YE brave Boys and Tars,
That design for the Wars,
Remember the Action at Vigo;
And where ORMOND Commands,
Let us all joyn our Hands,
And where he goes, may you go, and I go.
Let Conquest and Fame,
The Honour proclaim,
Great ORMOND has gotten at Vigo;
Let the Trumpets now sound,
And the Ecchoes around,
Where he goes, may you go, and I go.
Let the Glories be Sung,
Which the ORMONDS have won,
Long before this great Action at Vigo;
They’re so Loyal and Just,
And so true to their Trust,
That where he goes, may you go, and I go.
Old Records of Fame,
Of the ORMONDS great Name,
Their Actions, like these were of Vigo;
And since this Prince exceeds,
In his Fore-Father’s Deeds,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
’Tis the Praise of our Crown,
That such Men of Renown,
Shou’d lead on the Van, as at Vigo;
Where such Lives and Estates
Are expos’d for our sakes,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
’Twas the whole Nation’s Voice,
And we all did rejoyce,
When we heard he Commanded for Vigo;
To ANNA so True,
All her Foes to pursue,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
’Tis the Voice of the Town,
And our Zeal for the Crown,
To serve ORMOND to France, Spain, or Vigo;
So Noble and brave,
Both to Conquer and save,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
To the Soldiers so kind,
And so humbly inclin’d,
To wave his Applause gain’d at Vigo;
Yet so kind and so true,
He gave all Men their due,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
We justly do own,
All the Honour that’s won,
In Flanders, as well as at Vigo;
But our Subject and Theme,
Is of ORMOND’s great Name,
And where he goes, may you go, and I go.
Then take off the Bowl,
To that Generous Soul,
That Commanded so bravely at Vigo;
And may ANNA approve,
Of our Duty and Love,
And where he goes, may you go, and I go.
A Cure for Melancholy.
[[Listen]]
ARE you grown so Melancholy,
That you think on nought but Folly;
Are you sad,
Are you Mad,
Are you worse;
Do you think,
Want of Chink
Is a Curse:
Do you wish for to have,
Longer Life, or a Grave,
Thus would I Cure ye.
First I would have a Bag of Gold,
That should ten Thousand Pieces hold,
And all that,
In thy Hat,
Would I pour;
For to spend,
On thy Friend,
Or thy Whore:
For to cast away at Dice,
Or to shift you of your Lice,
Thus would I Cure ye.
Next I would have a soft Bed made,
Wherein a Virgin should be laid;
That would Play,
Any way
You’ll devise;
That would stick
Like a Tick,
To your Thighs,
That would bill like a Dove,
Lye beneath or above,
Thus would I Cure ye.
Next that same Bowl, where Jove Divine,
Drank Nectar in, I’d fill with Wine;
That whereas,
You should pause,
You should quaff;
Like a Greek,
Till your Cheek,
To Ceres and to Venus,
To Bacchus and Silenus,
Thus would I Cure ye.
Last of all there should appear,
Seven Eunuchs sphere-like Singing here,
In the Praise,
Of those Ways,
Of delights;
Venus can,
Use with Man,
In the Night;
When he strives to adorn,
Vulcan’s Head with a HORN,
Thus would I Cure ye.
But if not Gold, nor Woman can,
Nor Wine, nor Songs, make merry then;
Let the Batt,
Be thy Mate,
And the Owl;
Let a Pain,
In thy Brain,
Make thee Howl;
Let the Pox be thy Friend,
And the Plague work thy end,
Thus I would Cure you.
