A New Song,
to the Tune of, the Granadeers March.
COme my Lads let's March away
let Drums beat and Pipers play
I think't a twelve-month every day
Till the Rebels are Confounded
Their projects now we will defeat
were their force Ten times as great
Arm'd with justice we'l them fight
tho with the fiends surrounded.
We'l drown Argile in the raging Sea
Bring Rampant Monmouth to his Knee
and Cuckold Grey to the Triple tree
with a number of Lay Elders
We'l dress the whole Phanatick Crew
some we'l Roast and some we'l stew
but the best will make the Devil spew,
Ile hold a hundred Guilders.
Methinks I see them trembling stand
gazing towards the Irish Land
expecting every hour a band
of hearty Loyal Fellowes
But faith we'l quickly make them know
we value not so mean a Foe
we've never a boy shall strike a blow
but a Traytors death shall follow
We now resolve t'extirpate all
every Root and Branch shall fall
that dos but smell Phanaticall
We'l have no more this trouble
Since we have been so oft abus'd
the Devil a Rogue shall be Excus'd
with Tales we'l be no more amus'd
their power's but a Bubble.
FINIS.