The Lyon in Mourning, Vol. 1

The house of the Lees was all pillaged, the doors of the [fol. 377.] rooms and closets, the outer doors, the windows, and all the liming being broke down to pieces. The charter-chest was broke open, and the papers were scattered up and down the house; all her horses and cattle were taken away, though Inches was not in the least concerned in the affair, save only that he was a great Whig, and had a son out with the Duke of Cumberland.

April.

When she complained to David Bruce, he told her to go through the camp and see if she could spy out any of her furniture or goods among the sogers; and if she did, the fellows should be seized upon, and she should have the satisfaction of having them hanged. But seeing she could have no reparation of damages she did not chuse to follow Mr. Bruce's advice, and she declared she had never received one farthing for the losses sustained.

On the day of the battle when the chace happened, one of Inches's tenants and his son, who lived at the gate of the Lees, [fol. 378.] stept out at the door to see what was the fray, and were shot by the red-coats, and fell down in one another's arms, the son dying upon the spot; but the father did not die till the Friday, the 18th, when Lady Inches went to see him, and he was then expiring. Much about the same place they came into a house where a poor beggar woman was spinning, and they shot her dead upon the spot. In a word, Lady Inches said they were really mad; they were furious, and no check was given them in the least.166

Upon the day of the battle, about nineteen wounded men (but so as with proper care they might have been all cured) got into a barn. Upon the Thursday (the day after the battle) orders were issued out to put them to death. They were accordingly taken out, and set up at a park wall as so many marks to be sported with, and were shot dead upon the spot. In the barn there was one of the name of Shaw, whom a Presbyterian minister was going forwards to intercede for, because [fol. 379.] he was his particular acquaintance. But seeing the fury and madness of the sogers, he thought fit to draw back lest he had been set up amongst the poor wounded men as a mark to be sported with in this scene of cruelty. Lady Inches said she had forgot the minister's name, but she believed he was settled at Castle Stewart; but she would not be positive about the place of his abode, though she had got the particular story from a sister of that minister, a married woman in Inverness.167

To confirm this the more, it is to be remarked that when Provost Frazer and the other magistrates of Inverness (attended by Mr. Hossack, the late provost) went to pay their levee to Cumberland and his generals, the generals were employed in giving orders about slaying the foresaid men and other wounded persons. Mr. Hossack (the Sir Robert Walpole of the place, under the direction of President Forbes, [fol. 380.] and a man of humanity) could not witness such a prodigy of intended wickedness without saying something, and therefore making a low bow to General Hawley or General Husk, he said, 'I hope your excellency will be so good as to mingle mercy with judgment.' Upon this Hawley or Husk cried out in a rage, 'Damn the rebel-dog. Kick him down stairs and throw him in prison directly.'168 The orders were literally and instantly obeyed, and those who were most firmly attached to the Government were put in prison at the same time.

The country people durst not venture upon burying the dead, lest they should have been made to bear them company till particular orders should have been given for that purpose.

The meeting-house at Inverness [and all the bibles and prayer-books in it were]169 was burnt to ashes.

Lady Inches said it was really Loudon's piper that the stout blacksmith killed, and that MacIntosh's house is seven or eight miles from Inverness. When Lady MacIntosh was to be brought a prisoner into Inverness, a great body of men, consisting of several regiments, were sent upon the command, and when she was leaving her own house the dead-beat was used by [fol. 381.] the drummers. In the commands170 marching from and to Inverness the horses trode many corpses under foot, and the generous-hearted Lady MacIntosh behoved to have the mortification of viewing this shocking scene.

Robert Forbes, A.M.

Copy of a Letter from Mr. Deacon to his father. 171

29 July 1746

Honoured Sir, – Before you receive this I hope to be in Paradise. Not that I have the least right to expect it from any merits of my own, or the goodness of my past life, but merely through the intercession of my Saviour and Redeemer, a sincere and hearty repentance of all my sins, and the variety of punishments I have suffered since I saw you, and the death which I shall die to-morrow, and which I trust in God will be some small atonement for my transgressions; and to which I think I am almost confident I shall submit with all the resignation and chearfulness a truly pious Christian and a brave souldier can wish.

