THE ARRIVAL and WELCOME OF Mr. GEORGE WALKER, Late Governor of LONDON-DERRY, in IRELAND.  

NO Poet's left? are they all sent to Play?  
And do the Muses now keep holiday?  
Can WALKER, Derry's Governor be here?  
And none salute Him? None in Print appear?  
Ungrateful Age! I doubt we do inherit,  
Like Bays, too much of the Red-lettered Spirit,  
I'll venture out, though late, whatever comes on't,  
Without regard to malice, or affront:  
WALKER's Arrival, shall with me prevail,  
And I'm resolved to pay him, his first Hail.  
Hail mighty Man, to King and Kingdom true,  
Great Son of Mars, and of Minerva too.  
Thou Man of double strength, of tongue, and hand,  
Canst Preach with one, with th'other canst Command.  
Saint Peter's Keys, and Saint Paul's two edged Sword,  
Did never better in one Soul accord.  
Doctor, or Hero, oh! What shall I call  
This Divine Man, who is both these, and all.  
Welcome, thrice welcome to our English shore,  
Surely our Ships did make their Cannons roar,  
For joy they brought so great a Cargo'ore.  
Welcome once more unto the British Coast,  
Thou who so bravely didst defend thy Post.  
And do the work of the great Lord of Host.  
Our Bells should busy be, with their loud voice,  
And flames in streets, to make us all rejoice,  
Te Deum's in our Churches should be sung,  
And all the Irish Harps now newly strung,  
But amidst all the Consort, 'tis the heart,  
Should bear the largest, and the longest part.  
Thus Voices, Arts, and Hearts, should we advance,  
To praise our God for thy Deliverance,   

Since WALKER's work in Derry's brave Defence,  
Was Scotland's Rampart, and was England's Fence.   

What was more great? What could be yet more brave?  
Then by one Act, three Kingdoms thus to save?  
Cease, Greece, and Rome, your Worthies then to boast,  
Should we Compare, yours would be wholly lost;  
Candia of her long Siege must silent be,  
And Stetin too bears not the bell from Thee.  
Buda, that baffled one Campagne must yield,  
And Belgrade likewise will resign her shield;   

These fought, and bravely too, but yet did fall,  
WALKER kept Derry, and out did them all,   

And yet their Griefs, were mounted to our price,  
To be reduced to Cats, and Rats, and Mice;  
Dog's head in Porridge pot, made us good Broth,  
And was no empty Sign, but real Troth;  
We thought, like Tartars, Horses very good,  
Scarce potted Venison, to be better food;  
By which extremes, we were so sharply tried,  
That, to speak truth, We neither lived, nor died;  
Yet, as in sleep, we see grim Death, and live,  
So were our miseries, Death's Perspective;  
So once the Mighty Prophet in the Den,  
So the three Children died, and lived again;  
And so did we, when every dismal hour,  
Some of us Death did kindly too devour;   

Here some lay starved, others they're happier shot;  
Such were our Objects, still upon the spot.   

And yet we fought, and raised our spirits so,  
That we despised, repelled, and slayed the Foe;  
So little were our Strengths, our Numbers less,  
We sometimes blushed at our own great Success,  
Which we near feared, the Cause had such strange odds,  
Theirs was all empty Idol, ours all God's.  
Then Peer these acts, amongst all ancient story,  
And show the Man, that deserves greater glory.   

'Tis WALKER then, who Ireland has preserved,  
And the great Mitre there for this deserved,  
And for whom Heavenly treasures are reserved.   

Now, that our WALKER is gone off the Stage,  
Enter Great SCHOMBERG, I error of the Age,  
March Thundering Marshal, with thy conquering Arms,  
Thy Name's a Spell, and give's thy Army Charms.  
The Holy War like WALKER led the van,  
May Thou as prosperous end, as he began;   

We know, fear is all stranger unto Thee,  
Thou knowst not, whether such a Passion be;   

Or if there be, Thou leav'st it to thy Foes,  
And such dull heads, as dare thy Arms oppose.  
victories thy Conduct always did attend,  
Triumphs ought now to Crown its latter end;  
This Work's beneath thee, Ireland will not bleed,  
Thy very word, almost, will do the Deed.   

Hunt them to Death, for to do Dear-Joyes right,  
They know, what 'tis to fly, not what to fight.  
Then Chat no more, Ireland's already won.  
SCHOMBERG has conquered, Talbot's work's undone.   

Thus make Dispatch, That heigthened France may feel,  
The sharpened Edge of thy Victorious Steel,  
There, make Descent, and when thou dost invade,  
To their great griefs, They'll find their Lilies fade:  
And since they did great part of Dutchland burn,  
Advance to Paris, and make that, an Urn:  
But once appear, and they will quickly yield,  
thou'rt Marshal there, and ought'st Command in Field.   

Thus Conquer on, and restore England's Glory,  
That both with Grandeur may be read in Story;  
England for these last eight and twenty Years,  
Has still declined, and yet ought be in tears;  
Rouse Her now Dormant Lions from their Den,  
And make them at least passant once again;  
So mayst thou to thy own Name, Honour bring,  
Glory to Her, and Her Most Graci'ous KING,  
And then for All, We will due Praises Sing.   
Licenced and Entered according to Order.   

LONDON, Printed by H. Hills, Jun. and Sold by R. Taylor, 1689.