A Happy Memorable Ballad, On the Fight near Audenarde, between the Duke of Marlborough, of Great Britain, and the Duke of Vendome of France. As also the strange and wonderful Manner how the Princes of the Blood-Royal of France were found in a Wood. In allusson to the Unhappy Memorable Song, commonly call'd Chevy-Chace
|
GOD prosper long our Gracious Queen,
|
Our Lives and Safeties all,
|
A woful Fight of late there did
|
Near Audenarde befal.
|
To drive the French with Sword and Gun,
|
Brave Marlborough took his Way,
|
Ah! wo the Time that France beheld
|
The Fighting of that Day.
|
The Valiant Duke to Heaven had swore
|
Vendome shou'd pay full dear
|
For Ghent and Bruges, e'er his Fame
|
Should reach his Master's Ear.
|
And now with Eighty Thousand bold,
|
And chosen Men of Might,
|
He with the French began to wage
|
A sharp and bloody Fight.
|
The Gallant Britains swiftly ran
|
The French away to chase,
|
On Wednesday they began to fight,
|
When Day-light did decrease.
|
And long before high-Night, they had
|
Ten thousand Frenchmen slain,
|
And all the Rivers Crimson flow'd,
|
As they were dy'd in grain.
|
The Britains thro' the Woods pursu'd,
|
The nimble French to take,
|
And with their Cries the Hills and Dales,
|
And every Tree did shake.
|
The Duke then to the Wood did come,
|
In hopes Vendome to meet,
|
When, lo! the Prince of Carignan
|
Fell at his Grac's Feet:
|
Oh! Gentle Duke forbear, forbear,
|
Into that Wood to shoot;
|
If ever Pity mov'd your Grace,
|
But turn your Eyes and look;
|
See where the Royal Line of France,
|
Great Lewiss Heirs do lie;
|
And sure a Sight more piteous was
|
Ne're seen by Mortal Eye.
|
What Aeart of Flint but must relent,
|
Like Wax before the Sun,
|
To see their Glory at an end;
|
E're yet it was begun.
|
Whenas our General found your Grace
|
Wou'd needs begin to fight,
|
As thinking it wou'd please the Boys,
|
To see so fine a Sight,
|
He straitway sent them to the Top
|
Of yonder Church's Spire,
|
Where they might see, and yet be safe
|
From Swords, and Guns, and Fire.
|
But first he took them by the Hand,
|
And kiss'd them e're they went,
|
Whilst Tears stood in their little Eyes,
|
As if they knew th' Event.
|
Then said, he would with Speed return,
|
Soon as the Fight was done,
|
But when he saw his Men give Ground,
|
Away he basely run,
|
And left these Children all alone,
|
As Babes wanting Relief,
|
And long they wandred up and down,
|
No Hopes to chear their Grief.
|
Thus Hand they walked, till
|
At last this Wood they spy'd,
|
And when they saw the Night grow dark,
|
They here lay down and cry'd.
|
At this the Duke was inly mov'd,
|
His Breast saft Pity beat,
|
And so he streightway ordered
|
His Men for to retreat.
|
And now but that my Pen is blunt,
|
I might with ease relate,
|
How Fifteen Thousand French were took,
|
Besides what found their Fate.
|
Nor wou'd the Prince of Hanover
|
In Silence be forgot,
|
Who like a Lyon fought on Foot,
|
After his Horse was shot.
|
And what strange Chance likewise befel,
|
Unto these Children dear,
|
But that your Patience is too much
|
Already tir'd, I fear.
|
And so God bless the Queen and Duke,
|
And send a lasting Peace,
|
That Wars and foul Debate hencefor[t]h
|
In all the World may cease.
|
|
|
|
|
|