I hope you will do my character so much justice (and, if you [fol. 382.] think proper, make use of this) as absolutely to contradict the false and malicious reports, spread only by your enemies, in hopes it might be of prejudice to you and your family, that I was persuaded and compelled by you to engage, contrary to my own inclinations. I send my tenderest love to all the dear children, and beg Almighty God to bless you and them in this world, and grant us all a happy meeting in that to come. I shall leave directions with Charles to send them some trifle whereby to remember me. Pray my excuse naming any particular friends, for there is no end. But give my hearty service and best wishes to all in general.

Mr. Syddal is very well, and sends his sincere compliments, but does not chuse to write. He behaves as well as his best friends can wish. My uncle has behaved to me in such a manner as cannot be paralell'd but by yourself. I know I shall have your prayers, which I am satisfied will be of infinite service to, dear father, your dying but contented and truly affectionate son,

Thomas Theodore Deacon.

July 29th, 1746.

Copy of some Paragraphs of a Letter to Mr. Deacon's Father, said to be written by the nonjurant clergyman that used to visit Mr. Deacon, etc

[fol. 283.] Their behaviour at divine worship was always with great reverence, attention, and piety. But had you, sir, been present the last day I attended them, your soul would have been ravished by the fervour of their devotion.

From the time of their condemnation a decent chearfulness constantly appeared in their countenances and behaviour, and I believe it may truly be said that no men ever suffered in a righteous cause with greater magnanimity and more Christian fortitude. For the appearance of a violent death, armed with the utmost terrour of pain and torments, made no impression or dread upon their minds. In a word, great is the honour they have done to the Church, the K[ing], and you, and themselves, and may their example be imitated by all that suffer in the same cause.

This short but faithful account of our martyred friends will, I hope, sir, yield great consolation to you and poor Mrs. Syddal. Poor, dear Charles bears in a commendable manner [fol. 284.] his great loss and other afflictions, and behaves like a man and a Christian in all his actions.

Copy of a Letter from Sir Archibald Primrose of Dunipace, 172 to his sister, etc

Novr.

My dear Sister, – I have endeavoured to take some small time, from a much more immediate concern, to offer you a few lines, and to let you know that this day I am to suffer, I think, for my religion, my prince, and my country. For each of these I wish I had a thousand lives to spend. The shortness of the intimation will not allow me much time to write to you so fully in my vindication for what I did that I know concerns you. But I heartily repent of the bad advice I got even from men of judgment and sense. And what I did by their advice in my own opinion was no more than acknowledging I bore arms against the present government, for my lawful, undoubted prince, my religion, and country; and I thought by my plea to procure some time longer life only to do service to my poor [fol. 385.] family, not doubting but yet in a short time that glorious cause will succeed, which God of His infinite mercy grant.

I repent most heartily for what I did, and I merit this death as my punishment, and I trust in the Almighty for mercy to my poor soul. As I am very soon to leave this world, I pray God to forgive all my enemies, particularly Mr. Gray,173 who did me all the injury he could by suborning witnesses, and threatening some which was my terror. Particularly there is one poor man174 to suffer with me that had an offer of his life to be an evidence against me, which he rejected.

Much more I could say, but as my time is short, I now bid my last adieu to my dear mother and you, my dear sister, and I intreat you'll be kind to my dear wife and children; and may all the blessings of Heaven attend you all. Live together comfortably and you may expect God's favour. My grateful acknowledgments for all your favours done and designed.

Remember me kindly to my Lady Caithness,175 Sauchie, and [fol. 386.] his sisters, and all my friends and acquaintances. May the Almighty grant you all happiness here, and eternal bliss hereafter, to which bliss, I trust, in His mercy soon to retire; and am for ever, dear sister, your affectionate brother,

A. P.

P.S.– My blessing to your dear boy, my son.

Copy of a Letter to the same Lady, which served as a cover to the above, from Mr. James Wright, Writer in Edinburgh

15 Nov. 1746

Madam, – Your brother, who is no more, delivered me this immediately before he suffered. His behaviour was becoming a humble Christian. I waited on him to the last, and with some other friends witnessed his interment in St. Cuthbert's Churchyard. He lies on the north side of the Church, within four yards of the second window from the steeple. Mr. Gordon of Tersperse,176 and Patrick Murray,177 goldsmith, lie just by him. God Almighty support his disconsolate widow and [fol. 387.] all his relations. I trust in His mercy He will provide for the fatherless and the widow. I am just now going to wait upon poor Lady Mary.178 I am, Madam, yours, etc.,

J. W.

Carlisle, 15th November 1746.

