When arm’d all rebellious, like Vultures you rose, A Set of such Shahrags, you frighten’d the Crows; To rid the tir’d land of such Vermin as you, I groan’d with receiving but barely my Due. _Derry down_, &c. And still I’m in Hopes of another to come, For _Tyburn_ will certain at last be his Home; He’ll come from the Summit of Honour’s vast Height, With a Star and a Garter to dubb me a Knight.” _Derry down_, &c. His Passion now _Sawney_ no more could contain, “My Sword shall strait prove all thy Hopes are in vain”; So saying; he brandish’d it high in the Air, When strait a _Scotch_ Voice cry’d out--_Sawney_ forbear! _Derry down_, &c. The Phantom that spoke now appear’d in a trice, And to the fear’d _Scotsman_ thus gave his Advice: “Calm thy Breast that now boils with Vexation and Rage, And let what I speak thy Attention engage. _Derry down_, &c. No longer with Fury pursue this old Tree, His Back shall bear Vengeance for you and for me; For know, my dear Friend, the Time is at Hand, When with _Englishmen_, _Tyburn_ shall thin half the Land. _Derry down_, &c. The Case is revers’d by a good Friend of ours, All Treason is _English_, and Loyalty yours: Posts, Honour, and Profit all _Scotsmen_ await, While the Natives shall tremble and curse their hard Fate. _Derry down_, &c. The War is no more, and each Soldier and Tar, The Strength and the Bulwark of _England_ in War, Are coming to prove our Friend’s deep Penetration, As the first Sacrifice to our _Scotch Exaltation_.” _Derry down_, &c. Here ended the Phantom, and sunk in the Ground, While the blue Flames of Hell glar’d terrible round; When for _London_ young _Sawney_ around turn’d his Eyes, Where he march’d for a Place in the _new-rais’d_ /Excise/. _Derry down_, &c. Ye National Schemers, come tell me, I pray, Your Intention in this. _To bring more Scotch in play_! For this must the Tax be enforc’d with all Speed, For Thousands are coming between _here_ and _Tweed_. _Derry down_, &c. Ah! hapless _Old England_, no longer be merry, Since _B--_ has thus tax’d your Beer, Cyder and Perry; Look sullen and sad, for now this is done, No doubt in short Time they’ll tax _Laughing_ and _Fun_. _Derry down_, &c. Yet let the Proud Laird, who presides at the Helm, Extend his Excise to each Thing in the Realm: A Tax on _Spring-Water_ I think would be right, For _Water_, ’tis known, is as common as _Light_. _Derry down_, &c.