A
New COPY
OF
VERSES,
OF
Monsieurs Boasting, or England's Cause of Triumph.
To the Tune of Packington's Pound.
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A New Calculation of late has been given,
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Of the wonderful Year of Ninety and Seaven;
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How the French Preparations by Sea and by Land,
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Has threaten'd each Nation on every hand.
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Begar me'll out-doe
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de Turk and de Jew,
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And Fight de dam Dutch, and de English too;
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No Hero, no Hero, is like dat of France,
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Who Challenge all Europe to make 'em advance.
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The great Preparations for Sieging of Ath,
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And Vigorously Investing the Town,
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And when 'twas Surrender'd to Mahomet Faith,
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And of our great Victory made such a Sound:
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We greatly may boast,
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How few we have lost,
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And of the small Charges Repairs has Cost;
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Oh then there's no reason that we should Repine,
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Tho' Conti, and Ponti, should loose their Design.
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For Boufflers, Catinat, and Villeroy,
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Does Head the grand Army that march in the Field;
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No Town but submit to their genteel Decoy,
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And make the Confederate Forces to Yield.
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There's Conti the King,
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And Ponti's Off-spring,
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They loud in the Ears of great Monarchy Sing;
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Come Truckle, and Buckle yea Confederate Foes,
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Our Sword is in hand to make you dispose.
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There's Monsieur Vendosme is Treating the Spaniard;
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Who flees before 'em with Precipitation;
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For at the noise of th' approach of his Vangaurd,
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They all are afraid of the loss of their Nation.
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There's Seignour Loranzo,
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Don Juan Alphanzo;
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And ten Thousand more speak every Man so,
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That none can withstand our Generals Command,
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For we Fight the Battles of Lewis le Grand.
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Great Admiral Ponti has caught the Galloons,
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So Richly Laden with the Spaniard's great Treasure,
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And made all the Seignors to be but Buffoons,
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We Rifle and Sack their Towns at our pleasure.
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Ten Millions of Crowns,
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With Plate in Galloons,
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Does give us great Reason to Crack and to Bounce,
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Oh how we rejoyce when we come into Brest,
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And Sing Oh be Joyful as well as the rest.
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But now the great Hopes of the Monsieur is gone,
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Which makes him so greatly to sue for a Peace:
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And their Hect'ring Gen'rals do greatly bemoan
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The loathsome Return of Great Monsieurs Disease.
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For his great Plenepoes,
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And his Politick Beaus,
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Must yield up the Cudgels to Lewis's Foes;
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Oh Lewis, Grand Lewis, you must tamely Resign,
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Since Ponti, and Conti, has lost their Design.
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Now William the Brave have turned the Scale,
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To Europe's Rejoycing, and England's great Glory;
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And at his appearing did so much prevail,
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That the grand Monsieur soon changed his Story.
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With Trumpet and Drum,
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He bravely did come
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To Relieve the Oppression of Christendom;
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Then Monsieur make hast and flee to your Line,
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For the English pursue you to break your Design.
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And now the Confederates joyning their Forces[,]
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Has alter'd the Scene of Monsieurs great Hopes,
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And all their great Joys are turn'd into Curses,
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And are down in the Mouth like a parcel of Fops;
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For William's great Name,
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Is come, them to tame,
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And all they have done will turn their Shame;
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Oh Monsieur, grand Monsieur, you have cause to Repine.
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For Conti, and Ponti, has lost their Design.
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Begar me no stay, says grand Villeroy,
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March vou, passe vou, hast to your Lines,
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Le Roy de Angliterre, approche moy,
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Vole vou alle, or submit to his Fines,
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Monsieur Boussleer
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Et Catinat allere,
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[P]er Deiu de English begin to draw near;
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For if they can catch us but out of our Line,
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They'll serve us like Ponti and break our Design.
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