Amanda, a sacrifice to an unknown goddesse, or, A free-will offering of a loving heart to a sweet-heart by N.H. of Trinity Colledge in Cambridge

On the Rout of the disloyal Partie of Scots at Dunbarre.

Is Iockie routed? Charon, rig thy boat If worth thy labour, with fresh rushes strow't; Waftage enough feare not, but yet prepare A strong rough stretcher, if thy naul, thy fare They dare deny thee, break their crags mon, do, Else scarce wil't have one ha'penny for two. If thou art wise get a blue bonnet on, They'l pay thee better 'cause their Country-mon.

See here they come mon, what a Scottish drove Crouds in full flocks unto th' Elysian grove! Foure thousand at the least! Heark! what a shrill Sad noise, the mazes of my eares doth fill! And on their tender parchments beat from thence Like drum-sticks an Alarum to my sense! What strange confused Ecchos do I hear, Howlings for losse of Bernes, of gudes and geer! Oh prethy see, see how along they gang With kettles at their gurdles! o're their shoulders hang Course oat-meal bags, as though they'd beg a boon Of Pluto, still to feed on Pattaloon;

Ah Charon, lanch into the deep, there make Conditions e're they board thee, do not take A mon into thy skiffe till thou art paid;

See what a totter'd Regiment, how dismaid, Trembling with palsies they make toward thee! Look, look, what a rude multitude they be! What gibbrish is't they mutter? how they call, With de'il take boat, the Ferrie-mon and all! How they run hastily as if they knew Some death, some second Cromwel did pursue!

Alas old gray-beard, now thy whirrie breaks Heark, what a crack it gives! See, see, it leaks, Go hire a thousand Watermen to play Next Oares, next Sculler, 'tis a safer way, Get cock-boats, barges, lighters, has there bin No Navie sunk of late to put them in? But no great matter, let them stay on shore, Drop into Styx, like Soland-geese swim o're.

Cowards! Mars such a bastard brood disdains, Who whil'st their blood congealed in their veins, Like Ague-shaken Myrmidons did fight, Till suddenly they thaw'd into a flight; And brooking not the lightning which did flie From the steel'd courage of our souldiery, Like to chill snow in a hot Sun-shine day, These Northern Isickles did melt away:

But are they vanquish't, routed horse and mon? Must treacherous Iockie visit Phlegeton? Let wilde-sires then cut capers on the ropes, Appear and vanish like their empty hopes; Mount rockets to the second region, higher Then their ambition soar'd, dart balls of fire; Let powder-devils, squibs and crackers flie,

And dance us Scottish gigs, to testifie How our triumphant hearts, our arteries Leap in us, and how mirth smiles in our eyes.

Farewel, poor Scot, thou need'st no more to come For coine, our States have sent a new-coin'd summe, Troopers on horseback, pieces that weigh down Put in the balance, more then half a crown; Though Magazines of Nobles (doits to us) Make the scales even as an over-plus. These new-coin'd pieces which we send to you, Augment their worth by name of Sterling too.

Ye noxious windes, into some caverns flie: Vanish, Kirk-mill-dews, ignes fatui: Farewell, ne'er more, ye fogs of errour, dare Taint with your breath our wholesom English aire: Think you to blast (with your Presbyterie) This fine faire blossom of our libertie? No, your Geneva black Kirk-liveries, 'Gin to grow thread-bare in the peoples eyes; And if you ben't permitted to renew't, 'Twill but just last you for a mourning suit.

Go haste to Chaul and Cochin, there to try If you can live on high-way charity; Go feed on graines the Banianes cates, As Catercousins with the Gusarates, Like beasts if any wounded, haste you all For salves unto Cambaia's hospital; March, wicked Iockie, towards Bengalen, With th' Indian Pagods Priests, (farre better men) To Ganges blessed streams, there cast thee in,

With holy water purge thee of thy sinne; Or turn a superstitious traveller, Finde out the tombe-stone of Jack-Presbyter, (Like Turkish Pilgrims, who to Mechago, See th'iron coffin, then will see no moe.) Once having seen where th' holy relique lies, In zealous humour pluck our both thy eyes. Then if thou safe returnest, or if not, We'l honour thee with name of Hogie Scot.

Men worse then Gours, whom malice can't de∣fame, Cupec and Canzier is too clean a name; It is a sinne to let a Scot compound, Nay, should you choak and thrust them under ground, Know that you are no Authors of their death, The Coward-Scots ran themselves out of breath; Laugh, laugh to think on't, e're the fight begun, What preparations Jockie made to run; Laugh, laugh, to think in what a stormie night, Death kill'd their foot and light-horse in the flight; I know of old it hath a saying bin, A Scottish mist 〈◊〉〈◊〉 th' English to the skin; Whether that proverb's verifi'd or not, I'm sure such English showers kill a Scot.