This text comes from Rump Songs, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
1.
I Am the bonny Scot Sir,
My name is Mickle John;
’Tis I was in the Plot Sir
When first the Wars began:
I left the Court one thousand
Six hundred forty one;
But since the flight
At Worster fight
We are aw undone.
I serv’d my Lord and Master
When as he liv’d at home,
Untill by sad disaster
He receiv’d his doom;
But now we fink,
Uds bred I think
The Deel’s gat in his room,
He ne man spares,
But stamps and stares
At all Christendom.
2.
I have travel’d mickle, grounds,
Since I came from Worster bounds,
I have gang’d the jolly rounds
Of the neighbouring Nations;
And what their opinions are
Of the Scotch and English war,
In geed faith I sal declare,
And their approbations.
Jockie swears
He has his load,
Bears the rod,
Comes from God,
And complaints go very odd
Since the siege at Worster;
We were wounded
Tag and rag,
Foot and leg,
Wemb and crag;
Hark I hear the Dutchman brag,
And begin to bluster.
3.
Uds Sacrament, sal Hoghen Moghen States
Strike down der top sails unto puny Powers;
Ten twosand tun of Tivel Dammy Fates,
If dat der Ships and Goods prove not all ours;
Since dat bloot and wounds do delight dem,
Tararara Trumpet sounds,
Let Van Tromp go fort and fight dem;
All de States shall first be crown’d,
English Skellam fight not on goat side;
Out at last the Flemins bear,
Dey ha’ giv’n us sush a broad side;
Dat ick sal be forc’t to retreat,
See de French man he comes in compleat.
4.
By Gat Mounsieur ’tis much in vain
For Dushland, France, or Spain,
To crosse de English main;
De Nation now is grown so strong,
De Divla er’t be long
Mast learna de same tongue.
’Tis bettra den far to combine,
To sel dem Wine,
And teasha dem to make der Laty fine;
We’ll teash dem for to trip and minsh,
To kick and winsh,
For by de Sword we never sal convince,
Since every Brewer dere can beat a Prince.
5.
What are the English to quarrel so prone,
Dat dey cannot now adayes let deir neighbour alone,
And sal de Grave and the Catholick King,
Before ever dus control’d wid a sword and a sling;
Sal bode de Indias be left unto de sway,
And purity a dose dat do plunder and pray;
E’re dat we will suffer such affronts for to be,
We’ll tumble dem down, as you sal sennon see:
6.
Taffy was once a Cottamighty of Wales,
Put her Cosin O. P. was a Creater,
Was come in her Country Catsspluttery nailes,
Was take her welch hook and was peat her;
Was eat up her Sheese,
Her Tuck and her Geese,
Her Pick, her Capon was ty for’t;
Ap Richard, ap Owen, ap Morgon, ap Stefen,
Ap Shenkin, ap Powel was fly for’t.
7.
O hone, O hone, poor Teg and shone,
O hone may howl and cry,
St. Patrick help dy Country men,
Or fait and trot we dye;
De English steal our hoart of Vsquebagh,
Dey put us to de sword all in Dewguedagh:
Help us St. Patrick we ha no Saint at all but dee,
O let us cry no more, O hone, a cram, a cree!
8.
A Crown, a Crown, make room,
The English man is come,
Whose valour
Is taller
Than all Christendome:
The Spanish, French, and Dutch,
Scotch, Welch, and Irish Grutch,
We fear not,
We care not,
For we can deal with such.
You thought when we began in a Civil war to waste,
Our Tillage
Your Pillage
Should come home at last:
For when we
Could not agree,
You thought to share in our fall;
But nere stir Sir,
For first Sir
We shall noose you all.