ON THE FIRST REBELLION.—1715.
Mackintosh was a soldier brave,
And of his friends he took his leave,
Towards Northumberland he drew,
Marching along with a jovial crew.[58]
The lord Derwentwater he did say,
Five hundred guineas he would lay,
To fight the militia, if they would stay,
But they prov’d cowards and ran away.
The earl of Mar did vow and swear,
That if e’er proud Preston he did come near,
Before the right should starve and the wrong stand,
He’d blow them into some foreign land.
The lord Derwentwater he did say,
When he mounted on his dapple grey,
I wish that we were at home with speed,
For I fear we are all betray’d indeed.
Adzounds, said Forster,[59] never fear,
For the Brunswick army is not near;
If they should come, our valour we’ll show,
We will give them the total overthrow.
The lord Derwentwater then he found,
That Forster drew his left wing round;
I wish I was with my dear wife,
For now I do fear I shall lose my life.
Mackintosh he shook his head,
To see the soldiers there lie dead:
It is not so much for the loss of those,
But I fear we are all took by our foes.
Mackintosh was a valiant soldier,
He carried his musket on his shoulder:
Cock your pistols, draw your rapier,
And damn you, Forster, you are a traitor.
The lord Derwentwater to Forster did say,
Thou hast prov’d our ruin this very day;
Thou hast promised to stand our friend,
But thou hast proved a rogue in the end.
The lord Derwentwater to Litchfield did ride,
In his coach, and attendance by his side;
He swore if he dy’d by the point of a sword,
He’d drink a health to the man he lov’d.
Thou Forster has brought us from our own home,
Leaving our estates for others to come;
Thou treacherous rogue, thou hast betray’d:
We are all ruin’d, lord Derwentwater said.
The lord Derwentwater he was condemn’d,
And near unto his latter end,
And then his lady she did cry,
My dear Derwentwater he must die.
The lord Derwentwater he is dead,[60]
And from his body they took his head;
But Mackintosh and some others are fled,
Who’d set the hat on another man’s head.
[58] Mackintosh’s Battalion consisted of thirteen companies of fifty men each.
[59] Thomas Forster, jun. of Etherston, near Belford, in Northumberland, member of Parliament of the said county, was made general of the Pretender’s Army; he was taken prisoner at Preston, but afterwards escaped out of Newgate, 1716.
[60] James Radclyffe, Earl of Derwentwater, was beheaded on Tower Hill, 24th February, 1715-16.
A Fragment of a Song, on the Lord of Derwentwater.
The king has written a broad letter,
And seal’d it up with gold;
And sent it to the lord of Derwentwater,
To read it if he would.
He sent it with no boy, no boy,
Nor yet with e’er a slave;
But he sent it with as good a knight,
As e’er a king could have.
When he read the three first lines,
He then began to smile;
And when he read the three next lines,
The tears began to sile.
VERSES
On a perspective View of Dilston Hall, the Seat of the unfortunate James, Earl of Derwentwater.
How mournful feeble Nature’s tone,
When Dilston Hall appears:
Where none’s to wait the orphan’s moan,
Nor dry the widow’s tears!
The helpless aged poor survey,
This building as it stands;
In moving anguish heard to say,
(And weeping wring their hands)
The bounteous earl, he is no more,
Who once adorn’d this plain;
Reliev’d the needy at his door,
And freely did sustain.
Here flowing plenty once did reign,
Which gladden’d ev’ry face;
But now, alas! reversed scene,
For owls a dwelling place.
The tim’rous deer hath left the lawn,
The oak a victim falls;
The gentle trav’ler sighs when shewn,
These desolated walls.
Each gen’rous mind emotion feels,
With pious pity mov’d;
No breast its anguish yet conceals,
For one so well belov’d.
Let no unhallow’d tongue, or servile slave,
Their partial clamour vent beyond the grave;
But let the noble Dead his honours wear;
His fault deplore, his virtue still revere:
Tho’ err he did, he finish’d the debate,
With his own blood, and Radclyffe’s fair estate.
The aged farmer, tott’ring o’er the green,
Leans on his staff, recounts the days he’s seen:
Informs the list’ning youth by his record,
How bless’d his roof, how plenteous was his board;
Nor rack’d by Derwent’s hospitable lord.
He stops his tale, involv’d in grief profound;
He sighs, he weeps, and feebly strikes the ground;
Cries, why rehearse these golden days of yore,
Since they to me, to me can be no more!
The clement heart, and curious, often calls
To view the naked park, and stripped walls:
E’en the damp walls their stony tears impart,
As if their master’s wound had pierc’d their heart.
Ye pensive mutes, ’tentive on Dilston wait,
And mourn, eternal Radclyffe’s tragic fate!