THE Prince of Orange's Glory;  
And the DOWNFALL of the PRIESTS & JESUITS.  
To the Tune of, Hark how the Thundering Cannons roar.  

I.  
PRince William of Nassaw is on our Land,  
Let trembling Jesuits quaking stand,  
To see the Sword drawn in his Hand;  
His Armies do him follow,  
That in our Blood would've washed their Hands,  
But they shall sink in the Quicksands:  
And Hell shall them all swallow.   

II.  
Now to this Prince I freely drink,  
A full brim Bowl, and never shrink;  
There's few but love him; I do think,  
He stands for Magna Charta:  
How can we then but Sing and Dance,  
To see brave Orange to advance,  
To confound those Fiends of France,  
That would subdue our Charter?   

III.  
The Irish A-cron-a-cre may go  
Down to the Infernal Fiends below,  
Ne'er to appear in open Show,  
To see brave London's Splendour.  
The Prince of Orange and his Train,  
Are not landed here in vain,  
But our Freedoms will maintain;  
Huzza's to him we will render.   

IV.  
The Whore of Babylon, God confound,  
With all their Plottings under Ground,  
Their Sound is gone the Nation round;  
It is a dreadful Story:  
But when the Prince agrees with the King,  
Every Bell in the City shall ring,  
In our Freedoms we will sing,  
And triumph in their Glory.   

V.  
Then let's unite them both in one,  
The Royal Father with the Son,  
And in union let them run,  
For we are all surrounded:  
Consume those Jesuits that contrive  
Bridles to hang Men up alive,  
Curse on their Stomaches, they ne'er shall thrive,  
But all shall be confounded.   

VI  
Now the Pope and the Devil are at a loss,  
To see their Invention prove so cross,  
Their Golden Calves are now but dross,  
The Devil at them wonder:  
But wait a while, and we shall see,  
The Pope and the Devil together flee,  
From the Highest to the Lowest degree,  
They all shall be brought under.    

LONDON, Printed in the Year 1689.