4 o'clock afternoon.

SONG to the tune of 'A Cobler there was,' etc

1As the devil was walking o'er Britain's fair isle,George spied in his phiz a particular smile,And said, My old friend, if you have leisure to tarry,Let's have an account what makes you so merry.Derry, etc.2Old Beelzebub turn'd at a voice he well knew,And stopping, cried, O Brother George, is it you?Was my business of consequence ever so great,I always find time on my friends for to wait.Derry, etc.3This morning at 7 I set out of Rome,Most fully intending ere this to've been home.Pray stay, stay (says George), and took hold of his hand,You know that St. James's is at your command.Derry, etc.4And what says the Pope? our monarch began,And what does he think of our enemy's son?Why, first, when I came there (Old Satan replied)He seem'd to have very great hope of his side.Derry, etc.5But soon from the north arriv'd an expressWith papers that gave me great joy, I confess,Defeated was Charles, and his forces all gone,I thought, on my soul, I should've leapt over the moon.Derry, etc.6Of Charles's descendants I'm only afraid [fol. 388.]Against my dominions their projects are laid;Was a Stewart to govern England again,Religion and honesty there soon might reign.Derry, etc.7I oftentimes travel thro' France and thro' SpainTo visit my princes and see how they reign.But of all my good servants, north, south, east and west,I speak it sincerely, George! thou art the best.Derry, etc.8Our monarch replied, looking wise as an ass,Pray, none of your compliments – Take up your glass.Tho' the trouble I gave you e'nt much, I must own,But as for religion, you know I have none.Derry, etc.9Then, as to my offspring, there's Feckie, my son,Whom you wish and I wish may sit on the throne.For by all men of wisdom and sense 'tis allow'dIf he there does no harm, he'll there do no good.Derry, etc.10There's Billy, my darling, my best belov'd boy,Can ravish, can murder, can burn, can destroy —Just a tool for you – 'tis his nat'ral delight,And likes it as well ev'ry whit as to fight.Derry, etc.11They shook hands at parting, and each bid adieu;Old Beelzebub mutter'd these words as he flew —'May thou and thy offspring for ever reign on,For the devil can't find such a race when you're gone.'Derry, etc.Finis

[fol. 389.]

ON A LATE DEFEAT, 1746, said to have been composed by a Scots gentleman, an officer in the Dutch service

Canst thou, my muse, such desolation view —Such dreadful havoc 'mong the loyal few;Vile murders, robbery, consuming fire;Mothers, with tender infants, starv'd, expire;Daggers and death in ev'ry hideous faceThreat'ning destruction to the northern race;Villains contending with a dev'lish joyWho first shall plunder, or who first destroy;Successful tyranny and laurell'd vice,The gods assisting him, who Heav'n defies;Seeming to spurn the good, th' illustrious youth,Renown'd for mercy, piety, and truth;Reluctant fighting passage to a crownWhich none but bigot-whigs deny his own?Can'st thou behold, and still thy grief suppress,Our prince and country in so deep distress?Nor, fir'd with indignation, aid my penTo lash the cruel deeds of guilty men?Rouze, rouze, my muse, and curse the hated causeOf lost religion, liberty, and laws!Thy freedom, Scotland! in one fatal hourIs sacrific'd, alas! to lawless pow'r.All, all is lost! No spark of hope remains;Death only now, or banishment and chains.Hard fate of war! How hast thou changed the scene!What just, what glorious enterprize made vain!Pale Nature trembles; general decaySucceeds the horrors of th' unlucky day.The good, the brave, in sympathy unite, [fol. 390.]Amaz'd that Heav'n did not maintain the fight.Despairing beauty languishes to seeSuch virtue vanquished in a righteous plea.Has godlike Charles (such matchless glories past!)Conquered so oft to be subdued at last?These valiant chiefs, whom native courage fir'd,Then exil'd king's and country's wrongs inspir'd,T' assert the rights each one enjoy'd before,And king and country's liberties restore;Failing in that, with just contempt of life,Resolv'd to perish 'midst the glorious strife;Must these true heroes, these great patriots yieldAnd the usurper's forces keep the field?A bloody, perjur'd, mercenary crew,Who fled but lately whom they now pursueLike fiends of hell, by worse than demon led,They kill the wounded and they rob the dead.O! Act of horror! more than savage rageUnparallel'd in any former age!Curst be the barb'rous executing hand,And doubly curst who gave the dire command.A deed so monstrous, shocking ev'n to name,To all eternity 'twill damn their fame.Ah! why, just Heaven! (But Heav'n ordain'd it so)Are impious men allow'd to rule below?Why does misfortune still attend the best,Whilst those with life's supreme delights are blest?Perplexing mistery to human sense;The wonderful decree of Providence.But virtue, happy in her self can bear  } [fol. 391.](The ills of life most seemingly severe) }Whatever fate the gods allot us here;     }Convinc'd that earthly happiness is vainAnd most of pleasure's only rest from pain.No shocks of fortune can her peace destroy,Deserving bliss, indiff'rent to enjoy.Calm and serene amidst the wrecks of fate,As ne'er exalted in a prosp'rous state,She bears adversity with stedfast mind,To Heavn's decrees religiously resign'd.Some time, perhaps, fair virtue will take place, }Shining conspicuous in the royal race,               }To bless the land with liberty and peace.           }Tyrants subdu'd shall tremble at her nodAnd learn that virtue is the cause of God.

