Teague.
Patrick our Shaint successes delaying, Curshing will do no more good than Praying; Dreadful Eugene the Deevil sure carrys, Now Tournay's taken he'll soon come to Paris: Yogh hone o hone.
Bishop.
If dey go on as now dey'r beginning,
Routing our Troops and Towns daily winning;
If in dey'r Lines our Army lyes Sleeping,
Adiew de Gold we so long have been heaping:
Ah Fernie bleiw.
Teague.
Dis by my Showl's de fruit of Ambition,
Wee'r by his Pride in woful condition;
He must be making Kings of Welch Princes, A plague upon't he has quite lost his Shences: Yogh hone o hone.
Bishop.
Dis comes of Plots with Sweden combining, And of proposing Peace and not signing; Dey'r Gen'rals now such Anger discover, Dey'l sure demand both Versails and de Louvre: Ah Fernie bleiw.
Teague.
Burgundy's Mad dat Fool has undon us,
Savoy's the same who now seems to shun us;
Berwick is sent out to seek his undoing,
Tallard strong Ale for Villiars is Brewing:
Yogh hone o hone.
