







 
   
     
       
         Elegie on the universally lamented death, of Duncan Ronald: Director depute of the Chancelary, and writer to His Majesties signet. Who died at Edinburgh, August 1700.
         Dempster, George.
      
       
         
           1700
        
      
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         ocm 52614601
         175824
         
           
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             Elegie on the universally lamented death, of Duncan Ronald: Director depute of the Chancelary, and writer to His Majesties signet. Who died at Edinburgh, August 1700.
             Dempster, George.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             s.n.,
             [Edinburgh :
             1700]
          
           
             Caption title.
             Mourning border.
             Signed at end: Mr. George Dempster.
             Place and date of publication suggested by Wing (2nd ed.).
             Imperfect: creased with slight loss of text.
             Reproduction of original in: National Library of Scotland.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Ronald, Duncan, d. 1700 -- Death and burial -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English -- Scotland -- Early works to 1800.
           Broadsides -- Scotland -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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           ELEGIE
           On
           the
           Universally
           Lamented
           Death
           ,
           of
           DUNCAN
           RONALD
           :
           Director
           Depute
           of
           the
           Chancelary
           ,
           and
           Writer
           to
           his
           Majesties
           Signet
           .
        
         
           Who
           died
           at
           EDINBURGH
           ,
           August
           1700.
           
        
         
           
             D
          
           
             This
             year
             at
             Rome
             the
             Jubilie
             doth
             stand
             ;
          
           
             But
             whether
             Death
             or
             Pope
             doth
             most
             Command
             ,
          
           
             My
             Querie
             !
             pray
             tell
             me
             Travler
             now
             ,
          
           
             Where
             Death
             inhabites
             ,
             Reigns
             ,
             and
             pays
             his
             vow
             !
          
           
             If
             you
             can
             tell
             me
             ,
             where
             this
             King
             do
             Lodge
             ;
          
           
             I
             'le
             be
             thy
             vassal
             ,
             and
             thy
             sorley
             Drudge
             .
          
        
         
           
             U
          
           
             Death
             !
             Death
             !
             our
             Kings
             ,
             our
             Queens
             ,
             our
             Nobles
             all
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Knights
             ,
             our
             Barrons
             ,
             Lairds
             ,
             by
             thee
             they
             fall
             ;
          
           
             Our
             
               Dives
               ,
               Lazrus
            
             ,
             Senecas
             ,
             and
             Lords
             ;
          
           
             Can
             never
             scape
             thy
             deadly
             fatal
             Cords
             .
          
           
             Why
             is
             it
             so
             !
             By
             hear
             us
             alone
             decree
             ,
          
           
             Men
             must
             be
             living
             ,
             also
             men
             must
             die
          
        
         
           
             N
          
           
             But
             ah
             !
             Death
             ,
             now
             thou
             carries
             high
             thine
             hand
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             soars
             aloft
             ;
             we
             cannot
             thee
             Command
             :
          
           
             Thou
             shoots
             (
             like
             Cupid
             )
             Arrows
             from
             the
             Skyes
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             sends
             thy
             da●ts
             ,
             〈…〉
             the
             mortal
             Dies
             ,
          
           
             Ah
             me
             !
             why
             so
             !
             can
             nothing
             〈…〉
          
           
             〈…〉
             Dimonds
             never
             〈…〉
          
        
         
           
             C
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             say'th
             Death
             :
             for
             why
             !
             my
             time
             is
             come
             ,
          
           
             My
             Scepter
             Crown
             ,
             are
             old
             and
             Reign
             nigh
             run
             ▪
          
           
             I'm
             but
             a
             vassal
             of
             the
             pow'rs
             above
             ▪
          
           
             I
             must
             display
             the
             Banner
             of
             my
             love
             .
          
           
             For
             Death
             's
             my
             name
             ,
             a
             Lyon
             I
             must
             be
             ,
          
           
             Untill
             my
             day's
             be
             turn'd
             to
             Eternity
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
          
           
             Now
             Judgements
             nigh
             ,
             the
             World
             is
             near
             an
             end
             ;
          
           
             My
             Sword
             is
             sharpest
             when
             I
             must
             Defend
             ,
          
           
             My
             cause
             ;
             and
             my
             Commission
             I
             display
             ,
          
           
             When
             dust
             I
             send
             to
             Dust
             their
             Natives
             clay
             .
          
           
             So
             Queries
             are
             but
             idle
             ,
             vain
             to
             thee
             ;
          
           
             Read
             Birth
             ,
             Death
             ,
             Judgement
             and
             Eternitie
             .
          
        
         
           
             N
          
           
             For
             if
             I
             could
             have
             spar'd
             a
             Lov'ly
             Face
             ;
          
           
             Helen
             of
             Troy
             ,
             might
             damped
             me
             with
             Grace
             .
          
           
             If
             Riches
             ;
             Cresus
             might
             have
             brib'd
             me
             then
             :
          
           
             If
             Grace
             or
             beauty
             ,
             or
             the
             sons
             of
             men
             ,
          
           
             Then
             might
             I
             have
             had
             Thousands
             at
             my
             hand
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Absoloms
             ,
             and
             Solomons
             to
             stand
             .
          
