THE
Prince of Oranges Glory;
And the DOWNFAL of the
PRIESTS & JESUITES.
To the Tune of, Heark how the Thundring Cannons roar.
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I.
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PRince William of Nassaw is on our Land,
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Let trembling Jesuites quaking stand,
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To see the Sword drawn in his Hand;
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His Armies do him follow,
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To redeem us from those Infernal Bands,
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That in our Blood would've wash'd their Hands,
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But they shall sink in the Quick-Sands:
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And Hell shall them all swallow.
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II.
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Now to this Prince I freely drink,
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A full brim Bowl, and never shrink;
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There's few but love him; I do think,
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He stands for Magna Charta:
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How can we then but Sing and Dance,
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To see brave Orange to advance,
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To confound those Feinds of France,
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That would subdue our Charter?
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III.
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The Irish A-cron-a-cre may go
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Down to the Infernal Feinds below,
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Ne'r to appear in open Shew,
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To see brave Londons Splendor.
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The Prince of Orange and his Train,
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Are not landed here in vain,
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But our Freedoms will maintain;
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Huzza's to him we will render.
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IV.
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The Whore of Babilon, God confound,
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With all their Plottings under Ground,
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Their Sound is gone the Nation round;
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It is a dreadful Story:
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But when the Prince agrees with the King,
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Every Bell in the City shall ring,
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In our Freedoms we will sing,
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And triumph in their Glory.
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V.
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Then let's unite them both in one,
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The Royal Father with the Son,
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And in union let them run,
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For we are all surrounded:
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Consume those Jesuites that contrive
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Bridles to hang Men up alive,
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Curse on their Stomachs, they ne'r shall thrive,
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But all shall be confounded.
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VI.
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Now the Pope and the Devil are at a loss,
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To see their Invention prove so cross,
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Their Golden Calves are now but dross,
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The Devil at them wonder:
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But wait a while, and we shall see,
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The Pope and the Devil together flee,
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From the Highest to the Lowest degree,
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They all shall be brought under.
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