THE ARRIVAL and WELCOME OF M r. GEORGE WALKER, Late Governour of LONDON-DERRY, in IRELAND.
NO Poet's left? are they all sent to Play?
And do the Muses now keep holy-day?
Can WALKER,
Derry's Governour be here?
And none salute Him? None in Print appear?
Ungrateful Age! I doubt we do inherit,
Like
Bayes, too much of the Red-Letter'd Spirit,
I'le venture out, though late, what'ere comes on't,
Without regard to malice, or affront:
WALKER's Arrival, shall with me prevail,
And I'me resolv'd to pay him, his first Hail.
Hail mighty Man, to King and Kingdom true,
Great Son of
Mars, and of
Minerva too.
Thou Man of double strength, of tongue, and hand,
Can'st Preach with one, with th'other can'st Command.
Saint
Peter's Keyes, and Saint
Paul's two edg'd Sword,
Did never better in one Soul accord.
Doctor, or Hero, oh! What shall I call
This Divine Man, who is both these, and all.
Welcome, thrice welcome to our
English shoar,
Surely our Ships did make their Cannons roar,
For joy they brought so great a Cargo'ore.
Welcome once more unto the
British Coast,
Thou who so bravely did'st defend thy Post.
And do the work of the great Lord of
Hoast.
Our Bells should busy be, with their loud voice,
And flames in streets, to make us all rejoyce,
Te Deum's in our Churches should be sung,
And all the
Irish Harps now newly strung,
But amidst all the Consort, 'tis the heart,
Should bear the largest, and the longest part.
Thus Voices, Arts, and Hearts, should we advance,
To praise our God for thy Deliverance,
Since WALKER's work in
Derry's brave Defence,
Was
Scotland's Rampart, and was
England's Fence.
What was more great? What could be yet more brave?
Then by one Act, three Kingdoms thus to save?
Cease,
Greece, and
Rome, your Worthyes then to boast,
Should we Compare, yours would be wholly lost;
Candia of her long Seige must silent be,
And
Stetin too beares not the bell from Thee.
Buda, that baffled one Campagne must yeild,
And
Belgrade likewise will resign her sheild;
These fought, and bravely too, but yet did fall,
WALKER kept
Derry, and out did them all,
And yet their Greifs, were mounted to our price,
To be reduc'd to Catts, and Ratts, and Mice;
Dog's head in Porridge pott, made us good Broth,
And was no empty Sign, but reall Troth;
We thought, like
Tartars, Horses very good,
Scarce potted Ven'son, to be better food;
By which extrems, we were so sharply try'd,
That, to speak truth, We neither liv'd, nor dy'd;
Yet, as in sleep, we see grim Death, and live,
So were our miseries, Death's Perspective;
So once the Mighty Prophet in the Den,
So the three Children dy'd, and liv'd agen;
And so did we, when ev'ry dismal hour,
Some of us Death did kindly too devour;
Here some lay starv'd, others the're happyer shot;
Such were our Objects, still upon the spot.
And yet we fought, and rais'd our spirits so,
That we despis'd, repell'd, and slay'd the Fo;
So little were our Strengths, our Numbers less,
We sometimes blush'd at our own great Success,
Which we near fear'd, the Cause had such strange odds,
Their's was all empty Idol, our's all God's.
Then Peere these acts, amongst all ancient story,
And shew the Man, that deserves greater glory.
'Tis WALKER then, who
Ireland has preserv'd,
And the great Miter there for this deserv'd,
And for whom Heav'nly treasures are reserv'd.
Now, that our WALKER is gon off the Stage,
Enter Great SCHOMBERG, I error of the Age,
March Thundering Marshal, with thy conqu'ring Arms,
Thy Name's a Spell, and give's thy Army Charms.
The Holy War like WALKER led the van,
May Thou as prosperous end, as he began;
We know, fear is all stranger unto Thee,
Thou know'st not, whether such a Passion be;
Or if there be, Thou leav'st it to thy Foes,
And such dull heads, as dare thy Arms oppose.
Vict'ries thy Conduct always did attend,
Triumphs ought now to Crown its latter end;
This Work's beneath thee,
Ireland will not bleed,
Thy very word, almost, will do the Deed.
Hunt them to Death, for to do
Dear-Joyes right,
They know, what 'tis to fly, not what to fight.
Then Chat no more,
Ireland's already wone.
SCHOMBERG has conquer'd,
Talbot's work's undone.
Thus make Dispatch, That heigthen'd
France may feel,
The sharpen'd Edge of thy Victorious Steel,
There, make Descent, and when thou dost invade,
To their great greifs, They'l find their Lillies fade:
And since they did great part of Dutchland burn,
Advance to
Paris, and make that, an Urn:
But once appear, and they will quickly yeild,
Thou'rt Marshal there, and ought'st Command in Field.
Thus Conquer on, and restore
England's Glory,
That both with Grandeur may be read in Story;
England for these last eight and twenty Years,
Has still declin'd, and yet ought be in tears;
Rouse Her now Dormant Lyons from their Den,
And make them at least passant once agen;
So mayst thou to thy own Name, Honour bring,
Glory to Her, and Her Most Graci'ous KING,
And then for All, We will due Praises Sing.
Licensed and Entred according to Order.
LONDON, Printed by H. Hills, Jun. and Sold by R. Taylor, 1689.