Ye brave Boys and Tars, That design for the Wars, Remember the Action at _Vigo_; And where ORMOND Commands, Let us all joyn our Hands, _And where he goes, may you go, and I go_. Let Conquest and Fame, The Honour proclaim, Great ORMOND has gotten at _Vigo_; Let the Trumpets now sound, And the Ecchoes around, _Where he goes, may you go, and I go_. Let the Glories be Sung, Which the ORMONDS have won, Long before this great Action at _Vigo_; They're so Loyal and Just, And so true to their Trust, _That where he goes, may you go, and I go_. Old Records of Fame, Of the ORMONDS great Name, Their Actions, like these were of _Vigo_; And since this Prince exceeds, In his Fore-Father's Deeds, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_. 'Tis the Praise of our Crown, That such Men of Renown, Shou'd lead on the Van, as at _Vigo_; Where such Lives and Estates Are expos'd for our sakes, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_. 'Twas the whole Nation's Voice, And we all did rejoyce, When we heard he Commanded for _Vigo_; To ANNA so True, All her Foes to pursue, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_. 'Tis the Voice of the Town, And our Zeal for the Crown, To serve ORMOND to _France_, _Spain_, or _Vigo_; So Noble and brave, Both to Conquer and save, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_. To the Soldiers so kind, And so humbly inclin'd, To wave his Applause gain'd at _Vigo_; Yet so kind and so true, He gave all Men their due, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_. We justly do own, All the Honour that's won, In _Flanders_, as well as at _Vigo_; But our Subject and Theme, Is of ORMOND's great Name, _And where he goes, may you go, and I go_. Then take off the Bowl, To that Generous Soul, That Commanded so bravely at _Vigo_; And may ANNA approve, Of our Duty and Love, _And where he goes, may you go, and I go_. _A Cure for Melancholy._ [Music] Are you grown so Melancholy, That you think on nought but Folly; Are you sad, Are you Mad, Are you worse; Do you think, Want of Chink Is a Curse: Do you wish for to have, Longer Life, or a Grave, _Thus would I Cure ye_. First I would have a Bag of Gold, That should ten Thousand Pieces hold, And all that, In thy Hat, Would I pour; For to spend, On thy Friend, Or thy Whore: For to cast away at Dice, Or to shift you of your Lice, _Thus would I Cure ye_. Next I would have a soft Bed made, Wherein a Virgin should be laid; That would Play, Any way You'll devise; That would stick Like a Tick, To your Thighs, That would bill like a Dove, Lye beneath or above, _Thus would I Cure ye_.