, They should have Lyons hearts to bear it out, And to defend and keep the Head from harm,

The Anagram of Ram I find is arm; Thus is a Ramhead arm'd against all fear; He needs no Helmet, nor no Head-piece wear; To speak more in the plural number Rams, It yeelds significk war like Anagrams; The Ram is Mars, Mars is the god of War; And Ram is armes, armes wars munitions are, And from the fierce encounters which they make, Our tilts and turneys did beginning take; For as the Rams retire, and meet with rage, So men do in their warlike equipage; And long ere pouder from hel's damn'd den, Was monst rously produced to murther men, The Ram, an Engine call'd a Ram did teach, To batter down a Wall, or make a Breach, And now some places of defence 'gainst shot, Have from the Ram the name of Rampiers got, First warlike Trumpets that I e're heard nam'd, At Iericho were all of Ram-horns fram'd, For at the Ram-horns Trumpets fearful blast, Their curled Walls were suddenly down cast. Thus is the Ram with many vertues stor'd, And was in AEgypt for a god ador'd; And like a Captain he the Flock doth lead, As sits their General, their Prince and Head. Thus have I prov'd a Sheep a Beast of price, Clean and reputed fit for Sacrifice; And sleeping, waking, early, or else late, It still doth chew the cud and ruminat: Of all beasts in the Worlds circumference, For meekness, prosit, and for innocence, I have approv'd a Sheep most excellent,

That with least cost doth give most content; There's such instinct of nature in the Lamb, By bleating it 'mongst thousands knows the Dame, For which the name of agnoscendo knowing, Is given to a Lamb its knowledge showing, And now from solid prose I will abstain, To pleasant Poetry, and Mirth again, The Fables of the Golden Fleece began, Because Sheep Wool yields store of gold to men; For he that hath great store of Wooly Fleeces, May when he please have store of Golden Pieces: Thus many a poor man dieing hath left a Son, That hath transform'd the Fleece to Gold like Iason. And here's a Mystery profound and deep, There's sundry sorts of Mutton are no Sheep, Lac'd Mutton which let out themselves to hyre, Like hackneys whill be sir'd before they tyre, The man or men which for such Mutton hunger, Are by their Corporations Mutton-mongers, Which is a Brother-hood too large and great, That if they had a Hall, I would entreat, To be their Clerk, or keeper of accounts, To shew them unto what their Charge amounts. My brain in numbring then would grow so quick, I should be Master of Arithmetick, All States, Degrees, and Trades, both bad and good, Afford some Members of this Brother-hood; Great therefore then must be their multitude, When every man may to the Trade intrude. It is no freedom, yet these men are free; No savers, but most liberal spenders be; For this is one thing that doth them bewitch,

That by their Trading they wax seldom rich, The value of this Mutton so set forth, The Flesh doth cost more than the Broth is worth; They all are Ews, yet are exceeding Ramish, And will be dainty fed, who ever famish, Nor are they marked for any man, or no man, As mine, or thine, but every man is common, Fine Heads, and Necks, and Breasts they yield some store, But scarcely one good Liver in ninescore; The Liver being bad, it's understood, The Veins are fil'd with putrified blood, Which makes them subject to the scab, and then They prove most dangerous dyets unto men; And then the Proverb proves no ly or mock, One scabed Sheep's enough to spoil a Flock; But yet for all this there's many a Gull, Loves Mutton well, dips not his bread i'th' wool, And were a man put to his choice to keep, 'Tis said a Shrew is better nor a Sheep; But if a man be yoked with such an Ewe, She may be both a Scabbed Sheep, and Shrew, And he that is so matcht, his life may well, Be compared unto an earthly hell; But of my Theam which I wrot of before, I at this Mutton must have one cut more; These kind of Sheep have all the World o'regrown, And seldom do wear Fleeces of their own; For they from sundry men their pellets can pull, Whereby they keep themselves as warm as wool; Besides in Colours, and in Shapes they wear, Quite from all profitable Sheep contrair; White, black, green, tawny, purple, red, and blew,

