The New Medley: Or, A Song composed of the Rairest Tunes.
The Scots.
I Am a bonny
Scot Sir, my name is
Mickle John
'Twas I was in the Plot Sir, when first the war begun
I left the Court one thousand six hundred forty one
But since the flight at
Worcester fight wee are all undone;
I serv'd my Lord and Master, when as he ligg'd at home
Our cause did shrink, Gods bread I think
The Déel's got in his room
Hee no man fears, but stamps and stares
Through all Christendome.
I have travel'd mickle ground
Since I came from
Worcester pound
I have gang'd a gallant round
Through all our neighbouring Nations;
And what their opinions are
Vnto you I shall declare
Of the
Scotch and
English war
And their approbations
Wee were beaten tag and rag
Foot and leg, wem and crag
Heark I hear the
Dutch-men brag
And begin to bluster.
The Dutch.
Gods Sacrament, shall Hogen Mogen States
strike down their Top-sayls unto puny powers
Ten hundred tun of Devil damme the fates
if all their ships and goods do not prove ours,
Since that bloody wounds delight them
tantara rara let the Trumpet sound.
Let
Vantrump go out and fight them
Eldest States should first he crown'd
English Schellums fight not on Gods side
But alas they have given our
Flemish Boats such a broad side,
That wee shall bee forced to retreat
Sée the
French-man commeth in compleat.
The French.
Begar Mounsieur, 'tis much in vain
For Dutchland, France,
or Spain,
To cross the
English Nation
They are now grown so strong.
The Devil er't bee long
Must learn the
English tongue
'Tis better that we should combine
And sell them Wine,
And learn of them to make a Lady fine
Wee'l learn of them to trip and mince
To kick and wince,
For by the sword wee never shall convince
Since every Brewer there can beat a Prince.
The Spaniard.
What are the
English so quarrelsome grown
That they cannot of late let their Neighbours alone
And shall a great and a Catholick King
Let's Scepter be controul'd by a sword or a fling
Or shall
Austria endure
such affronts for to bee
No wee'l tumble down their power
as you shall Senior sée.
The Welch.
Taffy was once a Coddy Mighty of
Wales
but her Cousin
O. P. was a Creature
Come into her Country Cods splutter-analls
her take up her
Welch Hook and beat her
Her eat up her Shéese, her Turky and Géese
her Pigge and her Capon did dye for't,
Ap
Robert, ap
Evan, ap
Morgan, ap
Stephan,
but
Shinking and
Powel did flie for't
The Irish.
O hone, O hone, poor.
Irish Shan
must howle and cry
Saint
Patrick help thy Country-man
or faith and troth wee dye;
The
English still do us pursue
and wee are forc'd to flee
Saint
Patrick help, we have no Saint but thee
Let's cry no longer O hone a Cram a Crée.
The English.
A Crown, a Crown, make roome
The
English man doth come
Whose valour is taller than all Christendome.
The Spanish, French,
and Dutch, Scots, Welch,
and Irish
grutch.
Wee fear not, wee care not, for wee can deal with such
When yee did begin in a Civill war to waste
Yee thought that our Tillage you pillage should bee at last,
And when that we could not agrée, you did think to share our fall
But yee finde it worse nere stir, for wee shall noose yee all.
FINIS.
London, Printed for Fran▪ Grove on Snow-hill. Entred according to Order.