Tyrconnels Courage Confounded.
OR,
His Armies Resolution to Surrender, rather than feel the
Dangerous Effects of the English Forces.
To the Tune of, The Cannons Roar.
Licensed according to Order.
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TEague and all his Fellows, they
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Vow they will their Flags display,
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and not yield to us the day,
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for pray observe their Boasting;
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Some thousands we have laid in Gore,
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and do resolve as many more,
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If that they dare to come ashore,
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yet they're to Ruine posting.
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We understand they fain would be
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At their old Trade of Massacre,
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Which was from Forty-one to Three
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observe Tyrconnel's Order;
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Now Murder all where e're you come
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And let them know that is their doom,
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Because they would not stoop to Rome,
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but we will drive them further.
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Tyrconnel crys, be not surpriz'd,
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I with the Pope have thus adviz'd,
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To have you truly Cannonz'd
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amongst our Saints of Glory;
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Kill, Murder, Poyson, Stab, Rebel,
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Our Priests can all your Sins expell,
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So that you shan't one minute dwell,
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in pains of Purgatory.
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Scomberg by good King William sent,
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Intends our Conquest to prevent,
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Which if he does we may lament
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at his great Warlike power;
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That e're we did in Arms appear,
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Rebellion in our Land to rear,
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His Prowis all the world does fear,
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'tis he will make us scowre.
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Tyrconnel said, shou'd I be slain,
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With sweet St. Coleman I shall Reign,
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And others of the Popish Train,
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which Faction did Impannell,
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And further still the Pope does say,
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That for my Soul they'll surely pray,
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And it shall be my Holliday,
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they'll call it St. Tyrconnel.
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As soon as he these words had spoke,
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His sayings did his Men provoke,
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Who vow'd they would not strike a stroke,
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his Saintship to be further'd,
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In rugged terms each Teague did say,
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Must we indure the bloody fray,
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Be hang'd upon your Holliday,
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we will not thus be Murder'd.
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We will surrender e're we feel
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The sharpness of the pointed Steel,
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Of Soldiers that will make us Reel,
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of the true English Nation;
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Our Forces has not strength to stand
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Against so great an Armed Band,
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Which shortly will approach the Land,
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unto our sore vexation.
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From France we did some succour crave,
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He said that we the same should have
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But he's a false and perjur'd Slave,
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besides, he can't befriend us;
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His Fleet they say, dare not appear,
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If that the Dutch be in the Rear,
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His Rigging from their Masts he'll tear
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how can he then defend us?
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The English Fleet is coming o're,
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With Thunder they'll approach the shore
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And lay us all in purple Gore,
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what Forces can withstand 'um?
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Our hope of Conquest is but small,
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They have a Noble General,
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Monsieur de Scomberg they him call,
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who bravely does Command 'um.
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