The New Medley: Or, A Song composed of the Rairest Tunes.  

The Scots.  

I Am a bonny Scot Sir, my name is Mickle John  
'Twas I was in the Plot Sir, when first the war begun  
I left the Court one thousand six hundred forty one  
But since the flight at Worcester fight we are all undone;  
I served my Lord and Master, when as he ligged at home  
Our cause did shrink, God's bread I think  
The Déel's got in his room  
He no man fears, but stamps and stairs  
Through all Christendom.   

I have travelled much ground  
Since I came from Worcester pound  
I have ganged a gallant round  
Through all our neighbouring Nations;  
And what their opinions are  
Unto you I shall declare  
Of the Scotch and English war  
And their approbations  
We were beaten tag and rag  
Foot and leg, wem and crag  
Hark I hear the Dutchmen brag  
And begin to bluster.    

The Dutch.  
God's Sacrament, shall Hogen Mogen States  
strike down their Topsayls unto puny powers  
Ten hundred tun of Devil dam the fates  
if all their ships and goods do not prove ours,  
Since that bloody wounds delight them  
tantara rara let the Trumpet sound.  
Let Vantrump go out and fight them  
Eldest States should first he crowned  
English Schellums fight not on God's side  
But alas they have given our Flemish Boats such a broad side,  
That we shall be forced to retreat  
See the Frenchman cometh in complete.   

The French.  
Begar Mounsieur, 'tis much in vain  
For Dutchland, France, or Spain,  
To cross the English Nation  
They are now grown so strong.  
The Devil ere't be long  
Must learn the English tongue  
'Tis better that we should combine  
And sell them Wine,  
And learn of them to make a Lady fine  
we'll learn of them to trip and mince  
To kick and wince,  
For by the sword we never shall convince  
Since every Brewer there can beat a Prince.   

The Spaniard.  
What are the English so quarrelsome grown  
That they cannot of late let their Neighbours alone  
And shall a great and a Catholic King  
Let's Sceptre be controlled by a sword or a fling  
Or shall Austria endure  
such affronts for to be  
No we'll tumble down their power  
as you shall Senior see.   

The Welsh.  
Taffy was once a Coddy Mighty of Wales  
but her Cousin O. P. was a Creature  
Come into her Country Cod's splutter-analls  
her take up her Welsh Hook and beat her  
Her eat up her Shéese, her Turkey and Geese  
her Pig and her Capon did die for't,  
Ap Robert, ap Evan, ap Morgan, ap Stephan,  
but Shinking and Powel did fly for't   

The Irish.  
O hone, O hone, poor. Irish Shan  
must howl and cry  
Saint Patrick help thy Countryman  
or faith and troth we die;  
The English still do us pursue  
and we are forced to flee  
Saint Patrick help, we have no Saint but thee  
Let's cry no longer O hone a Cram a Crée.   

The English.  
A Crown, a Crown, make room  
The English man doth come  
Whose valour is taller than all Christendom.  
The Spanish, French, and Dutch, Scots, Welsh, and Irish grudge.  
We fear not, we care not, for we can deal with such  
When ye did begin in a Civil war to waste  
Ye thought that our Tillage you pillage should be at last,  
And when that we could not agree, you did think to share our fall  
But ye find it worse near stir, for we shall noose ye all.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for Fran▪ Grove on Snow-hill. Entered according to Order.