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Some say that Belgia mislikes our Dish,
The Union relishes not their Wish,
Who lately by provident catching our Fish,
Defray'd all Dragooning Expences.
For fear vile Int'rest the League should spoil,
Since Malice Butter can turn to Oil,
And Honour don't grow in a plashy, cold Soil,
Let Prudence take care of Defences.
Th' Hibernian Wits, who no Statesmen are,
Depend upon the new Viceroy's Care,
And now, mighty Queen, as a finishing Prayer,
Long Live in your Royal Vocations;
And when you e'er a State Game begin,
May then your Trumps come all pouring in,
For never had Gamester a harder to win,
Then who has United these Nations.
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A Song.
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[Music ]
