Believe It Friend
1 Believe it, friend. We care not for ye,
And therefore, Roundhead, I am sorry To see you play the fool. Go, get thee packing hence, ‘tis fit, And there be pleased to learn more wit, Thy Puritan heels to cool.
2 ‘Tis not your three score wagons, no,
Nor all those things that make a show, As if your men were pedlars, Can us affright, nor Devereux, Nor Carrill, nor the men with a pox, That were y-cleped our saddlers.
3 Nor yet your cannon, six in number,
That fain would make us think of thunder, Can startle our commanders. Our officers have served the States Of Holland, and have broke men’s pates, As I have heard, in Flanders.
4 You tell us that we robbed the town,
You lie, my friend, it was our own, We brought the beef and bacon. The townsmen they will lie a little, What do you think we’d rob the Spital? Oh Lord, you are mistaken.
5 What, will her storm us then? Fall on!
But have a care, my name is Shon, Here’s ready to receive you. The Welshmen they do swear apace, They’ll die before they lose this place, And make your hopes deceive you.