The READING Skirmish:
Or, The Bloody Irish Routed by the Victorious Dutch.
Five hundred Papishes came there,
to make a final end
Of all the Town, in time of Prayer,
but God did them defend.
To the Tune of, Lilli borlero.
|
WE came into brave Reading by Night,
|
five hundred Horse-men proper and tall;
|
Yet not resolved fairly to fight,
|
[but] for to cut the Throats of them all:
|
Most of us was Irish Papists,
|
[w]ho vow'd to Kill, then Plunder the Town;
|
We this never doubted, but soon we were Routed,
|
by Chreest and St. Patrick, we all go down.
|
In Reading Town we ne'r went to Bed,
|
every Soul there mounted his Horse,
|
Hoping next day to fill them with dread,
|
yet I Swear by St. Patrick's Cross,
|
We most shamefullly was Routed,
|
Fortune was pleas'd to give us a Frown,
|
And blasted our Glory, i'le tell you the Story,
|
by Chreest and St. Patrick, we all go down.
|
We thought to slay them all in their sleep,
|
but by my Shoul, were never the near;
|
The Hereticks their Guard did so keep,
|
which [put] [us] in a trembling fear:
|
We concluded something further,
|
to seize the Churches all in the Town,
|
With killing and slaying, while they were a Praying,
|
but we were Routed, and soon run down.
|
Nay, before Noon, we vow'd to dispatch
|
every Man, nay, Woman and Child;
|
This in our hearts we freely did hatch,
|
vowing to make a prey of the Spoil:
|
But we straightways was prevented,
|
when we did hope for Fame and Renown,
|
In less then an hour, we forced to scoure,
|
by Chreest and St. Patrick, we are run down.
|
We were resolved Reading to clear,
|
having in hand the flourishing Sword,
|
The Bloody Sceen was soon to appear,
|
for we did then but wait for the Word:
|
While the Ministers were Preaching,
|
we were resolved to have at their Gown,
|
But straight was surrounded, and clearly confounded,
|
by Chreest and St. Patrick, we all go down.
|
Just as we all were fit to fall on,
|
in came the Dutch with fury and speed;
|
And amongst them there was not a Man,
|
but what was rarely Mounted indeed:
|
And Rid up as fierce as Tygers,
|
knitting their Brows, they on us did frown,
|
Not one of them idle, their Teeth held their Bridle,
|
by Chreest and St. Patrick, we were run down.
|
They never stood to use many Words,
|
but in all haste up to us they flock'd,
|
In their right hands their flourishing Swords,
|
and in their left Carbines ready Cock'd:
|
We were forc'd to flye before them,
|
thorow the Lanes and Streets of the Town,
|
While they pursu'd after, and threatn'd a slaughte[r]
|
by Chreest and St. Patrick, we were run down.
|
Thus being fairly put to the Rout,
|
hunted and drove before 'um like Dogs,
|
Our Captain bid us then face about,
|
but we wisht for our Irish Bogs;
|
Having no great mind for Fighting,
|
the Dutch did drive us thorow the Town;
|
Our Foreheads we Crossed, yet still was unhorsed
|
by Chreest and St. Patrick, we're all run down.
|
We threw away our Swords and Carbines,
|
Pistols and Cloaks lay strow'd on the Lands;
|
Cutting off Boots, for running, Uds-doyns,
|
one pair of Heels was worth two pair of Hands
|
Then we call'd on sweet St. Coleman,
|
hoping he might our Victory Crown;
|
But Dutchmen pursuing, poor Teagues, to our Ruine
|
by Chreest and St. Patrick, we're all run down.
|
Never was Teagues so much in Distress,
|
as the whole World may well understand;
|
When we came here we thought to possess
|
worthy Estates of Houses and Land:
|
But we find 'tis all a Story,
|
Fortune is pleased on us to frown;
|
Instead of our Riches we stink in our Breeches,
|
By Chreest and St. Patrick, we're all run down.
|
They call a thing a Three-legged Mare,
|
where they will fit each Neck with a Nooze;
|
Then with our Beads to say our last Prayer,
|
after all this to Dye in our Shooes:
|
Thence we pack to Purgatory,
|
for us let all the J[e]suits Pray;
|
Farewel Father Peters, here's some of your Creatur[es]
|
would have you to follow the self same way.
|
|
|
|
|
|