The Triumph of IRELAND:
OR,
The Surrender of Limbrick
To Their MAJESTIES FORCES under the Command of the Duke
Of Wirtemburg, and Lieutenant General Scravenmore, on Sunday the 27th. of September 1695 to the unspeakable joy
of the Protestant Army.
Tune of, Let the Souldiers Rejoyce. Licensed according to Order.
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LEt the Bells sweetly ring,
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Joyful Tydings we bring,
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Great Limbrick was Fo-o-o-o-o orst to surrender
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To the Army of Fame,
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Who does fight and proclaim,
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Might William, great William Three Kingdoms defender.
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'Twas in vain to hold out,
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We had hedg'd them about
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With Cannons which ro-o-o-o-o-oared like Thunder,
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While the Wails of the Town,
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W[e]did there batter down,
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Famous Limbrick, great Limbrick sad grief did lie under.
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We the Shannon did crose
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With our brave Foot and Horse,
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Resolving to cha-a-a-a-a-arge and give Fire,
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We no sooner begun
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But the Enemy run,
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Into Limbrick, to Limbrick they strove to retire,
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We the Teagues did persue,
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Who to Limberick flew,
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But see the French tol-ol-ol-ol-ol-old of all pity,
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Who expos'd them to fall,
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By our brave General,
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For they barr'd up, they barr['d up the] Gates of the City,
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Ah! but what said poor Teague,
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In a terrible tweague,
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Dis French Dog if e-e-e-e-e-e'er we come near him,
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By my shoul my dear Joy,
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We will kill and destroy,
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For no longer, no longer we ever will fear him.
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Hubobbobo they cry'd,
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We are shut ad out side,
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[T]his day to be sla-a-a-a-a-ain helter skelter,
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While dis plaguy Monsieur
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Who has ruind us here,
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Hath the City of Limbrick by Creest for his shelter.
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Thus with a hone a hone,
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And a pittyful tone,
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To hundreds we str-ei-ei-ei-ei-eight did give quarter,
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For our Generals bold,
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They are brave hearts of gold,
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Who are never, are never Boys greedy for slaughter.
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Then the Town in distress,
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Did their sorrows express,
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Strait by a White Fl-a-a-a-a-ag of submission,
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For they could not withstand
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Our vast Armed band,
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Who had brought them, had brought them to a low condition.
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It was streightways agreed,
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To surrender with speed,
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Without any l-o-o-o-o-onger delaying,
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In the spight of Monsieur,
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Who did tremble for fear
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Of the Army, t[h]e Army whose Flags were displaying,
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All their Arms they laid down,
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And march'd out of the Town,
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Poor Torys destr-e-e-e-e-essed and naked,
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Thus they poor ragged Crew,
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Bid Limberick adieu,
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Nay and Joyful, right Joyful they were to forsake it.
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Into Limberick we came,
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Crown'd with Troffies of Fame,
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While Trumphets were sou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ounding before us
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And our Drums they did beat
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Thorough every street,
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Whilst the Protestant Families there did adore us.
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