With Noble Blood adorn'd, and blooming Years,
You were not made to ſtorm like Muſqueteers;
Scotland run too much venture in your Blood,
To have your Rate ſo little underſtood;
You had no deſperate Fortunes there to raiſe
Your Names enough, you could not fight for Praiſe:
Then why ſo laviſh, why ſo raſhly brave?
To play away the Lives you ought to ſave;
Scotland has Sons indeed, but none to ſpare,
To furniſh out the Shows and Sports of War;
You are her tendereſt part which touch the whole,
And what lets out your Blood, lets out her Soul.
Pardon the [1] Satyrs interrupting here,
She owns, ſhe hates this volunteering War,
When neither King nor Country to retrive,
The injur'd help, or the Oppreſſ'd relieve,
Neither to gain Dominion, or to ſave;
Men die for nothing but the Fame of Brave.
So [2] Foſter hang'd himſelf with deep Deſign,
Only to ſee himſelf be buried fine.
Hard Fate of Men, that only for a Name,'
- ↑ Satyr's interrupting. 'Tis hop'd no Gentleman in Scotland will take this for a personal Satyr; but as I take Volunteering to be a Vice in War, as 'tis now practiz'd, where Men fit to lead Armies, serve as private Cen|tinels, the Author hopes he may be excus'd in condemning the Practice as an Injury to their Native Countrey.
- ↑ Foster hang'd himself. A foolish Fellow in England, who often talk'd of hanging himself, that he might have a fine Funeral, and at last did it, but whether upon that account or no, is not very certain.
