King WILLIAM's Delight
OR, THE
English welcome to IRELAND.
Tune of, Papists all must be content, E're long to sing this new Lament;
Lisenced according to Order.
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1.
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O! ye jolly Lads of England fair,
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now we are come to Kiss your hand,
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You'r welcome here, I vow and swear,
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you'r welcome to our Irish Land.
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2.
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Was ever Nation thus divided,
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as poor Ireland now forlorn;
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But it's by K. William we must be guided,
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and we'll still exalt his Horn.
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3.
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This noble Prince we'll ever own,
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our Royal Master for to be,
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He will us keep when we're a sleep,
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in safety both by Land and Sea.
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4.
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Our God above who does him love,
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I hope e're long we all shall see:
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He shall his Noble Spirit move,
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and from our bondage set us free.
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5.
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The Lord Montjoy that hollow Boy,
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after his Master he is gone;
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But if he us cheat, we will him meet,
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and make the Irish cry Oh! one.
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6.
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O come away you English Lads,
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we long to see you on our shores;
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For these Irish Theives, they steal our beeves,
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and takes our Sheep, and Cey by scores.
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7.
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Now is these Teagues a ralleying,
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and most of them ty'd to the Sword:
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And stays but till their Irish King,
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do give these Broganeers the word.
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8.
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Oh! sad experience it u[s] learns,
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and make us know these Rogues desire,
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In Murthering our Wives and Bearns,
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and setting of our Tents on Fire.
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9.
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But now for shame of future blame,
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they say they'l Fight us in the Field;
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O! come brave Boy let's gain a name,
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and let us neither stoop nor yeild.
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10.
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The South and West, they have conquered,
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their strength and Castles they secure:
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And to the North they will break forth,
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except some aid we can Procure.
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11.
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Oh! you English Lads our hearts are sore,
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that so much time you did prolong,
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Much blood is spil'd and many's Kil'd,
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and Teague has now fulfil'd my song.
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12.
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These Irish Boys who now enjoys,
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our Riches, Treasure, and our store:
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That never yet was these Dear-Joys,
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so Cloath'd with Riches heretofore.
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13.
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Come Germont Roe will you not goe,
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to get a Kiss of Jamey's Hand,
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For it is long since a Papist Prince,
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was King unto our Irish Land.
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14.
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For Talbot rul'd these Massacers:
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with God above does them Restrain,
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Or many of our British Boys,
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by Teague and Rorry had been slain.
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