THE BELGIC BOOR.  
A New SONG, to the Old Tune of Chevy Chase.  

GOd Prosper long our Noble King,  
Our Hopes and Wishes all;  
A fatal Landing late there did  
In Devonshire befall.   

To drive our Monarch from his Throne,  
Prince Naso took his way;  
The Babe may rue that's newly born,  
The Landing at Torbay.   

The stubborn Tarquin void of Grace,  
A Vow to Hell does make,  
To force his Father Abdicate,  
And then his Crown to take.   

And eke the Royal Infant-Prince  
To seize or drive away;  
These Tidings to our Sovereign came,  
In Whitehall where he lay.   

Who unconcerned at the Report,  
At first would not believe,  
That any of his Royal Race  
Such Mischiefs could conceive.   

Till Time which ripens all Things, did  
The Villainy disclose;  
And of a Nephew and a Son  
Forged out the worst of Foes.   

Who by Infernal Instinct led,  
A Mighty Fleet prepares,  
His Father's Kingdoms to Invade,  
And fill his Heart with Cares.   

Our Gracious King desires to know  
What his Pretensions were,  
And how without his leave he durst  
Presume on Landing here.   

Declaring what was deemed amiss  
Should soon amended be,  
And whatsoever should be desired,  
He would thereto agree.   

And for a speedy Parliament  
He doth forthwith declare:  
The surly Brute not minding this  
Does to our Coast repair.   

With several Thousand Belgic Boors,  
All chosen Rogues for spite,  
Joined with some Rebels who from hence  
And Justice had ta'en flight.   

Who armed with Malice and with Hopes,  
Soon threw themselves on Shore;  
Crying our Religion and our Laws  
They came for to restore.   

Then Declarations flew about  
As thick as any Hail,  
Which (though no Word was e'er made good)  
Did mightily prevail.   

We must be Papists or be Slaves  
Was then the General Cry;  
But we'll do any thing to save  
Our Darling Liberty.   

We'll all join with a Foreign Prince,  
Against our Lawful King;  
For he from all our fancied Fears  
Deliverance doth bring.   

And if what he declares prove true,  
As who knows but it may;  
Were he the Devil of a Prince  
We'll rather him obey.   

Then our Allegiance let's cast off,  
James shall no longer guide us;  
And though the French would bridle us,  
None but the Dutch shall ride us.   

And those who will not join with us  
In this Design so Brave,  
Their Houses we'll pull down or burn,  
And seize on what they have.   

These growing Evils to prevent,  
Our King his Force does bend;  
But amongst those he most did trust  
He scarce had left one Friend.   

O how my very Heart does bleed,  
To think how basely they  
Who long had eaten Royal Bread,  
Their Master did betray.   

And those to whom he'd been most kind,  
And greatest Favours shown,  
Appeared to be the very first  
Who sought him to Dethrone.   

O Compton! Langston! and the rest  
Who basely from him ran;  
Your Names for ever be accursed  
By every English man.   

Proud Tarquin he pursues his Game,  
And quickly makes it plain,  
He came not to redress our Wrongs,  
But England's Crown to gain.   

And o'er his Father's mangled Fame,  
His Chariot proudly drives,  
Whilst he good Man, although in vain,  
To pacify him strives.   

But he Ingrateful! would not hear  
His Offers though so kind,  
But caused the Noble Messenger  
Forthwith to be confined.   

He brings his nasty Croaking Crew  
Unto his Father's Gate,  
Dismissed his own, makes them his Guard,  
O dismal Turn of Fate!   

Also at Midnight drives him thence,  
O horrid Impious thing!  
Were such Affronts e'er offered to  
A Father and a King.   

A King so Great! so Good! so Just!  
So Merciful to all!  
His Virtue was his only Fault,  
And that which caused his Fall.   

Who now is forced his Life to save  
To fly his native Land,  
And leave his Sceptre to be grasped  
By an ungracious Hand.   

Hell's Journeymen are straight convened,  
Who rob God of his Power,  
Set up themselves a Stork-like King,  
The Subjects to devour.   

And to secure his Lawless Throne,  
Now give him all we have,  
And make each Freeborn English Heart  
Become a Belgic Slave.   

The Bar, the Pulpit, and the Press  
Infatuously combine,  
To cry up a Usurped Power,  
And stamp it Right Divine.   

Our Loyalty we must melt down  
And have it coined anew,  
For what was current heretofore,  
Will now no longer do.   

Our Fetters we ourselves put on,  
Ourselves, ourselves do bubble;  
Our Conscience a mere Packhorse make,  
Which now must carry double.   

O England! when to future Times  
Thy Story shall be known,  
How will they blush to think what Crimes  
Their Ancestors have done.   

But after all, what have we got  
By this our dear-bought King?  
Why! that our Scandal and Reproach  
Throughout the World does ring.   

That our Religion, Liberties,  
And Laws we held so dear,  
Are more Invaded since this Change  
Than ever yet they were.   

Our Coffers drained, our Coin impaired,  
That little that remains;  
Our Persons seized, nay Thoughts arraigned,  
Our Freedom now is Chains.   

Our Traffic ruined, Shipping lost,  
Our Traders most undone;  
Our bravest Hero's sacrificed,  
Our ancient Glory gone.   

A Fatal Costly War entailed,  
On this unhappy Isle;  
Unless above what we deserve,  
Kind Heaven at last does smile.   

And bring our Injured Monarch Home,  
And Place Him on his Throne;  
And to Confusion bring his Foes  
Which God grant may be soon.    

LONDON, Printed in the Year MDCXC