A BROADSIDE MORE FOR THE DUTCH: OR, The Belgic Lion couchant.  

THen quaff no more, thou drunken Jack-a-dandy,  
Our English Blood more spirit has than Brandy:  
Have ye not Hearts to answer your design,  
Until you get your Hogsheads full of Wine?  
Know Brandy does into your Brains intrude  
Rather a Frenzy, than true Fortitude.  
How did ye beg the Wind to swell your Sail?  
Trusting your Yard-arms, where your own Arms fail.  
Your Hogen Mogen stood in desperate Need,  
To send to Egypt for a rotten Reed.  
But stay! Your Fleet with our Hamburger Meets,  
Sure to provide Ye of your winding Sheets:  
Did ye suppose (fond Swobs) the Mackrel loath  
To dine on You, without a Tablecloth?  
That fear was needless, they would feast on You;  
And take your Canvas for a Carpet too:  
Sure Brawn will come to be a dainty Dish,  
When Boars are made a Banquet to the Fish.  
Devils again have entered the Unclean,  
And the herd's choked in sight of Gadarene;  
Their Tops they lower, and their Top Gallants too,  
No, Hogen Mogen, all are Low-Dutch Now.  
Be what they will: Twenty Genevah Sermons  
Are never like to make us Cousin Germane.  
Brag on, and boast still, yet the English slight ye;  
Ye may be High, but sure Ye are not Mighty.  
He is too prodigal of Fame that Rates  
You other now, than poor distressed States.  
Throw up the Cards, You see your Game is lost,  
England has turned a Trump up to your Cost.  
You the third Coat-Card, we the two best have,  
And all Men know, the King will hang the Knave.  
We see your tricks (mine here) and give you but  
The leave to shuffel, 'cause we mean to Cut;  
To our advantage too: And to be plain,  
If You deal false, than We will Cut again.  
No, if You fight the prize with English men,  
Your Admirals must play above Board then;  
Poor Evertse was doubly overcome,  
First to be beat abroad and then at home:  
But what made Trump set up his Hogen Broom?  
Did he for Boots, or Shoes, or old Hats come?  
Or if, to sweep the Channel (as some Say)  
He may be set a work here every day.  
The Broom is Chymnie proof; get it but in,  
And Trump may soon turn up a Sooterkin.  
But (Swobbers) cease your high and mighty brags,  
We need but Mackrel Boats, to take your Flags;  
We boast of Nothing (Lord of Hosts) but Thee,  
Whose only Goodness gave us Victory.  
Our well tuned Bells and Canons kept even Ranks,  
Whilst Bonfires were the Altars of our Thanks;  
The Boars had Bonfires too, as well as We,  
Only ours were at home, but theirs at sea:  
Their Fireships did in us no Terror strike;  
We were resolved to make them all alike:  
Why should the Dutch our Collier's then Desire:  
They need no Coals to set their Ships afire:  
Thanks to his Royal Highness James the Great,  
And Brave Prince Rupert, for this Grand Defeat:  
Thanks to the Admirals, and all the Rest;  
Who all so Fought, as Every one fought Best.    

Printed at London, and reprinted at Edinburgh, 1665.