Hat are these Ideots doing,
That daily their Feuds advance;
As if they were pursuing,
New ways to favour France?
For shame give over your Dance;
Your National danger see;
No longer forfeit your sense,
But agree, ye rash Britains, agree.
Whilst strange and trivial Reasons,
The whimsical Brain allures;
You lose the happy Season,
That shou'd encourage your Powers.
The Monsieur is at your Doors,
And if he received must be ;
The Shame and the Scandal is Yours:
Then agree, ye Rash Britains agree.
Ye Soaring High-flown People,
In Politicks so profound,
You climb so high on your Steeple,
It makes your Brain turn round.
Consider how you lose Ground,
If Foreigners Master be,
Whilst you with Maggots abound;
Then agree, silly Britains, agree.
And you, whose senseless Jargon,
Contentious Night and Morn,
Declaims against an Organ,
As 'twere a Sow-gelder's Horn:
Let Concord's Power adorn
Your Hearts, if wise you'll be,
Nor longer merit a Scorn;
But agree, silly Britains, agree.
'Tis known you are richly landed,
And you have a place at Court;
And you the Bank have commanded,
And you have two Ships in Port,
Yet still ye Reason retort;
And if ye ruin'd must be,
'Tis all rank Folly in short;
Then agree, silly Britains, agree.
Religious Safety doubted
Still makes the Nation groan, You make such Stirs about it, Some Wise Heads think you But all is for Interest done,
As faith it likely may be,
Let that Point stated be known,
And agree, ye rash Britains, agree.
Sung by Mrs. Balwin, in the Kingdom of the Birds.
UG, jug, jug, jug, jug, jug, jug,
jug, jug, jug, jug, jug, jug,
The jolly Philomel upon the Hawthorn sings, The jolly Philomel upon the Hawthorn sings, sings, upon the Hawthorn sings.
Happy we, that all, all excel
In what true Pleasures, true Pleasures bring;
Yet one Island, one Island lyes below,
Who, did they but the Blessing know,
They reap by Glorious Means,
Wou'd raise their tuneful Voices high,
And never cease this Song of Joy,
Long live the best of Queens,
Long live the best of Queens.
|