The Christians new Victory
Over the TURKS in Hungaria near the Drave.
In this Famous Battle the Christians kill'd near Twenty Thousand, took 120 Guns, the Grand
Vizier's Tents and Baggage, to an inestimable value, of Gold, Silver and Jewels: a greater
Victory was hardly ever known in Europe.
To the Tune of, The Thundring Cannons Roar.
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ROund Boys a Bumper to Lorrain,
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Drink it up, and fill again;
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We'll empty the Thames, and drench the main,
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e'er we'll want any liquor.
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Here's a Health to the valiant King o'th' Poles,
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And all the Loyal German Souls;
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Let's every one drink of our Bowls,
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'twill make our Spirits quicker.
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Advance your Pikes and Cock your Guns,
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See how the Turkish Bashaw runs,
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Wee'll root 'em out o' their sculking Towns;
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Brave Ensigns furl your Flags here.
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Starenburg that valiant Man,
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Falls on first with the Polish Van,
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Let's charge 'em briskly hand to hand;
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He's a cowardly Sot that lags here.
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Let ev'ry Souldier keep their Ranks,
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Double their Files in the thinnest Flanks,
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The Foes stand thick on the Danube Banks,
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Yet the Turks dare scarce defend her.
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Our Thundring Cannon shall ring a Peal,
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And sound 'em many a doleful Knel,
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'Twill send 'em Post to the King of Hell,
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If they quickly don't surrender.
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The Second Part to the same Tune.
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SEe how our English Volunteers
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Charge, as Men that know no fears;
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Where e'er they come the Battle clears,
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Hark how the Trumpet blows Boys!
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They strike the Foe with Terror and Death,
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Nor give the Turkish Tyrant breath:
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Their bodies strew'd about the Heath,
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make savoury meat for Crows Boys.
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O that our Royal Monarch James,
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With an English Fleet would fill the Thames,
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We'd turn all Turkey into flames,
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For the honour of our King Boys.
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If we to Club-law once should come,
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We'd give the Turkish Rogues their Doom,
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And follow close by the sound o'th' drum,
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And make the Heavens ring boys.
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See how the Royal Banners fly,
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Hark how the Cannons rend the Sky,
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The hideous groans of the Turks that dye,
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Do pierce the airey Regions.
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In Mahomet they vainly plac'd
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Their trust, in vain his Shrines embrac'd,
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He lets 'em still be slain and chas'd
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By Caesar's Royal Legions.
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No more let Europe fear the Fame,
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O' th' Ottomans, nor dread the same,
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But let 'em still adore the name
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Of Caesar's grand Successor.
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Our Arms with Turkish Blood we'll stain,
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Those Troops which fill'd th' Hungarian Plain,
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Are trodden down, pursu'd and slain,
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By Mars his brave Professor.
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