Fumbumbis:
or the North-Country-Mayor. A Ballad.
[_]
To the Tune of, Packinton's Pound.
[I]
I sing of no Heretic, Turk, or of Tartar,
But a suffering Mayor, who may pass for a Martyr;
For a story so Tragic was never yet told
By Fox, or by Stow, those Authors of old;
How a vile Lansprezado,
Did a Mayor Bastinado,
And play'd him a Trick worse than a Strapado.
Oh Mayor, Mayor, thou had'st better never Transub'd,
Than thus to be toss'd in a Blanket, and drub'd.
II
All laugh'd to behold this Saint of a Mayor
To Heav'n assum'd on a Colstaff of Air;
From the Earth to the Skies they removed his station,
So quick, you'd have thought it Transubstantiation:
Our Hereticks boast,
He for turning was toss'd,
And sent up, to catch the Religion h' had lost.
Oh Mayor, Mayor, &c.
III
Not Quixot himself was ever less daunted
For charging the Windmils, or Gyants Inchanted.
A mind so resolv'd what danger cou'd threaten?
'The Hero's the same, whether beat or is beaten:
And the Cudgels and Stones
May bruise and break Bones;
Tis the manner of Kicking for Kicking attones.
Oh Mayor, Mayor, &c.
IV
The various Effects of his VVorship's disgrace
Might have spoil'd the Bel-Air of a modester Face;
But such an assurance his cause does admit,
He discovers as little of shame, as of wit:
For, besides the expence,
Wou'd one Post from thence
To prove himself such a Poltroon to his Prince!
Oh Mayor, Mayor, thou'd'st better have never Transub'd
Than thus to be toss'd in a Blanket and Drub'd!
