[Footnote 1: Subsequently M.P. for Blessington, in the Irish Parliament; he suffered some injustice from Wharton, when Lord-Lieutenant: he lost his senses, and died in 1710. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, pp. 39, 54; and Character of the Earl of Wharton, "Prose Works," v, p. 27.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Murragh Boyle, first Viscount Blessington, author of a tragedy, "The Lost Princess." He died in 1712.--_W. E. B._]
To the Tune of "I tell thee, Dick, where I have been."[2]
Ye Commons and Peers, Pray lend me your ears, I'll sing you a song, (if I can,) How Lewis le Grand Was put to a stand, By the arms of our gracious Queen Anne.
How his army so great, Had a total defeat, And close by the river Dender: Where his grandchildren twain, For fear of being slain, Gallop'd off with the Popish Pretender.
To a steeple on high, The battle to spy, Up mounted these clever young men;[3] But when from the spire, They saw so much fire, Most cleverly came down again.
Then on horseback they got All on the same spot, By advice of their cousin Vendosme, O Lord! cried out he, Unto young _Burgundy_, Would your brother and you were at home!
While this he did say, Without more delay, Away the young gentry fled; Whose heels for that work, Were much lighter than cork, Though their hearts were as heavy as lead.
Not so did behave Young Hanover brave,[4] In this bloody field I assure ye: When his war-horse was shot He valued it not, But fought it on foot like a fury.
Full firmly he stood, As became his high blood, Which runs in his veins so blue: For this gallant young man, Being a-kin to QUEEN ANNE, Did as (were she a man) she would do.
What a racket was here, (I think 'twas last year,) For a little misfortune in Spain! For by letting 'em win, We have drawn the puts in, To lose all they're worth this campaign.
Though _Bruges_ and Ghent To _Monsieur_ we lent, With interest they shall repay 'em; While _Paris_ may sing, With her sorrowful king, _Nunc dimittis_ instead of _Te Deum_.
From this dream of success, They'll awaken, we guess, At the sound of great Marlborough's drums, They may think, if they will, Of Ahnanza still, But 'tis Blenheim wherever he comes.
O _Lewis[5]_ perplex'd, What general next! Thou hast hitherto changed in vain; He has beat 'em all round, If no new one’s found, He shall beat 'em over again.
