The French-man's Lamentation for the Great Loss of Their Noble General

Of honour and renown i'le sing,
All generous hearts assistance bring,
The Son of Mars, a Warriour brave,
By a great Shot brought to his Grave;
Death durst not meet him in the field,
But unawares did make him yield,

Let Drums and Trumpets cease to sound,
Turenne no more is to be found.

The French mans glory now is dead,
Before whom thousand troops have fled,
He never was afraid to dye,
In greatest dangers scorn'd to flye;
But bravely would maintain the fight,
Till all his foes were put to flight,

Let Drums and Trumpets cease to, &c.

Fate envies that so brave a Soul,
Should their decrees so long controul,
For from his birth this brave Turenne,
Full sixty four years had séen,
He idly did not spend his time,
Nor wantonly did wast his prime;

Let Drums and Trumpets cease to, &c.

At thirty two just half his age,
His Enemies he did ingage,
That Monarch great the King of France,
Him to a Marshal did advance;
Which place he kept unto his death,
And bravely fought to his last breath,

Let Drums and Trumpets cease to sound,
Turenneno more is to be found.

The enemy in ambush lay,
On purpose his life to betray.
For they had planted in a Wood,
Two Cannons which did spill his blood;
They knowing that he would come there,
Lay lurking as if nothing were,

Let Drums and Trumpets cease to sound,
Turenne no more is to be found.

They saw him marching without harm,
Did thunder him a fierce alarm,
The first shot without hurt pass'd by,
Fearing such valour to come nigh,
But as it happened that came there,
To give him warning to prepare.

Let Drums, &c.

The other Gun with iron fill'd,
The noble Mounsieur quickly kill'd.
So many pieces came together,
They flew like hail in stormy weather;
Some of them could not choose but kill,
And execute their masters will,

Let Drums, &c.

Into his breast the shot then flew,
And instantly the Warriour slew,
His brave Lieutenant dy'd by his side
Scorning that Fate should them divide:
They who together drew their breath,
Were true companions in their death;

Let Drums, &c.

The news was posted to the King,
Which did to him much sorrow bring,
So brave a Subject had he none,
His fame through all the world was known:
His memory will never dye,
Although his bones in dust do lye:

Let Drums, &c.

His valour made his foes to creep,
And sent them to eternal sleep,
Not only courage was his praise,
But policy his fame did raise,
All which joyn'd with success did crown,

Turenne with honour and renown.
Let Drums, &c.

A prop he was unto the Crown,
No foes could beat his courage down,
His Masters cause he did defend,
And faithful was unto the end;
But now alas, he's dead and gone,
His equal there he has left none.

Let Drums, &c.

Let him that reads this understand,
Twas written by an English hand,
True valour must be prais'd though he,
That has it proves an enemy;
France now in mourning does appear,
Having left him whom they lov'd so dear;

Let Drums and Trumpets cease to sound,
Turenne no more is to be found.