THE
Farmers Son of Devonshire:
BEING
The Valiant Coronet's Return from Flanders, who endeavoured to persuade his
Brother Jack to forsake the Plow, and to take up Arms the next Spring; which he refu-
sed to do, because he was loath to leave his sweet Wife Joan.
Tune of Mary live long
Licensed according to Order.
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WEll met Brother Jack,
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I have been in Flanders,
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With valiant Commanders,
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And am return'd back
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to England again,
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Where a while I shall stay,
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And shall then march away;
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I'm an Officer now;
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Go with me dear Brother,
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Go with me dear Brother,
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and lay by the Plow.
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I tell thee Old Boy,
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The Son of a Farmer
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In glittering Armour,
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May kill and destroy,
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as many proud French,
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As a 'Squire or Knight,
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Having Courage to fight,
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then Valiantly go
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In Arms like a Soldier,
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In Arms like a Soldier,
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to face the proud Foe.
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But, dear Brother Will.
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you are a vine Vellow,
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and talk mighty Mellow,
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But what if they kill
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thy poor Brother Jack,
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By the Pounce of a Gun,
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If they shou'd I'm undone,
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and ruined quite,
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You know that I never,
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You know that I never,
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had Courage to fight.
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If you will advance
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in Arms like a Soldier,
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the Nation's Upholder,
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A fortunate Chance
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your Portion may be:
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All that goes are not slain,
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You may return again,
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with Victory here,
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There's no Men but Cowards,
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There's no Men but Cowards,
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are subject to fear.
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Each timorous Soul,
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when Trumpets are sounding,
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and Cannons rebounding,
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He fears no controul,
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nor Death in the least,
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When the Smoke do's arise,
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And darkens the Skies,
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we fall on amain;
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That Trophies of Honour,
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That Trophies of Honour,
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in Field we may gain.
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King William you know,
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in heat of the Battel,
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when Guns they do rattle,
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He venters also,
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then what shall we fear,
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When an Army is lead
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By a Crown'd Royal Head,
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it baffles all fear,
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And makes Soldiers fire,
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And makes Soldiers fire,
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from the Front to the Rear.
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The King, I confess,
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he labours by power,
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the French to devour;
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Let P[r]ovidence bless
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his conquering Arms:
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I wou'd do the sam[e] thing,
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If I were to be King,
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and make the French groan,
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Till then loving Brother,
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Till then, loving Brother,
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pray let me alone.
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The Enemies Men
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with Horror will fill me,
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perhaps they may kill me,
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And where am I then?
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this runs in my mind;
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Should I chance to be Lame,
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Will the Trophies of Fame
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keep me from sad Groans,
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A Fig for that Honour,
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A Fig for that Honour,
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which brings broken Bones.
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Such Honour I scorn,
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I'd rather be Mowing,
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nay, Plowing or Sowing,
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Or threshing of Corn,
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at home in a Barn,
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Then to leave Joan my Wife,
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And to loose my sweet Life,
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in Peace let me dwell;
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I am not for fighting,
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I am not for fighting,
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so Brother Farewell.
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