THE
English PAINTER
FOR
The French King's Picture.
To the Tune of My young Mary, etc. Licensed according to Order.
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I.
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WArs and Arms, and loud Alarms
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are round great Princes that sit at the Helm,
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Then now my merry bonny Boys,
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(You that are England's Joys,)
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valiantly stand up for England's Realm;
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Law, Religion, and every one's Right
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Will be lost for ever, unless you Fight,
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Your Horses prepare,
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And your Banners Fair,
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And march Cap-a-pee in your Armour Bright.
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II.
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Tat, Rat, Too, goes the English Drum,
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and we fright our Foes wheresoever we come,
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In Bullets and in Fire
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Our Fame will mount higher,
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a Fart for the French and their Fe, fa, fum,
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Like Great Harry the Fifth, we'll advance,
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Till our English Captains do Conquer France;
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Monsieur with his Riches,
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Beshits his Breeches,
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And falls down, for fear, in a dismal Trance.
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III.
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Had the Fistel, destroy'd his Pist-Tail,
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It might have sav'd many Protestant's Life,
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The cruel bloudy Monarch there
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Massacred every where,
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murder'd the Husband, and kill'd the Wife,
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Time may come, to avenge all these things,
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Of his Reign, and Actions each Nations rings
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Old Nick will deceive him,
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And Fortune leave him,
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Though he thinks to Triumph o'er Crowns and Kings,
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IV.
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Peals of Thunder shall make him wonder,
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when Schomberg Marches against his Campaign,
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The Germans on the other hand,
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In Battel-'Ray do stand,
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and at the Head of them Great Lorain,
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All his Pomp, and his Pride will come down,
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Now the English Forces on France do Frown,
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The haughty proud Caesar,
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Will find at Leisure,
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'Tis Folly to Fight against England's Crown.
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V.
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Blind Ambition (his mad Physician)
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do's Hood-wink Lewis from seeing his Fate,
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When all the whole World's at work
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To pull down France, and Turk,
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and every Diadem has a Date.
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Now ('tis true,) the proud Monarch do's Rage,
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But we'll shut him up in an Iron Cage,
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To beat out his Brains,
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(If there ought Remains,)
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The Tympany-Pride we can soon asswage.
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VI.
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His curst Cow, thought all should bow,
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but curst Cows seldom do wear a long Horn,
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To Ruine e'ery Nation,
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He thought it Salvation,
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such Principles do's the sweet Prince adorn,
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While good Princes are tender and mild,
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He rips up the Mother and stabs the Child;
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The pretty proud Pigeon
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Has pure Religion
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Which Friars will tell ye, Is fair and Mild.
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VII.
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Firing Cities (Oh! that True Wit is,)
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it carries on the good Catholick Cause,
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To burn the Corn in the Field,
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Which to Babes Food should yield,
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are not these lovely mild Roman Laws?
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Heav'n preserve us from all these sad things,
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And may Angels keep us with Guardian Wings,
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That none may destroy us,
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Nor France annoy us,
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While we give our Praise to the KING of King[s.]
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FINIS.
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