_A new_ SONG. _The Words by Mr._ Tho. Wall. _Set to Musick by Mr._ Henry Eccles, _Junior._
No more let _Damon's_ Eyes pursue, No more let _Damon's_ Eyes pursue, The bright enchanting Fair; _Almira_ thousands, thousands, thousands can undo, And thousands more, and thousands more, And thousands more may still despair, And thousands more may still despair.
For oh her bright alluring Eyes, And Graces all admire; For her the wounded Lover dies, And ev'ry Breast, and ev'ry Heart, And ev'ry Breast is set on Fire.
Then oh poor _Damon_, see thy Fate, But never more complain; For all a Thousand Hearts will stake, And all may sigh, and all may die, And all may sigh and die in vain.
Ho my dear Joy, now what dost thou think? Hoop by my shoul our Country-men stink; To _Ireland_ they can never return, The Hereticks there our Houses will burn: _Ah hone, ah hone, ah hone a cree._
A Pox on _T----l_ for a Son of a W----, He was the cause of our coming o'er; And when to _Dublin_ we came to put on our Coats, He told us his business was cutting of Throats. _Ah hone_, &c.
Our Devil has left us now in the Lurch, A Plague light upon the _Protestant_ C---- If _P----s_ had let but the Bishops alone, O then the Nation had all been our own. _Ah hone_, &c.
And I wish other Measures had been taken, For now I fear we shan't save our Bacon; Now _Orange_ to _London_ is coming down-right, And the Soldiers against him resolve not to Fight _Ah hone_, &c.
What we shall do, the Lord himself knows, Our Army is beaten without any blows; Our M----r begins to feel some remorse, For the Grey Mare has proved the better Horse. _Ah hone_, &c.
If the _French_ do but come, which is all our Hopes, We'll bundle the Hereticks all up with Ropes; If _London_ stands to us as _Bristol_ has done, We need not fear but _Orange_ must run. _Ah hone_, &c.
But if they prove false, and to _Orange_ they scower, By G---- all the M---- shall play from the _Tower_; Our Massacree fresh in their Memories grown, The Devil tauk me, we all shall go down. _A hone, a hone, a hone a Cree._
_The Character of a_ Seat's-man; _written by one of the_ CRAFT: _To be Sung on_ CRISPIN-Night. _Tune_ Packington's Pound.
I am one in whom Nature has fix'd a Decree, Ordaining my Life to happy and free; With no Cares of the World I am never perplex'd, And never depending, I never am vex'd: I'm neither of so high nor so low a degree, But Ambition and Want are both strangers to me; My life is a compound of Freedom and Ease, I go where I will, and I work when I please: I live above Envy, and yet above Spight, And have Judgment enough for to do my self right; Some greater and richer I own there may be, Yet as many live worse, as live better than me, And few that from Cares live so quiet and free.