GLORIA DEO. Finis coronat Opus.

ON The Crowing Cock And Lyon Couchant, OR, A POEM To Express the Gallantry of our Royall Chan­ticlere. The uncertainty of Warr & Cock­fighting. The Magnanimity of a brave General and Judicious Cocker: Writ on the NEWS of the Surrender of NAMUR, in Incomium of Unparalell'd Fortitude and true English Valour, Recorded in the Parable of the Game Cock, to Congratulate His Majesties Happy Return to London, leaving future Success to the disposal of Divine Providence.

THE King of Beasts doth Couch and Tremble here,
And dreads the Challenge of our Chanticlere,
As Monsieur doth our British Monarch fear.
The Epedemick Leo knew no Bound,
And would devour (even Satan like) around,
Till daring Russel caught him in his Pound.
His vain Ambition strikes at all above,
Would be Earths Emp'rour and the World's great Jove,
A Christian Monarch in a double Sence,
With Laws Divine and Humane can dispence,
Enslaves his Subjects, scorns all Piety,
Both to Promote and masque his Tyranny,
Interest his Idol is, his Money Charms,
The Power of War and Conquers more than Arms,
Heav'n grant to King and Parliament such Coin,
That all may fight like us! like us may joyn
T' increase our Victories whilst his decline,
Thus the great Monarch's Pride, his vast desire,
Will like vain Phaeton in Flames expire,
With points of War he cannot well dispence,
Or dares to fight—no; not in his defence?
But on Advantage with brave Insolence.
The innate Virtue of our Faiths Defender,
Makes Lewis l'Ore and great Forts Surrender,
Gallus Gallinaceus France his Dunghil Cock,
With Poop unsavoury and Langue-Dock,
To our Game Warriour is oblig'd to knock,
Some love to set their Neighbours by the Ears,
But dread a change when horred Death appears,
Proud Kings and Tyrants, Athist, God deny,
Prove greatest Cowards when they come to dye,
So Gallick Cock, once try'd by narrow heel
Of Brittain's Chanticleres (as true as steel,)
Will start and dance (like Crow in Gutter strut,)
And give his head for Cock's-Comb to be cut,
With fallen Hackle Courage down must creep,
Shoot Pit by Land and strike Sail on the deep,
We dread no Colours, scorn all Aesop's Breed,
And stomacks have to fight as well as feed,
Whilst God's with us proud Lucifer must bleed,
Ride Triumph o're his Coasts the Name of Wills,
Make Monsieur scamper on their own Dunghils,
And send Victorious Ecchoes to their Hills,
We Crowing stand with shrill and lowder cries
Then e're was Eccow'd yet from rended Skyes,
Our Youth and Fortitude speak Victories.
Our Royal Cock in Battle takes delight
To stimulate his Combitants to Fight,
We hit at Sparring Blows, but French Sa, Sa,
Is a short flying flurt, English Huzza
Makes Lyons tremble, great ones run away,
And Forts Impregnable our Arms obey.
France shew'd their Teeth and meanly did oblige
Our Conquest to attest not raise the Siege,
Whilst Villeroy with many thousand Men,
Did as they wont, march down the Hill again,
Like Nero, view'd the Flames, ne're struck a stroak,
T'our Haughtboys Danc'd and vanished in Smoak.
When our Great Victor bravely cross'd the Boyn,
Where French and Irish did against him joyn;
He view'd their Arms, and boldly said, March on;
No sooner said, but he the Battle won.
Thus Royal Presence, with true Courage clad,
Vanquish'd his Foes, and made his Subject glad.
Gallick Bellona, like the Grecian Dame,
Astonish'd at Namur's most dreadful Flame,
Yielded the Fort, but did her Flowers retain,
In hopes of Resurrection from the Main.
Where e're Great VVilliam doth in Arms appear,
The Flower-de-Luces fade, the Mightiest fear.
England's Plum'd Hero will hold out to th' end,
As well-bred Steed upon the Spur will mend;
Give Stab for Stab, both weak expiring lie
Will yet look Blows within each others Eye.
A well-bred Branch of War will not refuse
To Fight, altho' (by chance) the best may loose.
Sometimes the knockt-down Foe (dead in a Trance)
Hazards a Blow, and makes the Devil dance.
And then the Ten-pound Bett he doth confound;
The Battle wins, with Honour he is Crown'd;
Even after Death he sent the nicking Blow,
And left in Honour's Bed his Bleeding Foe.
Great Odds were lost when Fortunatus Fought it,
And gave the Bag unto a Who-had-thought-it.
But lo! Namur's Re-gained; not by a Chance,
By Blows, true Fight, God's Wrath Impending France,
Our Victor's Trumpets make Grand Mounsieur dance.
WILLIAM's the Cock of Game, who bids Defie on
Most Christian Monarch, Turk and Roaring Lyon.
Bouflieurs at Head on's Arms, at Royal Pleasure,
Is made a Pledge to Ransom England's Treasure.
Our Albion Sons of Mars, are by good Fate,
Now free to March, nay Enter Paris Gate,
Whilst Gallick Tyrant may prove Abdicate.
To the King of Kings French Jupiter must quake,
When English Arms doth make all Europe shake.
Our Hackles tite, the Lyon's Tail is down;
An ominous Presage to th' French King's Crown.
We treat with Sword in Hand, will hear no Truce;
Wait Heav'n's Fiat, for the Flower-de-Luce.
When Swords to Plowshares turn, who wins the Crown?
A Conquerour Reviv'd stands on Renown.
THERE was of late, and from the German Stock,
A large and beautiful, but wond'rous Cock:
A spacious Orange did his Crest adorn,
From whence there issued out (at top) a Horn.
While yet that Prince, who does his glorious Name,
From that known Title, by his Valour claim;
And had not yet acquired by his Sword,
That nobler Style of Albion's Great Lord,
This lived. But when Great William took our Throne,
It languish'd, and streight died—Fate here does own
By this strange Omen, that the Brave Nassaw,
Who only once did keep the Dutch in awe;
Now in possession of a Diadem,
Those smaller Dominations should Contemn.
The Prince, who set a mighty King, does rise
A true Asserter of our Liberties.
The N-E-W-S must spread, that France, who aim'd at all
And did design to bring our World in Thrall,
With soaring Icarus [...].