Beyond the Rain-bow, for the change of hew; Came soon like an alteration, But that bare air they cannot live upon, The Moons mutation not more manisold, Silk, Velvet, Tissue, Cloath, and Cloath of Gold. These are the Sheep that Golden-Fleeces wear, Who rob themselves with others VVool or Hair, And it may be twas such a Beast and Fleece, Which Iason brought from Colchos into Greece. Were it no more but so I dare be bold, To think the Land doth many Iasons hold, Who never durst to pass a dangerous wave, Yet may with ease such Golden Fleeces have. Too much of one thing is good for nothing, they say, I'le therefore take this needless dish away; For should I too much of Lac'd Mutton write, I may ov'rcome my readers stomach quite. Once more unto the good Sheep I'le retire, And so my Book shall to it's end expire; Although it be not found in antient writers, I find all Mutton-eaters are Sheep-biters; And in some places, I have heard and seen, That Currish Sheep-biters they have hanged been; If any kind of Tyke should snarle or whinne, Or bite or worry this poor Sheep of mine, Why? Let them bark, or bite, and spend their breath, I'le never wish them a Sheep-biters death; My Sheep should have them know their innocence, Shall live in spight of their malevolence; I wish them keep themselves, and me from pain, And bite such Sheep, as cannot bite again, For if they snap at mine, I have a tongue,

That like a trusty Dog shall bite again: And in conclusion, this I humbly crave, That every one the honesty may have, That when our frail mortality is past, We may be the good Shepherd's Sheep at last. When all things were as wrapt in sable night, And Ebeon'd darkness muffled up the night, When neither Sun, nor Moon, nor Stars had shin'd And when no sire, no water, earth nor wind, No harvest, autumn, winter, nor no spring, No bird, beast, fish, nor any creeping thing, When there was neither time, nor place, nor space, And silence did the Chaos round imbrace; Then did the Arch-work-master of us all, Creat this massie universal Ball, And with his mighty word brought all to pass, Saying but let there be, and done it was, Let there be day, night, water, earth, herbs, trees, Let there be sun, moon, stars, fish, fowl that flies, Beast of the field; he said, let there be, All things were created, as we may see, Thus every sensible and sensless thing, The high Creators VVord to pass did bring; And as in viewing of his Works he stood, He said that all things were exceeding good: Thus having finish'd Seas, and Earth, and Skyes, Aboundantly with all Varieties, Like a magnificent and sumptuous Feast, To th'intertainment of some welcome Guest, When Beasts, and Birds, and every living Creature, And the Earths fruits did multiply by Nature; Then did the Eternal Trinity betake,

It self to council, and said, let us make, Not let there be, as unto all things else; But let us make man that the rest excells, According to our Image let us make, Man, and then the Almighty red earth did take, With which he formed Adam every Limb, And having made him, breathed life in him. Lo thus the first man never was a Child, No way with sin original defil'd; But with high Super-natural understanding, He over all the Word had sole commanding; Yet though to him the Regency was given As Earths Leivetennant to the God of Heaven, Though he commanded all created things, As Deputy under the King of kings, Though he so highly here was dignified, To humble him, not to be puft with pride; He could not brag nor boast of high born birth, For he was formed out of slime and earth; No beast; fish, worm, fowl, herb, wood, stone, tree, But are of a more antient house than he; For they were made before him, which prove this, That their Antiquity is more than his; Thus both himself, and his beloved Spouse, Are by creation of the younger house; And whilst they liv'd in perfect holiness, Their richest Garments were bare Nakedness, True Innocence were their chiefest Weeds; For Righteousness no Mask or Vizard needs; The Royalist Robes that our first Parents had, Was a free Conscience with uprightness clade; They needed not to shift, the Cloaths they wore

Was Nakedness, and they desir'd no more, Until at last, that Hell-polluting Sin, With Disobedience sold their Soul within, And having lost their Holiest perfection; They held their nakedness in imperfection; Then being both asham'd, they both did frame, Garments as Weeds of their deserved shame: Thus when as sin had brought Gods curse on Man, Then shame to make Apparel first began; E're men had said most plain it does appear, He neither did, nor needed cause menswear; For his Apparel did at first begin, To be the Robs of pennance for his Sin; Thus all the brood of Adam, and of Eve, The true use of Apparel may perceive; That they are Liveries, Badges unto all, Of our Sins, and our Parents woful fall; Then more than mad the Mad-brain'd people be, Or else they see, and will not seem to see, The same Robs of Pride that makes them swell, Are tokens that our best deserts are Hell, Much like unto a Traitor to his King, Which would his Countrey into destruction bring, Whose treacheries being prov'd apparently, He by the Law is justly Iudg'd to die; And when the Books for his deserved Death, A Pardon comes, and gives him longer Breath, I think this man most madly would appear, That would a Halter in a Glory wear, Of Life to be quite dis-inherited; But if he should vain gloriously persist, To make a Rop of Silk, or Golden Twist,

