AN ENGLISH BALLAD,
On the Taking of NAMUR,
By the King of Great Britain, 1695.
Dulce eft defipere in loco.
I and II.
OME folks are drunk, yet do not know it;
So might not Bacchus give you law:
Was it a Mufe, O lofty Poet,
Or virgin of Saint Cyr, you faw?
Why all this fury? what's the matter,
That oaks must come from Thrace to dance,
Muft ftupid ftocks be taught to flatter?
And is there no fuch wood in France?
Why muft the winds all hold their tongue ?
If they a little breath fhould raife,
Would that have spoil'd the poet's fong,
Or puff'd away the monarch's praife?
Pindar, that eagle, mounts the skies,
While Virtue leads the noble way;
Too like a vulture Boileau flies,
Where fordid int'reft fhews the prey.
When once the poet s honour ceases,
From reafon far his tranfports rove;
And Boileau for eight hundred pieces
Makes Louis take the wall of Jove.
III.
Neptune and Sol came from above,
Shap'd like Magrigny and Vauban ;
They arm'd thefe rocks, then fhow'd old Jove
Of Marli wood the wondrous plan.
Such walls these three wife gods agreed
By human force could ne'er be fhaken;
But you and I in Homer read
Of gods as well as men mistaken.
Sambre and Maese their waves may join,
But ne'er can William's force reftrain,
He'll pafs them both who pafs'd the Boyne;
Remember this, and arn the Seine.
Full fifteen thousand lufty fellows
With fire and fword the fort maintain;
Each was a Hercules, you tell us,
Yet out they march'd like common men;
Cannons above and mines below
Did death and tombs for foes contrive,
Yet matters have been order'd fo
That most of us are still alive.
If Namur be compar'd to Troy,
Then Britain's Boys excell'd the Greeks;
Their fiege did ten long years employ;
We've done our bus'nefs in ten weeks.
What godhead does so fast advance
With dreadful pow'r thofe hills to gain ?
'Tis little Will, the fcourge of France,
No godhead, but the first of men.
His mortal arm exerts the pow'r
To keep ev'n Mons's victor under;
And that fame Jupiter no more
Shall fright the world with impious thunder.
Our King thus trembles at Namur,
Whilft Villeroy, who ne'er afraid is,
To Bruxelles marches on fecure
To bomb the Monks and fcare the Ladies.
One battle makes the Marshal great,
After this glorious expedition,
He must perform the King's commiffion;
Who knows but Orange may retreat ?
Kings are allow'd to feign the gout,
Or be prevail'd with not to fight;
And mighty Louis hop'd, no doubt,
That William would preferve that right.
From Seine and Loire, to Rhone and Po,
See ev'ry mother's fon appear:
In fuch a cafe ne'er blame a foe
If he betrays fome little fear.
He comes, the mighty Vill'roy comes,
Finds a fmall river in his way ;
So wa es his colours, beats his drums,
And thinks it's prudent there to stay.
The Gallic troops breathe blood and war;
The Marthal cares not to march fafter;
Poor Vill'roy moves fo flowly here
We fancy'd all it was his mafter.
VII.
Will no kind flood, no friendly rain,
Difguife the Marshal's plain difgrace;
No torrents fwell the low Mehayne ?
The world will fay he durft not pafs.
Why will no Hyades appear,
Dear Poet, on the banks of Sambre ?
Just as they did that mighty year
When you turn'd June into December.
The water-nymphs are, too, unkind
To Vill roy; are the land-nymphs fo?
And fly they all, at once combin'd
To shame a gen'ral and a beau?
Truth, juftice, sense, religion, fame,
May join to finish William's ftory;
Nations fet free may blefs his name,
And France in fecret own his glory;
But Yprefs, Maftricht, and Cambray,
Befançon, Ghent, Saint Omers, Lifle,
Courtray and Dole-Ye critics, fay,
How poor to this was Pindar's style?
With ekes and alfos tack thy ftrain,
Great Bard! and fing the deathlefs prince
Who loft Namur the fame campaign
He bought Dixmuyd, and plunder'd Deynfe.
I'll hold ten pound my dream is out;
I'd tell it you but for the rattle
Of thofe confounded drums: no doubt
Yon bloody rogues intend a battle.
Dear me a hundred thousand French
VOL. I.
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