A PARAPHRASE UPON PSALM 137

(As it is said) by Willie Hamilton1On Gallia's shore we sat and weptWhen Scotland we thought on,Rob'd of her bravest sons and allHer ancient spirit gone.2Revenge, the sons of Gallia said,Revenge your native land.Already your insulting foesCrowd the Batavian strand.3How shall the sons of freedom e'erFor foreign conquest fight?For pow'r how wield the sword, depriv'd [fol. 392.]Of Liberty and right?4If thee, O Scotland! I forgetEv'n to my latest breath,May foul dishonour stain my nameAnd bring a coward's death.5May sad remorse of fancy 'd guiltMy future days employ!If all thy sacred rights are notAbove my chiefest joy.6Remember England's children, Lord!Who, on Drummossie day,Deaf to the voice of kindred love,Raze, raze it quite, did say.7And thou, proud Gallia! faithless friend,Whose ruin is not far,Just Heav'n on thy devoted headPour all the woes of war!8When thou thy slaughter'd little onesAnd ravish'd dames shalt see,Such help, such pity may'st thou haveAs Scotland had from thee.

ODE ON THE 20TH OF DECEMBER 1746. 179

Hie dies, anno redeunte, festus, etc1. [fol. 393.]A while forget the scenes of woe,Forbid a while the tears to flow,The pitying sigh to rise.Turn from the ax the thought away;'Tis Charles that bids us crown the day,And end the night in joys.2So when bleak clouds and beating rainWith storms the face of Nature stain,And all in gloom appears.If Phœbus deign a short-liv'd smile,The face of Nature charms a while,A while the prospect cheers.3Come then, and while we largely pourLibations to the genial hour,That gave our hero birth;Let us invite the tuneful nineTo sing a theme, like them, divine,To paint our hero's worth.4How on his tender infant years,The cheerful hand of Heav'n appearsTo watch its chosen care.Estrang'd to ev'ry foe to truthVirtuous affliction nurs'd his youth.Instructive tho' severe.5. [fol. 394.]No sinful court its poison lentWith early bane his mind to taint,And blast his young renown.His father's virtues fir'd his heart.His father's sufferings truths impart.That form'd him for a throne.6How at an age when pleasure charms,Allures the stripling to her arms,He plann'd the great design:T' assert his injur'd father's cause,Restore his suffering country's laws,And prove his right divine.7How when on Scotia's beach he stoodThe wond'ring throng around him crowdTo bend th' obedient knee.Then thinking on their country chain'd,They wept such worth so long detain'dBy Heav'n's severe decree.8Where'er he mov'd, in sweet amaze,All ranks with transport on him gaze,Ev'n grief forgets to pine.The wisest sage, the chastest fair,Applaud his sense and praise his airThus form'd with grace divine.9. [fol. 395.]How great in all the soldier's art,With judgment calm, with fire of heart,He bade the battle glow:Yet greater on the conquer'd plainHe felt each wounded captive's pain,More like a friend than foe.10By good unmov'd, in ill resign'd,No change of fortune chang'd his mind,Tenacious of his aim.In vain the gales propitious blew,Affliction's darts as vainly flew,His soul was still the same.11Check'd in his glory's full career,He felt no weak desponding fearAmid distresses great.By ev'ry want and danger prest,No care possest his manly breast,But for his country's fate.12For oh! the woes, by Britons felt,Had not aton'd for Britain's guilt.So will'd offended Heav'n;That yet a while th' usurping handWith iron rod should rule the land,The rod, for vengeance giv'n.13. [fol. 396.]But in its vengeance Heav'n is just,And soon Britannia from the dustShall rear her head again.Soon shall give way th' usurper's claim,And peace and plenty soon proclaimAgain a Stewart's reign.14What joys for happy Britain waitWhen Charles shall rule the British state,Her sullied fame restore:When in full tides of transport tost,Ev'n mem'ry of her wrongs is lost,Nor