Great BRITAINS Lamentation:
Or, the Funeral Obsequies Of that most Imcomparable PROTESTANT PRINCESS, MARY of ever Blessed Memory, Queen of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland. Who Departed this Life the 28th. of December, at Kensington, 1694. In the 32th. Year of Her Age, she Reigned Five Years 8 Months and 17 days. And was conducted from [...]ite-Hall to Westminster-Abby, in an open Chariot of State, on Black Cloath by the Nobility, Judges, and Gent [...]y of the [...]and on Tuesday the 5th. of March, 1694/5.

[depiction of funeral procession of Queen Mary]
SHE [...]S gone alas! no more to be recall'd,
One single blow has all our Triumphs pall'd:
Who can from Grief's Extreamities refrain!
Or in due Bounds the swelling Tide contain?
Who can behold this dismal Scene pass by
With an unmov'd and unrelenting Eye?
LONDON, Thou Pride and Glory of our Isle,
Though in Thy Bosom both the Indies smile;
Oh ne'er forget that unauspicious Day,
Which thy best Treasure rudely snatch'd away;
Thy busy Change be for a season dumb,
No sawcy Mirth within thy Mansions come;
Let all thy Sons in Mourning Weeds appear,
Each Face show Sorrow, and each Eye a Tear,
To express their Duty, let all Hearts combine,
And on this Black, this sad Occasion join.
Mourn drooping Britain, Mourn from shore to shore,
Thy best beloved MARIA is no more.
Ye Beauteous Virgins that in moving Strains
Were us'd to sing her Virtues on the Plains:
Ye Shepherds too, who out of Pious Care,
Taught every Tree MARIA's Name to wear;
Your Rural Sports and Garlands lay aside,
This is no time for Ornaments of Pride;
[...]nd let your Reeds, that lately tun [...]d your joy,
On the sad Willows now neglectedly:
But bring, oh bring, the Treasures of your Fields,
(That short-liv'd Wealth, which unbid Nature yields,)
The Mourning Hyacinth inscrib'd with Woe,
The beauteous Lillies that in Vallies grow;
And all the Flowers that scatter'd up and down,
Or humble Meads, or lofty Mountains crown;
Then gently throw them all upon Her Herse,
To these join lasting Bays, and living Verse.
Mourn drooping Britain, Mourn from shore to shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.
Ye dauntless Hearts, that for your Country's good
All Dangers scorn, and wade through Seas of Blood,
In heavy silence, march around Her Tomb,
And then Lament your own and England's Doom:
For Death has by this single stroke done more,
Than when Ten Thousand slain he stalks in gore.
Ye pensive Widows, who by Fortune crost
In Foreign Fields have your dear Husbands lost;
Now give a free and open vent to Grief,
Banish all Hopes, and think of no Relief;
That Bounteous Princess, who so justly knew
What was to blooming Worth and Merit due,
[...]ho as she lov'd on Valour still to [...]e,
[...]e'er fail'd to recompence the Soldiers Toil;
[...] now, (malicious Fate wou'd have it so)
[...]urried, alas! to the dark Shades below.
Mourn drooping Britain, Mourn from shore to shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.
Ye Mitred Heads, and likewise you that wait
Upon the Altar in a lower state,
Bewail the Loss of so Divine a Prize,
And open all the Sluces of your Eyes;
With Gratitude Her Memory preserve,
For She from true Religion ne'er it did swerve:
Rome's gaudy Pomps Her Mind cou'd not allure,
Firm to the Word, and in Her Faith secure:
The Sacred Scriptures were Her daily Care,
He only Exercise and Food was Pray'r:
N [...] [...]mpty Joys Her Pious Breast employ'd,
[...] [...]he still dying liv'd, and living dy'd.
[...] [...]re can ye now so great a Patte [...]n find?
[...] [...]re can ye meet so bright, so pure a Mind?
Mourn drooping Britain, Mourn from shore to shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.
[...] though proud Fate has done her utmost spite,
[...] buried all our Hopes in endless Night;
Though ravenous Death has seiz'd the richest Prey,
That ever did a Regal Scepter sway;
Her Name shall Live, and still continue fair,
Fragrant, as Rich Arabia's Spices are:
While Albian in Triumphant State shall reign,
Queen of the Isles, and Goddess of the Main.
While silver Thames in wanton folds shall play,
And Tribute to the British Ocean pay,
While haughty Lewis shall remain abhorr'd,
And William be by all the World ador'd.
Our grateful Tongues Her Virtue shall proclaim
Through all the distant Provinces of Fame:
Still in our Hearts shall Pearless MARY Reign,
Though dead, Her Station there she shall maintain.
Then Shepherds leave at last your mournful Lays,
And turn your Songs of Grief to Songs of Praise.

Licensed according to Order.

London: Printed for J. Whitlock near Stationers Hall. 1694/5. Price. 2 d.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this EEBO-TCP Phase II text, in whole or in part.