The Year Ninety-three. a Song

Come hither good people, come hither and hear, The dainty fine deeds of this marvellous year, For ever and ever each Briton so free, In triumph shall carol the year Ninety-Three. Derry down.

We all call to mind not a twelvemonth ago, Our trade was increasing, our riches did flow; Each heart was then light, fill'd with mirth and with glee, We had not yet come to the year Ninety-Three. Derry down.

The devil ill bearing to see us so gay, To tame our proud spirits, soon found out a way; In his friend Billy's ear he was ever a flea, Crying "war Billy war," then behold Ninety-Three. Derry down.

Each day and each hour a merchant then stops, Only shutters are seen, they all shut up their shops, Whole families ruined! 'twas piteous to see— Oh what a fine year was the year Ninety-Three!!! Derry down.

Trade's now at an end, there's no work to be found, Brave Britons are dying with hunger around. Or at famine's approach to the Continent flee, And York lets their blood—that's the year Ninety-Three. Derry down.

By sea and by land, nought but shame and defeat, ('Tis the judgment of heaven) our arms ever meet. The like Britain never, no never, did see! Oh shame of all shames, is the year Ninety-Three. Derry down.

In ancient good times 'twas the Briton's proud boast, To be loyal, yet free, King and Country his toast, To praise or to censure then boldly dar'd he— 'Twas in ancient good times—not in year Ninety-Three. Derry down.

Now pillory, whipping post, British bastille, The loss of old times makes each Englishman feel: No spirit, no thought, now dare circulate free, For Pitt, Kenyon, Dundas, in curst Ninety-Three. Derry down.