THE Farmer's Son of Devonshire: BEING The Valiant Coronets Return from Flanders, who endeavoured to persuade his, Brother Jack to forsake the Blow, and to take up Arms the next Spring; which he refused to do, because he was loath to have his sweet Wife joan.  
Tune of Mary live long  

Licenced according to Order.   

 
 

Well met Brother Jack,  
I have been in Flanders,  
With valiant Commanders,  
And am returned back  
to England again,  
Where a while I shall stay,  
And shall then march away;  
I'm an Officer now;  
Go wi●h me dear Brother,  
Go with me dear Brother,  
and lay by the Blow.   

I tell thee Old Boy,  
The Son of a Farmer  
In glittering Armour,  
May kill and destroy,  
as many proud French,  
As a 'Squire or Knight,  
having Courage to fight,  
then Valiantly go  
In Arms like a Soldier,  
In Arms like a Soldier,  
to face the proud Foe.   

But, dear Brother Will.  
you are a vine Vellow,  
and talk mighty Mellow,  
But what if they kill  
thy poor Brother Jack,  
By the Pounce of a Gun,  
If they should I'm undone,  
and ruined quite,  
You know that I never,  
You know that I never,  
had Courage to fight   

If you will advance  
in Arms like a Soldier,  
the Nation's Upholder,  
A fortunate Chance  
your Portion may be:  
All that goes are not slain,  
You may return again,  
with Victory here,  
There's no Men but Cowards,  
There's no Men but Cowards,  
are subject to fear,   

Each timorous Soul,  
when Trumpets are sounding,  
and Cannons rebounding,  
he fears no control,  
nor Death in the least,  
When the Smoke does arise,  
And darkens the Skies,  
we fall on amain,  
That Trophies of Honour,  
That Trophies of Honour,  
in Field we may gain.   

King William you know,  
in heat of the Battle,  
when Guns they do rattle,  
he venter's also,  
then what shall we fear,  
When an Army is lead  
By a Crowned Royal Head,  
it baffles all fear,  
And makes Soldiers fire.  
And makes Soldiers fire,  
from the Front to the Rear.    

JACK's Answer  

The King, I confess,  
he errors by power,  
the French to devour;  
Let Providence bless  
his conquering Arms:  
I would do the sam● thing,  
If I were to be King,  
and make the French groan,  
Till then loving Brother,  
Till then, loving Brother,  
pray let me alone.   

The Enemy's Men  
with Horror will fill me,  
perhaps they may kill me,  
And where am I then?  
this runs in my mind;  
Should I chance to be Lame,  
Will the Trophies of Fame  
keep me from sad Groans,  
A Fig for that Honour.  
A Fig for that Honour,  
which brings broken Bones.   

Such Honour I scorn,  
I'd rather be Mowing,  
nay, Ploughing or Sowing,  
Or threshing of Corn,  
at home in a Barn,  
Then to leave Joan my Wife,  
And to lose my sweet Life,  
in Peace let me dwell;  
I am not for fight,  
I am not for fight,  
so Brother Farewell.     

Printed for J. Deacon, at the Angel in Gilt-spur-street, without Newgate.