Made frantic by an awful dread
Of red-hot irons, spear, and sword,
Of breasts thrust thro', and bodies gored,
Which they were told would be their lot
When Cromwell came. So from each cot
They bore away what pleased them best,
And to the flames consigned the rest.
But now Dunbar is reached; yet he
Finds himself in extremity;
Midst swamps and bogs unfit to tent,