The Glorious Victory;
OR,
The Triumphant Conquest
Obtained o'er the French Fleet, by the brave Heroick English and Dutch Navy's;
to the Joy and Comfort of all Loyal Subjects.
Tune of March Boys, etc. Licensed according to Order.
|
LET Country, City, Court, and Town,
|
now Eccho with Heavenly shouts of joy;
|
The French we've beaten, the Day's our own,
|
they cannot our Happiness now annoy;
|
Lost Honour resolving to renew,
|
our Cannons we play'd like claps of Thunder;
|
And still as we fir'd through and through,
|
their Men of War we tore in 'sunder;
|
'Sunder, sunder, Boys we tore asunder,
|
they from our Fury could not scowre,
|
We let them know, that a Foe should not go
|
without a Badge of Brittish Power.
|
Stout Admiral Russel with the rest,
|
brave [n]oble Commanders stout and bold,
|
He gave them to know we wa'n't in Jest;
|
their Courage was never Chill'd nor Cold:
|
Like Grissel who stood to see fair play,
|
and had not the Courage and Heart to venture;
|
We valiantly fought and won the Day,
|
and charg'd France with the highest Center;
|
Center, center, bravely did we venture,
|
and many of their Ships did fire,
|
And while they flame, did proclaim Brittain's Fame;
|
the rest did by their light retire.
|
With Fire we after them did Sale,
|
resolving still to maintain the Fight;
|
With thundring shot like showres of Hale,
|
we batter'd them till the gloomy Night;
|
Next day fell on afresh again,
|
true English Courage is not wasted;
|
We batter'd and sunk them in the Main,
|
where they a bitter Portion tasted,
|
Tasted[,] tasted, and their Forces wasted,
|
this is a dark and dismal story
|
For them to bring to old Lewis their King,
|
but we have blasted all their Glory.
|
They threatn'd this Nation to invade,
|
and did in our very Harbours ride,
|
Till conquering Courage we display'd,
|
by which we've baffl'd all their Pride;
|
Brave Boys we've given them the rout,
|
some thousands are slain as well as wounded,
|
Their shattered Vessels float about,
|
and many in the deep lies drowned,
|
Drownded, drownded, thus with sorrows Wounded,
|
it is a suddain strange Disaster,
|
For to relate to Lewis the Great,
|
their most ambitious Tyrant Master.
|
An Army of Teagues and Rapparees,
|
together with Scotch and French also;
|
He thought to have Landed here with ease,
|
but [?] a cold North-East Wind did blow;
|
Which blasted the great Design in Hand,
|
and now we have swing'd them on the Ocean,
|
[?] [?]ver will trespass on this Land,
|
[?] [d]istraction, or Commotion;
|
Le[wis,] Lew[is]; let him know, Great William
|
will not be long e'er he draws near him,
|
With an Armed Hoast, which will rule the Roast;
|
thus will he have just Cause to fear him.
|
In this great Design we find them crost
|
besides they are beaten on the Main,
|
The best Men of War they have quite lost,
|
and several thousand Seamen slain;
|
Instead of their being Lord of all,
|
with Plots which their Friends had long been brewing
|
Behold we have seen their present fall,
|
and may in time their utter ruine,
|
Ruine, ruine, 'tho' these Plots are brewing,
|
now may they wish they'd ne'er come hither;
|
Our Jacobites here, and their huffing Mounsleue,
|
may all hang down their Heads together.
|
|
|
|
|
|