TEAGUE the Irish Soldier;
OR,
His Lamentation for the bad Success in the loss of Lymerick,
and his Resolution to quit the Wars.
To the Tune of, Let Caesar Live long. or, Now, now the Fight's done. Licensed according to Order.
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I.
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NOw, now we are lost, by my Shoul, all undone,
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We dare not approach to France or to Rome;
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The Monsieur hath need of his Money and Men,
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And Swears that begar, he'l ne'r trust us agen:
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Since Lymerick's lost, we're debarr'd from all hope,
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And I fear the Church Cause will end in a Rope.
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2.
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Ah Hone, Brother, Sarsefield, come, come let's away,
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The Devil shall tauke me if longer I stay:
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Father-Priest, my Dear-Joy, have on us put Cheat,
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With future Rewards of a Heavenly Seat,
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Estates here on Earth; by his promise I know,
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But Lymerick's lost, and what shall we do now?
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3.
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Our Prophets Unlucky, the Truth still have mist,
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Henceforth I'll believe them no more, no by Chreest;
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They told us brave things which at length we should find
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And yet may prove true when the Devil is blind:
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But for all they can do, we may now make our moan,
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Since Lymerick's Taken as well as Athlone.
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4.
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Six Thousand tall Lads, sent to second the Cause,
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Ship'd over to France-Land in spight of the Laws;
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Like bold Sons of Mars, we protested, that all
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The Hereticks Lands betwixt us must fall;
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But Teagueland Sings now, Hallow-loo, and makes moan,
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Since Lymerick has yielded as well as Athlone.
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5.
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Tyrconnel in Heav'n be his Majesties Grauce,
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Promis'd each a Reward, or an Officers plauce;
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But Monsieur came in, and carry'd the Prey
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Whilst I poor Pillgarlick receiv'd the Brass pay;
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But still we expected a much better Fate,
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But the Taking of Lymerick ends all the debate
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6.
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This Town we secur'd to make sure of the Game,
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But a pox o' the Devil, he ow'd us a shame:
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At the first of the Onset we quitted the Fray,
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Our Arms we threw down, then to Heels and away;
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Since Lymerick is lost, now what Fort shall we choose?
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Poor Teague and the Monsieur may hang in a Noose.
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7.
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The Shannon with ecchoes doth loudly repeat
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Our Howls and our Cries for Lym'ricks Defeat;
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Our Fortress and Shelter in times of distress,
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And to cry now by Chreest, how can I do less:
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Bold Ginckle, tho' 'bove we make Prayers and Complaints
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With the English, out-does all our Legions of Saints.
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8.
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I'll no more on a Steed with Holster and Boot,
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Nor be ty'd to a Sword, nor with Pistol will Shoot;
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On a Galloway Tit I'll trot it away,
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With Bridle and Crupper of Thumbrope of Hay:
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In a Cot daub'd with Cow-turd, I'll lie me down warm,
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In my Bed with each Feather as long as my Arm.
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9.
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Le' Zune long since left us, St. Ruth he is Slain,
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Tyrconnel is dead, and my King o're the Maine;
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Now, now good St. Patrick come in with a blow,
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And give it them home, as thy Saintship knows how;
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For poor Teague and I have quite done our best,
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And now by my Shoul, thou must e'n do the rest.
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FINIS.
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