[[Listen]]
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.
The Dear Joy’s Lamentation.
[[Listen]]
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.