Poor TEAGUE in Distress:
OR,
The French and Irish Army Routed.
Together with the Flight of the Duke of Berwick, Fitz-James, Tyrconnel, and the rest of the
Head Leaders, to FRANCE.
To the Tune of, The ORANGE.
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GOod Tydings I bring, from William our Kig,
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The Glory of Protestant Soldiers shall ring,
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While the French and Teagues, for their cruel Intreagues
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Are forced to scowre and run many Leagues,
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Being Routed.
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De English Boy, dey vill us destroy,
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Where shall we go hide our selves now, my Dear-Joy?
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Our Leaders are fled, which fills us with dread,
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Be Chreest, dey vill hang up poor Teague till he's dead,
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Being Routed.
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It is de French Crew dat makes us to rue,
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For dem we are forc'd to sing Hub-bub bub boo;
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Had dey not come o're, to our Native Shore,
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We then would have turn'd to King William before
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We were Routed.
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Begar, says Monsieur, when first I came here,
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Dey tell me of having five hundred a year;
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But here me find none, but de broken Bone,
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An Army dispers'd, and quite overthrown,
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Being Routed.
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The Teagues straight reply'd, it can't be deny'd,
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You sent o're to France our Gold. Silver beside;
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And Cattle consume, so sad is our Doom,
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We have nothing left here but Brass in the room,
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Now we're Routed.
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Me came to help you, a Cowardly Crew,
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Therefore all that ever ye have is our due;
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Begar, speak a word, me draw out my Sword,
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To kill you, so presently scamper abroad,
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Being Routed.
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With that they did part, but Teague griev'd at heart,
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A thousand times wish'd he had kept Plow and Cart;
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And ne'r mounted Horse, for by Patrick's Cross,
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We Irish are beaten, and suffer the loss,
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Being Routed.
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De English did Fight, and put us to flight,
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We could not endure to behold 'um in sight:
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As they did Advance, to Run was our chance,
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Dear-Joy, we did lead them a delicate Dance,
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Being Routed.
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In midst of the fray, we run, but my Fay,
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But 'twas our good Officers taught us the way;
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By help of our Brogues, we took to the Boggs,
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For fear they would thump us, and thrash us like Dogs
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Being Routed.
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My friends I did Trace, but could not keep pace,
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With Noble Tyrconnel, his Majesties Grace:
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He cannot deny, but while we did flye,
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His speed was so swift, he run faster than I,
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Being Routed.
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The French Brigadeer, he scowr'd for fear,
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He knew it not safe for to stay longer here:
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With dexterous skill, he rid Dales and Hill,
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And left the poor Teagues to be Hang'd if they will,
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Being Routed.
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When Berwick did find Fitz-James in the mind,
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To follow their Leaders, and ne'r look behind;
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The Monsieur D'Louson, and Noble Lord Powis,
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They'r all gone to tell a sad Story to Lewis,
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Being Routed.
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Be Chreest, let them go, 'tis certain, we know
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A Friend we shall find of a Protestant Foe,
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Our Joys to compleat, therefore we'll Retreat,
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And fall down for Mercy at King Williams Feet,
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He will Save us.
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FINIS.
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