 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
119
A new Song of the misfortunes of an Old Whore and her Brats.
I
Tho' the Old Hag of Rome,Has bewitch'd us all Dumb,
She can Tongue-tye our Muses no longer;
We now spue out her Charms,
And sing the brave Arms
Of Great Orange and Scomberg, ding-dong Sir.
II
If we open'd our Lips,Wooden Peep holes and Whips
Was of late the mild Pennance enjoyn'd us;
Now Truth's no more Treason,
We esteem it a season
To be merry, and so you shall find us.
III
Life and Fortune Addresses,Shall not wear out our Presses,
To flatter and sooth a Just Nero;
But loud Declarations,
To secure the three Nations
Nrom the French, and from Lilli-burlero.
IV
See how each Popish Gull,Does look silly and dull,
O hone! O hone! all are Lamenting,
120
No wise Hind and Panther.
Nor any thing else worth the Printing.
V
While we Hereticks do write,Ay, and Print too in spite
Of the Devil, to revenge our late wrongs Sir;
And the Hawkers hoarse Lungs,
With our Lampoons and Songs,
Make the Streets eccho all the day long Sir:
VI
Now brave Orange advances,What the fam'd League with France is,
We shall know to poor Catholicks sorrow,
Stricken with Pannick Fears,
How the Whelps hang their Ears,
Pack up Relicks, and bid us good Morrow!
VII
Father Petre, and othersOf his Politick Brothers,
Who one would think should have disdain'd it
Are on fire to be gone,
Tho they might every one,
If they'd stay here a little, be Sainted.
VIII
Just like old Rats and Mice,These bold Vermine are Wise,
VVhen they find a House ready to tumble,
Away strait they advance,
Bound for Flanders or France,
Adieu, Votre Serviteur humble.
121
IX
But pray what shall become,O'th' young Kitlings of Rome,
I mean those the Old Whore has Converted;
When they're grip'd by the Claws,
Of reviv'd Penal Laws,
And by all Ghostly Fathers deserted.
X
'Tis hard to leave the poor Elves,Thus to shift for themselves,
For unless you'd confirm'd the Babes better-a,
With your Cowardise tainted,
They'll e'ne grudge to be Sainted
With St. Coleman, St. Whitebread, &c.
XI
So when Witches are takenFor enchanting Folks Bacon,
Cows, Horses, or any such thing Sir;
And the Hang-man once takes 'em,
Their Imps all forsake them,
And bequeath 'em to a right Hempen-string Sir.
XII
Our great States-men and Judges,The Jesuits true Drudges,
To advance the Plots of Holy Church Sir;
Do make wretched Grimaces,
Losing Pensions and Places,
To a Parliament left in the lurch Sir.
XIII
And the young VVelshman's Sre,Stuck like Dun in the Mire,
With revengeful Despair looks around him;
And then Curses the Crowd,
That with Suffrages loud,
Shouted (Vive le Roy) when they Crown'd him.
200
XIV
He thinks 'tis an hard Fate,Now to Capitulate,
And revoke his Indulg'd Dispensations;
To his Sons Terms to buckle,
To a Parliament truckle,
And Eat up his kind Declarations.
XV
'Tis hard that dull Hereticks,Still Suspicious of Tricks,
Cant believe the young Bantling's his Son Sir;
As if Priests cou'd n't create,
At least Transubstantiate
Him a Boy, for an Heir to his Crown Sir.
XVI
Nay renown'd Lords and Ladies,A long Bead-row have made us,
VVith the Midwife and Learned Physicians;
Cannot all this convince,
That it is a Welch Prince,
Though we publish the plain Depositions?
XVII
VVell it seems (to be short)There's no Remedy for't,
Both his Gods and his Friends are retiring;
And his Army falls off,
While his Enemies scoff,
To see the Prince curb his aspiring.
XVIII
Have we not a Wise King,To resolve he would bring
All to Rome's Lure, or else Sacrifice Sir,
Three Kingdoms to his Spleen,
And to th'Will of his Queen?
Did the world ever hear of a wiser?
201
XIX
Without one sturdy fight,He's obliged to alight
From the Throne, which he envy'd his Brother,
And may like a poor Bigot,
Go embarque in a Frigat,
To see if he can find such another.
XX
Since these Switzers and Dutchmen,Come to stand by our Church-men,
VVith hard grim Fellows from Fin-land,
The Old Politick VVhore,
Now must never hope more,
To sit brooding o're Plots here against England.
XXI
Is't not Reason and Sense,If a King will Dispence,
VVith our Statutes, and with his own word Sir,
To decide the Just Cause,
Of Religion and Laws,
VVith a swinging Great Protestant-Sword Sir?
XXII
The French Tyrant dissembles,And huffs, though he trembles,
VVe shall Visit that Son of a VVhore Sir:
If the weather hold fair,
VVe'd fain take a Tour there,
As our Fathers did in Days of Yore Sir.
XXIII
VVhile the Germans before,Pay him off his old score,
For the mischief they've felt and do fear Sir,
VVith Pipe, Sword and Pistol,
VVe shall Probe his old Fistule,
And charge the Dog home in the rear Sir.
| Poems on Affairs of State | |