Prophecies of Thomas Rymer (1)/Chapter 4
THOMAS RHYMER'S
PROPHECIES,
IN VERSE.
Scotland, be now sad, and lament,
For honour thou hast lost;
But yet rejoice in better times,
Which will repay the cost.
Though unto thraldom you should be
Brought by your enemies,
You shall have freedom from them all,
And enjoy your liberties.
The grave of the most noble prince,
To all is great regret,
The subject to law, who had leave,
The kingdom and estate.
O anguish great! where every kind,
And ages shall lament,
Whom bitter death has ta'en away,
Shall Scotland sore repent.
Lately, a land of rich encrease,
A nation stout and true,
Has lost their former dear estate,
Which they did hold of due.
By hard conflict, and by the chance
Of noble fortune's force,
Thy hope and thy prosperity,
Nay turn to the worse.
Though wont to wen, may be subdu'd,
And come in under yoke,
Strangers may reign and destroy,
What likes him by sword's stroke.
A foreign foe, whom neither the force,
Nor manners do approve,
Woe is to thee by guilt and flight,
Will only win above.
This mighty nation was to fore,
Invincible and stout,
Will yield slowly to destiny,
Great pity is but a doubt.
In a former age, the Scots renown
Did flourish goodly gaye,
But now, alas! will be o'ercome,
With a great dark decay.
Then mark and see what is the cause,
Of this so wond'rous fall!
Contempt of faith; falsehood, deceit,
The wrath of God withal.
Unsatiable greed of worldy gain,
Oppression, cries of poor,
A perpetual, slanderous race,
No justice put in ure.
The haughty pride of mighty men,
Of former vice chief cause,
The nutriture of wickedness,
An unjust match of laws:
Therefore, this cause the prophets
Of long time did presage,
And now has happen'd every point,
Into your present age.
Since fate is so, now Scotland learn
In patience to abide,
Slanderers, fear, and sudden plagues,
And great dolors beside.
Out of thee shall people rise,
With divers happiness,
And yet a pen can scarcely write
Thy hurt, skaith, and distress.
And yet beware thou not distrust,
Although o'erwhelm'd with grief,
Thy stroke is not perpetual,
For thou shalt find relief.
I do suppose, although too late,
Old prophecies shall hold;
Hope in God's goodness evermore,
And mercies manifold.
For thou that now a patient is,
And seemeth to be bound,
At liberty shall free be set,
And with empire be crowned.
From high above shall grace come down,
And thy state, Scotland, be,
In latter ends, more prosperous,
No former age did see.
Old prophecies foretel to thee
A warlike heir—he's born—
Who shall recover new your right,
Advance this kingdom's horn.
Then shall fair Scotland be advanc'd
Above her enemies power,
Her cruel foes shall be dispersed,
And scatter'd from her bow'r.
Fair Scotia's en'mies may invade,
But not escape a plague;
With sword, & thirst, & tears, & pest,
With fears, and such like ague.
And after enemies are down,
And master'd in a war,
Then Scotland, in peace and quietness,
Will pass joyful days for ever.