Germans thought of more.15The nations round with wondering eyesShall see old England aweful riseAs oft she did of yore.And when she holds the ballanc'd scale,Oppression shall no more prevail,But fly her happy shore.16Corruption, vice on ev'ry hand,No more shall lord it o'er the land,With their protectors fled.Old English virtues in their place,With all their hospitable race,Shall rear their decent head.17. [fol. 397.]In peaceful shades the happy swain,With open heart and honest strain,Shall sing his long-wish'd lord.Nor chuse a tale so fit to moveHis list'ning fair one's heart to move,As that of Charles restor'd.18Tho' distant, let the prospect charm,And ev'ry gallant bosom warm,Forbear each tear and sigh.Turn from the ax the thought away,'Tis Charles that bids us crown the dayAnd end the night in joy.

Upon the Tenth of June, 1747. 180

Let universal mirth now rear its head,And joy, exulting, o'er the nation spread.Let all this day forget each anxious fear,And cease to mourn the ills which Britons bear —This day, which once auspicious to our Isle,Did all its long expecting hopes fulfil,Gave to the world Great Britain's glorious heir,Th' accomplishment of vows and ardent pray'r.The hero now in good old age appears,By Heav'n propitious, brought to sixty years;While all th' admiring world do justly ownTheir present wonder, fix'd on him alone —Him whom no pow'r can force, no art persuade [fol. 398.]To shake that basis so securely laidOn inborn virtue, which maintains its reignWhile all the storms of fortune rage in vain.He thro' the dusky gloom more bright does shine,And in the ambient cloud appears divine.Remove the cloud, kind Heav'n, and shew that raySparkling in brightest splendour of the day!Content with trials of misfortunes past,Allow deserved honours at the last!Had I been born with Homer's fertil vein,Or softer genius of the Mantuan swain,To've rais'd an Iliad in my sov'reign's praise,And sing his fame in never-dying lays,The world had first admir'd his manly state,And wonder'd how he strove with adverse fate.The future glories of our monarch nowHad swell'd my song, and made my numbers grow.But tho' my muse does no such fire impart,The mind is faithful and sincere the heart.Then while in humble notes our joy we sing,Paying our private homage to the king,Bright Phœbus, gild each corner of the sky, }And with new lustre feed our dazled eye,     }T'inspire our mirth and animate our joy.      }But see, the face of Heav'n begins to frown,The sullen, heavy day goes low'ring on. [fol. 399.]The sun in mists and vapours hides his head,And gloomy darkness o'er the world is spread.Hear, Heav'n's hoarse voice runs murmuring thro' the sky,And pales of horrid thunder dreadful fly.Flashes of lightning thro' the air do gleam.And Æther seems but one continued flame;Clouds dash'd on clouds with utmost fury rend,And on the drowned earth their watery ruines send.Kind Heav'n! is this the pomp that thou dost raise?This thy rejoicing on festival days?To hear thy angry threats proclaim aloudThy dismal vengeance on the guilty crowd,We kiss the hand from whence these terrors come.And own our well-deserved and fatal doom.We take the omen which thou'rt pleased to give.Our errors we repent. Then let us live.Thou spurn'st to see this day neglected lie,Another shining with vain pageantry.Since then in anger once thou hast declar'dThat vice no more shall triumph with regard.Let all the plagues of murder now be flungOn these curst bratts from whom our mischief sprung.There's ruffling work abroad, and hence must flowMutations here, th' usurper's overthrow.Tho' at some distance, yet methinks I hearMost pleasant news – the Restoration's near.Receive the off'rings which we humbly make;Appease thy fury ere thy vengeance break.Accept our penitence, and let us seeOur monarch glorious and our country free.