        
         
           
             If
             Learning
             
               Cicero
               ,
               Seneca
            
             ,
             these
             Wits
             ,
          
           
             Wou'd
             play'd
             me
             Musick
             ,
             when
             I
             took
             my
             Fits
             ,
          
           
             Alse
             well
             as
             DAVID
             ;
             But
             no
             Harmonie
          
           
             Can
             Wound
             Me
             ;
             Magick
             ,
             cannot
             Blind
             mine
             Eye
             .
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             Kings
             and
             Emperours
             are
             my
             Trophies
             still
             ,
          
           
             Who
             then
             can
             Bribe
             me
             ,
             who
             has
             all
             at
             Will.
             
          
        
         
           
             R
          
           
             Thy
             
               DUNCAN
               RONNALD
            
             ,
             Depute
             of
             the
             Rolls
             ,
          
           
             The
             Keeper
             of
             Thy
             
               Chartors
               ,
               Seasines
               ,
               Scrolls
            
             ,
          
           
             Might
             been
             Preserv'd
             ,
             if
             Grace
             or
             Parts
             might
             do
             :
          
           
             But
             who
             's
             the
             Man
             ,
             I
             spare
             ,
             of
             Candour
             ,
             now
             .
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             weep
             ye
             may
             ,
             ye
             Scribes
             and
             Writers
             throng
             !
          
           
             But
             ye
             that
             Weep
             ,
             must
             meet
             Me
             Ere
             't
             be
             long
             .
          
        
         
           
             O
          
           
             Kindness
             of
             Nature
             ,
             Sympathie
             Indites
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Mourning
             over
             RONNALD
             ,
             and
             Invites
             :
          
           
             He
             was
             a
             Man
             of
             Geni●usness
             and
             Arts
             ,
          
           
             Divine
             and
             Moral
             ;
             Lov'd
             by
             Men
             of
             Parts
             .
          
           
             What
             's
             more
             ;
             He
             had
             the
             Popular
             Applause
             ,
          
           
             Of
             
               Commons
               ,
               Learning's
               ,
               Enemies
            
             ,
             and
             Foes
             .
          
        
         
           
             N
          
           
             He
             carri'd
             Civil
             in
             his
             Post
             and
             Chaire
          
           
             Of
             Honour's
             District
             ,
             void
             of
             Anxious
             Fear
             ;
          
           
             Content
             with
             Fortune
             ,
             Providence's
             Decree
             ,
          
           
             And
             vain
             Ambition
             ,
             Emptiness
             did
             〈…〉
          
           
             
          
           
             For
             fear
             of
             With'ring
             here
             among
             his
             Foes
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
          
           
             Well
             spoke
             ,
             O
             Death
             !
             Crown
             Me
             with
             Mortal
             Rayes
             ,
          
           
             Come
             ,
             stay
             no
             longer
             ,
             quickly
             cut
             My
             Dayes
             ;
          
           
             Since
             We
             must
             Pass
             to
             Heav'n
             through
             
             Baca's
             Vale
             ,
          
           
             Hoise
             Anchor
             ,
             Death
             ,
             set
             M●zons
             on
             thy
             Sail
             :
          
           
             For
             Dye
             We
             must
             ,
             before
             we
             come
             to
             be
             ,
          
           
             With
             
               DUNCAN
               RONNALD
            
             in
             Prosperitie
             .
          
        
         
           
             L
          
           
             For
             We
             must
             walk
             by
             Faith
             ,
             as
             RONNALD
             did
             ,
          
           
             And
             get
             Our
             Chartor-Party
             ,
             to
             be
             ●id
             ,
          
           
             In
             Our
             Recesses
             :
             Pray'r
             must
             be
             the
             Key
             ,
          
           
             Love
             and
             Assureance
             ,
             twofold
             Charitie
             .
          
           
             Then
             JESUS
             Merits
             ,
             Jacobs
             Ladder
             can
             ,
          
           
             Make
             
               Scarlet
               Sins
            
             ,
             made
             whiter
             than
             a
             Swan
             .
          
        
         
           
             D
          
           
             Death
             ,
             Death
             ,
             deny
             us
             Fate
             of
             Sudden
             Calls
             ,
          
           
             Seize
             but
             Gradatim
             ,
             e're
             you
             break
             Our
             Walls
             ;
          
           
             Then
             Sound
             Thy
             Trumpet
             ,
             as
             a
             Jona
             Shrill
             :
          
           
             Our
             Bodies
             Yield
             ,
             decay
             to
             Dust
             they
             will.
          
           
             For
             Moulder
             Dwindle
             ,
             and
             consume
             to
             Dust
             ,
          
           
             Men
             (
             Dust
             they
             are
             )
             Return
             to
             it
             they
             must
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Hoec
               raptim
               &
               cursum
               Composuit
            
             ,
             Mr.
             GEORGE
             DEMPSTER
          
        
      
    
     
  

