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WE complain of Thee, O King, we acknowledge Thee to be an Hanoverian.

All Hungary doth worship Thee, the Captain Everlasting.

To Thee all Placemen cry aloud, the House of Lords, and all the Courtiers therein.

To Thee Carteret and Bath continually

do cry,

Warlike, warlike, warlike Captain General, of the Armies! Brunswick and Lunenburgh are full of the brightness of our coin.

The venal company of Peers praise Thee. The goodly fellowship of Ministers praise Thee.

The noble Army of Hanoverians praise Thee.

The Holy Bench of Bishops throughout the land doth acknowledge Thee.

Thine honourable, true and steady Son.
Also my Lady Yarmouth the comforter.

Thou art a glorious Prince, O King!

Thou art the ever charming Son of the Father.

When thou tookest upon Thee to deliver this nation, thou didst not abhor thy Father's example.

When thou hadst overcome the sharpness of want, thou didst open the smiles of thy favour to all believers in a Court.

Thou sittest at the right hand of

the Treasury of the Father.


We believe that thou shalt come to be our


We therefore pray Thee provide for thy servants, whom thou hast fed with thy renown.

Make them to be numbered with thy slaves in livery everlasting.

O King, spare thy people of England.

And now squeeze thy people of Hanover.
Govern them as Thou hast done us.

And confine them to their turnips for ever.
Day by day we sing ballads unto Thee.

And we bawl against Hanover, ever world without end.

Vouchsafe O King, to keep us this year without thy Hanoverians.

The Lord have Mercy upon us; the Lord have Mercy upon us.

O King let thy Mercy lighten our taxes, as our Credit should be in Thee.

O King in Thee have I trusted, let me not be confounded.

Valour be to the Father, common sense to the Son, and a young bed-fellow to the Countess of Yarmouth; as was not in the beginning, is not now, nor is ever like to be, world without end.






To the Tune of "Chevy Chace."

GOD prosper long our noble Peers,
And eke our Commons all;

A woful scuffle late there was,
Near Litigation-hall.

To drub a Peer, with mickle might,
Bold Crowle he took his way;

His Lordship's bones might rue that night,
The drubbing of that day.

* Lord Hervey.

With Cane uprear'd, in ireful hand,
Brave Crowle th' attack begun,
Which from his Lordship's batter'd sconce
Soon made the blood to run.

The Peer enrag'd, return'd the same,

Full fraught with fury dire,

His breast glow'd with indignant shame,

To be drubb'd by a 'squire.

Then thwick thwack fell the blows like hail,

On head, back, sides, and all;

Good Lord! how echo'd then the rooms! Near Litigation-hall.

Sir Blue-string* startled at the noise,
Cry'd out with might and main,

A plot upon the ministry,

We all shall here be slain.

* Sir Robert Walpole.

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