Tho’ we have reigned awhile we must die, etc., Tho’ we have reigned awhile we must die; Tho’ we have reigned awhile, While fortune seemed to smile, Now on the British Isle we must die. Farewel the ocean main, we must die, etc., Farewel the ocean main, we must die; Farewel the ocean main: The coast of France or Spain We ne’er shall see again; we must die. From Newgate now in carts we must go, etc., [From Newgate now in carts we must goe;] From Newgate now in carts, With sad and heavy hearts, To have our due deserts we must go. Some thousands they will flock when we die, Some thousands they will flock when we die, Some thousands they will flock To Execution Dock, Where we must stand the shock and must die. _A SATYR ON THE SEA-OFFICERS; OR, A LONG PROLOGUE TO A SHORT PLAY;_ Spoken by a woman at Oxford, dress’d like a sea-officer. By Sir H. S. With Monmouth cap, and cutlace by my side, Striding at least a yard at every stride, I’m come to tell you, after much petition, The Admiralty has given me a commission: And now with Bully Tourville I’ll ingage, And try my fortune on a floating stage. What blustring tarr at this dares take offence, While I stand thus to prove my just pretence? Will he pretend to fight better than I? Ad’s death I’d tell him, ‘Damn you, sir, you lye,’ And then I’d ask him how they fought at Rye. Your Bantry business too was but a fetch, Where you call’d running, battering at a stretch; But you’ll reply your leaders were to blame, While I condemn you all to bear the shame. For who the Divel éer refus’d his meat Because another had no mind to eat? The Dutch were drunk, you barbarously say. Pray, next, do you be drunk too, so you stay, For ’twas your sober fighting lost the day. Old Albemarle wou’d say that men of war In navy stunk not half enough of tarr. Your o’ergrown pages and attorney’s clerks To fight and govern fleets are proper sparks. Then let the spruce land-pirats be content To swagger in their native element, And let tarpawlings rule by my consent: For things now look as if men took commission To damn all discipline and sow sedition, And fighting was the least of their ambition; No matter who comes home with broken bones, So you but come to touch the patacoons. The pitch of honour is desire of money; That paltry, coward vice has quite undone ye. You court preferment on no other score But to be poorly rich, or basely poor: For who would not propose a trip to Spain That has within his prospect double gain, To line his pockets, and to save his skin? For none must fight with merchants’ money in. Your heads run round with Mexico and Sevil; I wish this shipping plate was at the Devil.