Bow then to Charles, distressed States, After so many broken pates, _With a thump, thump still upon thump, etc._ Beg peace, or next your banks shall rue, And we will give the Divel his due; He shall take Monsieur, the sea drown you; _Then are ye both thumpt, and mumpt, and mumpt, etc._ Now, to conclude, I will take care, As ballads use to end with prayer, _With a thump, etc._; For ballads made of the old fashion Should still conclude with supplication For King and Queen, and the whole nation, _With a thump, etc._ God bless the Swede, he’s not our foe, And Spain’s King too, though France say no; _They both wish the Dutch well thumpt, thumpt, etc._ Heaven send our fleet auspicious gales, Our King and Queen a Prince of Wales, And then let who will bite their nayles _When we all our foes have thumpt and mumpt, etc._ _THE DUTCH DAMNIFIED; OR, THE BUTTER-BOXES BOB’D:_ Being a brief and true account how Sir Robert Holmes, Sir Philip Howard, and Sir William Jennings, with eleven companies of foot, five fire-ships, and some ketches and boats, burnt and destroy’d near a hundred and sixty saile of Dutch ships in the Uly; as also they burnt the rich town of Brandaris, in the Island of Schelling, consisting of above a thousand houses, richly furnisht, with goods of extraordinary value; our seamen and souldiers returning richly laden with their enemies’ spoyle, being sufficiently rewarded for their noble enterprise, and all this performed (by God’s Providence) with the losse of ten men on our side. The Tune is _A Fig for France and Holland too_, etc. Ring bells for joy, let none be sad, For now we have news will make you glad, Will make you blith and merry too To see how the Dutch are forc’d to bow: Their brags and boasts will not prevail, We’ll teach them for to lowre their sail. _Then, Hogan Mogans, b’ware your pates, For now we shall make you distressed States._ We paid you home in July last, And soundly did your sides bumbast; If that you had not swiftly run You surely had been quite undone: But now we are landed on your shore, And found the way to make you poor. _Then, Hogan Mogans, b’ware your pates, For now we shall make you distressed States._ For all your idle vain excuses E’re long we shall pull up your sluces; Our men have found a way to land, As you by this will understand: It will be but a bitter pill When such sad news your hearts do fill. _Then, Hogan Mogans, b’ware your pates, For now we shall make you distressed States._