O pinchinge, werie, lothsome lyfe, When freats and states have had their fill, THE SPANISH ARMADA. THE following, which appears, says Mr. Chappell, to have been written at the time of the threatened invasion of the Spanish Armada, is taken from a manuscript in the possession of Mr. Pearsall, bearing the date of 1588. The music of the song is given by Mr. Chappell. FROM mercilesse invaders, From wicked men's device, O God! arise and helpe us, Sinke deepe their potent navies, Their strength and corage breake, O God! arise and arm us, For Jesus Christ, his sake. C Though cruel Spain and Parma O God! arise and arm us, We will not change owre Credo SIR FRANCIS DRAKE: OR, EIGHTY-EIGHT. [From MS. Harl. 791, fol. 59.] IN eyghtye-eyght, ere I was borne, As I can well remember, In August was a fleete prepar'd, The moneth before September. Spayne, with Biscayne, Portugall, All these did meete, and made a fleete, And call'd it the Armado. Where they had gott provision, As mustard, pease, and bacon, Some say two shipps were full of whipps, There was a litle man of Spaine, That shott well in a gunn-a, King Phillip made him Admirall, The King of Spayne did freet amayne, When they had sayl'd along the seas, Our Englishmen did bourd them then, Our Queene was then att Tilbury, But let them looke about themselfes, For if they come againe-a, They shall be serv'd with that same sauce, As they weere, I know when-a. SIR FRANCIS DRAKE: OR, EIGHTY-EIGHT. THE following is another version of the foregoing ballad, and is taken from "Wit and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melancholy," vol. ii. p. 37. The tune is also given by D'Urfey. Another copy is given in the "Westminster Drollery," 12mo. Lond. 1671. To the tune of Eighty-eight. SOME years of late, in Eighty eight, It was, some say, on the ninth of May, The Spanish train launch'd forth a-main, Whereas they thought, but it prov'd nought, The Invincible Armado. There was a little man that dwelt in Spain, That shot well in a gun-a, Don Pedro hight, as black a wight, King Philip made him Admiral, The Queen was then at Tilbury, What could we more desire-a? Sir Francis Drake, for her sweet sake, Away they ran by sea and land, So that one man slew three score-a, O my soul, we had killed more-a. Then let them neither brag nor boast, Let them take heed they do not speed, ODE. SITTING AND DRINKING IN A CHAIR MADE OUT OF THE RELIQUES OF SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S SHIP. FROM a rare collection of "Choyce Poems," printed at London in the seventeenth century, a copy of which is preserved in the British Museum. CHEAR up, my mates! the wind doth fairly blow, Farewel all land! for now we are In the wide sea of drink, and merrily we go. And we shall cut the burning line! Hey, boys! she sends it away, and by my head I know What dull men are those who tarry at home, |