The CONCLUSION.

THE Covetous, and most Opinionate,
Oft meet ith' Fortune's frowns; the Gamester great
Judiciously can Cock above Cross Fate,
And wants not Courage to be Fortunate.
Fortitude ne'er fails Bold Britain's Cocker,
And is as serviceable to Love's Smocker.
But He (by Heav'n) is called to fight God's Cause,
Preserve Religion, Liberties and Laws;
O're Death and Satan Croweth, and shall be
The World's Grand Victor to Eternity.
The Man of God, whose Sword at Trumpet sounds,
Victorious Triumphs writes in Blood and Wounds,
With Peace and Plenty Christendom abounds.

The Loyal Wish.

MAY Fate with Honour, and with Laurels Crown
Our Mighty HERO, till his vast Renown,
Through all the Spacious Globe his Worth resound.
May his Victorious Arms extend as far,
As from the Eastern, to the Western Star;
Till He with Glory to his Albion come,
Like Great Augustus, to Victorious Rome:
And thus to us in Triumph does advance,
From the Sav'd Netherlands, and Conquer'd France.

AMEN.

Finis Coronat Opus.

Epigram.

IN Eighty-Eight, Spain sent a Vast Armado;
In Ninety-Two the French made their Bravado.
The Attempt of both did equally prove vain;
France bragg'd as much, and lost no less than Spain.
Grand Lewis Royal Sun is Sett at last,
And Namur all their Day-light overcast.
By a True Cocker, And no less Loyal Subject. Gerrard Cater, Esq;

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