And wear, it's a more honourable show Of his Rebellion than course Hemp, or Tow; Might not men justly say, he were an Ass, Triumphing that he once a Villan was, And that wears an halter for the nonce, In pride that he deserv'd a hanging once. Such with our Heavenly Father is the case, Of our first Parents, and their fruitful Race, Apparel is the miserable Sign, That we are Traitors to our Lord Divine, And we like Rebels still most pride do take, In that which still most humble should us make, Apparel is the Prison for our Sin, Which most should shame, yet most we glory in, Apparel is the sheet of shame as it were; For man apparel never did receive; Till he Eternal Death deserv'd to have: How vain is it for Man, a clod of Earth, To boast of his Progeny or Birth, Because perhaps his Ancestors were good, And sprung from Royal, or from Noble Blood, Where Vertues worth did in their minds inherit, They enjoy'd their Honour by Desert and Merit, Great Alexander, King of Macedon, Dislain'd to be his Father Philips Son, But he from Iupiter would be descended, And as a god be honour'd and attended; Yet when at Babylon he prov'd but a Man, His god-head ended foolish as't began; There was in Cicily a proud Physician, Menecrates, and he through high ambition; To be a god himself would needs prefer,

And would forsooth be deemed Iupiter; King Dionysius making a great Feast, The Fool god disguis'd to be a great Beast, Who by himself was at a Table plac'd, Because as god he should the more be grac'd; The other Guests themselves did feed and sill, He at an empty table still sat still; At last with humble low Sir Reverence, A fellow came with sire and frankincense; And offered to his god-ship, saying then, Persumes were fit for gods, and meat for men; The god in anger raise incontinent, Who laughed, and in hunger homeward went. The Roman Emperor Domitian Would be a god, was murdered by a man. Calligola would be a god of wonders, And counterfit the Lightning and the thunders, Yet every real heavenly thunder crack, This cateif in such fear and terrour strake, That he would quake, and shake, and hide his head, In any hole, or underneath his bed; And when this godless god had many slain, A Preband dasht out his ungodly brain: And thus the Almighty still against pride doth frown, And casts ambition head-long tumbling down. Great Pompey would be all the Worlds Superior, And Cesar unto none would be Inferior; But as they both did live ambitiously, So both of them untimeous deaths did die: The one in AEgypt had his final fall, The other murdered in the Capital. A number more examples are beside,

Which shows the miserable fall of Pride; For Pride of State, Birth, Wisdom, Beauty, Strength, And Pride in any thing will fall at length; But to be proud of Garments that we wear, Is the most foolish Pride a Heart can bear: Know that of thine own thou doth possess, Nothing but Sin and woful Wretchedness, A Christian's Pride should only be in this, When he can say, that God his Father is; When Grace and Mercy well apply'd afford, To make him Brother unto Christ his Lord; When he unto the Holy Ghost can say, Thou art my School-master whom I will obey. When he can call the Saints his Fellows, and Say to the Angels for my Guard you stand; This is a laudable and Christian-Pride, To know Christ, and to know him Crucified. This is that meek Ambition, low Aspiring, Which all Men should be earnest in desiring; Thus to be proudly Humble is the thing, Which will us to the state of Glory bring; But yet beware of Pride Hypocritical, For Pride in every thing will have a fall, A lofty Mind with lowly Cap on Knee, Is humble Pride and meek Hypocrisie, As a great Ship ill suited with small sail, A Iudas mean'd all Mischief, cry'd all hail, Like the Humility of Absalom, That sort of Pride much Dangers waits upon; They are the counterfeit, God save you, Sirs, That have their Flatteries in particulars, That courteously can hide their proud Intents,

Under varieties of Complements; These Vipers bend the Knee, and kiss the Hand, And swear, sweet Sir, I am at your Command; And proudly make Humility a Screw, To wring themselves into Opinions view: Thus Pride is hateful, dangerous and vile, And shall it self at last it self beguile: Thus Pride is deadly Sin, and Sin brings Shame, VVhich here I leave to Hell from whence it came.

SInce the Water of Ail Scots they are all chang'd and gone, Except brave Whitslade and Hardin, And Satchels his Estate is gone, Except his poor Designation, VVhich never no Man shall possess, Except a Scot design'd Satchels.

Therefore be gone my Book, stretch forth thy VVings and fly, Amongst the Nobles and Gentility: Thour't not to sell to Scavingers and Clowns, But given to worthy persons of Renown. The Number's few l've printed, in regard My Charges have been great, and I hope Reward; I caus'd not print many above twelve-score, And the Printers are engag'd that they shall print no more.

FINIS.