A Welcome SONG, Performed to the KING and QUEEN, At GUILDHALL, October 29. 1692.  
'TIS so, that must the Signal be,  
The bold increasing Joy declares 'tis He:  
William our Royal Master comes again,  
William the Favourite sound of Heaven and Men,  
The Echoing Guns, the pleasing News Proclaim,  
And endless Shouts, Repeat and Bless the Name.  
What Offerings shall we bring  
To welcome home our Friend, our Saviour, and our King?  
Our Friend, nor does the King that Term disdain,  
He makes our Interest, our only Chain;  
Nor will as Tyrant, o'er a murmuring People Reign.  
What Generous Britain's will you do,  
Your Pious Gratitude to show?  
For much you have received, and much you owe.  
His early Labours give you ease,  
His Dangers dearly buy your Peace.  
What hath He not performed, what doth He not endure,  
Your Freedom, and your Altars to secure?  
What Generous Britain's will you do,  
Your Pious Gratitude to show?  
In gladsome Songs our Thanks we'll give,  
With Joys untaught, unbid, our King receive;  
Our Virgins shall before Good David Dance,  
And sprightly Youths with the Gay Throng advance.  
Fresh Garlands Beauteous Fingers shall prepare,  
And living Odours shall perfume the Air.  
With pompous Trophies we will Treat his Eyes,  
Trophies, whose Heads, above the Clouds shall rise,  
Whose Artful Splendour shall outshine the Skies.  
Harmonious Magic shall the Evening close,  
And lull the wearied HERO to Repose.  
Thus Sybarites should make their Court,  
When they Triumphantly bring home  
Their slothful Kings, who from safe Conquests come,  
From Ravished Maids, and Temples burnt in sport.  
We must not thus our Master Entertain,  
William such studied Luxuries will disdain.  
Nor can your feeble Music reach an Ear,  
Used to the Nobler Noise of War, through all the rolling Year.  
What Generous Britain's will you do,  
Your Pious Gratitude to show?  
He shall with Heaven divide our Praise,  
We'll Incense burn, and Altars raise.  
Such servile Homage cannot please the Brave,  
The HERO hates the Impious, and the Slave:  
Those Offerings should to Heaven alone be paid,  
And our Good Master truly Just,  
Not swayed by any lawless Lust,  
Heaven's Sacred Rights will ne'er invade.  
What Generous Britain's will you do,  
Your Pious Gratitude to show?  
Loaden with Gold, our King we'll meet,  
And pour our Treasures at His Feet.  
Yet He will be no Richer than before;  
'Tis for your Service He receives your Ore,  
And drains his own Hereditary Store.  
What e'er you give, is your own gain,  
Your Gold returns in showers again;  
The Royal Fingers touch not it,  
You give your Army, and your Fleet:  
Your niggard Loan your Plenty buys,  
Supports your Trade, and your Allies.  
Our Master doth no Treasure ●oard:  
No costly Ointments Grace His Head,  
He lolls not on a Downy Bed.  
No Cleopatra pays, nor knows a Sumptuous Board.  
What Generous Britain's will you do,  
Your Pious Gratitude to show?  
We'll for our Sacred Master Fight,  
Defend His Person, and Protect His Right.  
Alas, your Master Fights for you,  
Or little would your boasted Courage do:  
He Taught the Naked Britain's how to Fight,  
Made War their Art, as well as their Delight.  
With Pious Care He manages their Force,  
Informs their Fury, and directs their Course.  
The Soldiers seeming Aid He well may spare,  
He Orders, and He Fights, and is alone the War.  
What Generous Britain's will you do,  
Your Pious Gratitude to show?  
What is't, alas, we can do more?  
His Benefits exceeds our Store.  
With honest care, we the account survey,  
Allow the mighty Debt, but never hope to pay.  
Yet what to willing Britain's is denied,  
Heaven by proportioned Bounty hath supplied,  
Heaven which our British Mary made his Bride.  
Equal Rewards in Her His Labours find,  
In Her the Blessing of our Eyes, the Joy of Humane Kind.  
Beyond this Boon, what can the King receive?  
What has indulgent Heaven besides to give?  
It has; That they may long together live.  
Let us then beg with bold resistless Prayer,  
That Heaven would lend us long the Royal Pair,  
And make its Favourite work its Favourite Care.  
We with concerning pleasure shall look on,  
And in Their Happiness behold our own,  
The Blessing bound to us, that on Their Heads are thrown.  
Here end the Song, here cease the feeble Lays,  
Silence is better than unequal Praise.  
The Panting Muse with generous Fury burns,  
But oh the never ceasing Theme returns,  
She flags her Pinions, and her Weakness Mourns.  
Yet still She strives, and her last Accents say  
Be Happy Freeborn Britain's while you may,  
And learn to value the important Day:  
The Happiness which by your Labouring Stars is meant▪  
Your Folly, and your Baseness only can prevent.  
Remember This, the Muse no more will say  
Be Happy Freeborn Britain's while you may:  
Remember what you were, and what you are;  
Review the Horrors of your late despair.  
Think to what Head, and to what Hand you owe  
All that Brave Men can value here below;  
Think this, and then, etc.  
Nobly your Faith and Gratitude display,  
Sincerely Love, and Cheerfully Obey.   

LONDON, Printed by R. Everingham, 1692.