You in your harbours lurk for fear, Not thinking such bad news to hear; We scorn to come and steal your sheep, And then like thieves away to creep: Your towns to burn, and ships to fire, Is work that Englishmen desire. _Then, Hogan Mogans, b’ware your pates, For now we shall make you distressed States._ Sir Robert Holmes, that valiant knight Had orders upon Tuesday night The Uly Island for to burn And quite destroy’t ere he return: Sir Philip Howard did him assist, Sir William Jennings he did his best. _Then, Hogan Mogans, curse your fates, For now we shall make you distressed States._ They chose eleven hundred men To pull the Dutch out of their den; With fire-ships, ketches, boats, and hoyes, Well mann’d with lusty English boyes: With joyful hearts they leave the fleet, And sayle away their foes to meet. _Then, Hogan Mogans, curse your fates, For now we shall make you distressed States._ At length they spy’d without all faile One hundred and seventy saile Of merchant ships which anchored were In Uly road, being void of fear. Sir Robert Holmes he thought it meet With fire-ships to destroy that fleet. _Then, Hogan Mogans, ’ware your pates, For now we shall make you distressed States._ So hotly they pursued the game That straight the fleet was on a flame: Some frigats which the rest did guard, Just like their neighbours, so they far’d; Our men most furiously were bent, And burnt them down incontinent. _Then, Hogan Mogans, ’ware your pates, For now we shall make you distressed States._ This being done away we haste, The Schelling Island for to waste, And there we fright our cowardly foes, And land our men where none oppose. Then up we martch into the isle, Our crafty foes for to beguile. _Then, Hogan and Mogans, ’ware your pates, For now we shall make you distressed States._ When they heard of our coming nigh, Away they fled, all that could flye, And left their goods and all the rest, To be dispos’d as we thought best. The bravest town in all that place We burnt quite down and did deface. _Now, Hogan Mogans, beware your pates, For now we shall make you distressed States._ Our men had plunder there good store, To make them rich, they’l ne’er be poor; They brought away great store of plate, And now they quaff their cups in state; Their cabbins are like gold-smith shops, God send us many such like crops. _Now, Hogan Mogans, curse your fates, For now we shall make you distressed States._