A
SONG
To the TUNE of the Abbot of Canterbury, etc.
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I.
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WHAT Child has not heard of a conquering Tour,
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Carried on in a Trench by full Thousands fourscore?
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And how the Grand Monarch is flown Home again,
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In Triumph to reap the Reward of his Pain?
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Derry down.
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II.
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But he found when arrivd on the Frontiers of France,
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Instead of a Triumph, a cold Complaisance:
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For who could enjoy such an idle Parade,
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When Cape-Breton was lost, and an Emperor made!
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Derry down.
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III.
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This observd he complains to his trusty Bellisle,
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Must we ever be plagud with yon insolent Isle?
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To Monarchys Height, tis in vain to aspire,
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While so little a Spark can create such a Fire?
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Derry down.
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IV.
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Great Sir, says the Marshal, play off the Pretender:
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Tis not in your Arms to make Britain Surrender:
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Their Freedom so Spirits those obstinate Elves,
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They neer can be conquerd unless by themselves.
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Derry down.
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V.
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Thus alarmd he enjoins his Mock-Sovereign at Rome
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To send oer his Son if himself durst not come:
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For sure tis enough a fond Youth to convince,
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That if You be a King, he of Course is a Prince.
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Derry down.
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VI.
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By the POPE let the Strippling in private be blest Oh!
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And equippd with a Time-serving smooth Manifesto:
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In Terms howeer Solemn and strong it is made,
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Your Faith will instruct you such Ties to evade.
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Derry down.
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VII.
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And with him such Nobles, as farther Endearmne:
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Who, for not being hangd merit other Prefermet
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Then if they can once get the Cry on their Side,
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Our Armadas shall follow, and help to divide.
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Derry down.
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VIII.
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Thus France with her Vassals afresh has begun,
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To annoy what she envies most under the Sun:
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And a Kingdom so fair, so diffusive a Trade,
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Are motives enow to make Villians invade.
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Derry down.
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IX.
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But these Motives to them such base Efforts to try,
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Shoud make Us, something better than meer Standers-by:
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Tho in Politick Wranglings at times we delight;
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Yet against such Oppressors well ever unite.
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Derry down.
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X.
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Our Religion, our Government, Freedom, and All,
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Together, must stand, and together must fall:
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Still happy, if, in their Defence we succeed,
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And in that Defence, tis most glorious to Bleed.
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Derry down.
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XI.
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For if Papal Tyranny once mount the Throne,
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Like a Dream are the Days of our Happiness gone:
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With Slavery cursd, shall be each future Birth,
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And Britain no longer the Joy of the Earth.
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Derry down.
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