SOLILOQUY, September 29th, 1746

29 Sept. 1746

This prop and that successively decays.[fol. 400.]Strokes thicken; each alarm my heart dismays,Widow'd of ev'ry earthly flatt'ring joy.Sorrows on sorrows roll without alloy.My country bleeds, and in its ruines lieThousands. My all's perhaps condemned to die.Amaz'd, o'erwhelmed, without one cheering ray,From those dread scenes, when shall I wing my way?To Thee, great God, I lift my fainting soul,Who fierce, devouring passions canst controul.Nature, convulsive, wrapt in furious forms,Calms at thy word. Contend shall mortal worms?If partial ill promotes the gen'ral good,Tho' nature shrinks, I kiss the angry rod.This, this alone, my spirits can sustain,That thou supreme o'er all the world dost reign.When I or mine, howe'er decreed to fall,Shall turn to dust, be our eternal all.Meanwhile, inspire with fortitude divine;In prisons and in death, thy face make shine.Thy smiles, O God! each trial can unsting,And out of gall itself can sweetness bring.O Liberty! O Virtue! O my Country!Tell me, ye wise, now sunk in deep despair,Where grows the med'cine for oppressive care?Where grows it not? th' ingenious Pope replies;'To make the happy, friend, be good, be wise;Add only competence to health and peace,You need no more to perfect happiness.'O strangers to the sorrows of the mind, [fol. 401.]The load of ills that oft afflicts mankind!One chain of woes another still succeeds.Our friends are martyr'd, and our country bleeds.Humanity's too weak these ills to bear;Too plain a proof no happiness is here.Must we, content, slavery's curse endure,Nor bravely wish, nor once attempt a cure?Will rebel-murderers from blood refrain?Will corrupt statesmen liberty maintain?Will Britain clear her long-contracted scoresOn armies, fleets, for Hanover and whores?Will justice flourish, will our trade increase,Our fame grow greater, or our taxes less?Bid things impossible in our natures rise!Bid knaves turn honest, nay, bid fools turn wise!Bid France keep faith! Bid England show her zeal,And fight as well as wish to turn the scale!Bid sympathy forsake my joyless breast,Or miracles revive to give me rest!In private life may happiness be foundWith those who only live, or who abound?Mark all estates, and shew me if you can,What's more precarious than the bliss of man.Amidst his joys, uncertain to possess,The fear of losing makes the pleasure less.Thus one's tormented with foreboding pain,Another's wretched thro' desire of gain.Some who enjoy health, peace, and competence,Are still unhappy; they've but common sense.The man of genius, brighter far and great, [fol. 402.]Would gladly change for a genteel estate.In ev'ry station discontent we see;Each thinks his neighbour happier than he.Search the world o'er, 'tis doubtful if you findOne man's condition fitted to his mind.Alternate real or imagin'd woesDisturb our life and all our joys oppose.Nor can my muse the mournful tale avoid,What numbers zeal and brav'ry have destroy'd,The gen'rous, faithful, uncorrupted band,Design'd deliv'rers of a sinking land.Tho' good, unfortunate; oppress'd, tho' brave;See spiteful foes pursue them to the grave.Unshaken loyalty is all their crime,And struggling with their chains a second time.For this they suffer worse than traitor's fate,Condemned by knaves and furies of the state,In loathsome dungeons close confin'd they lie,To feel a thousand deaths before they die.At last these heroes must resign their breath,And close the scene with ignominious death.Thus ev'n the best their virtue has undone,And fix'd the slav'ry which they sought to shun.How then shall man attain the state of bliss?In t' other world he may, but not in this.Unjustly, therefore, some we happy call. [fol. 403.]More or less wretched is the fate of all.