The collected writings of Dougal Graham "Skellat" Bellman of Glasgow: edited with notes: Together with a Biographical and Bibliographical Introduction, and a Sketch of the Chap Literature of Scotland: by George MacGregor: In two volumes |
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A Quaker's Address to Prince Charles, shewing what was the Cause and Ground of his Misfortunes.
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 | The collected writings of Dougal Graham |  |
A Quaker's Address to Prince Charles, shewing what was the Cause and Ground of his Misfortunes.
Now Charles, If thou want'st more sorrow,
Thou may return if 'twere to-morrow,
I know, the Pulpit and the Press
Were the great means of thy distress,
And thou hadst got no wit to guide it,
No Principle thou had provided.
Hadst thou, like Oliver appear'd
In devout mood, thou might been heard:
But a Prince without a principle!
What thou couldst be, I cannot tell.
The Protestants look'd badly on thee,
So many wicked hang upon thee,
And of thy forbearers, they plainly tell,
Of Popery thou bearst a smell.
Thou trustedst nought to ordination,
But thought to force a crown and nation.
I tell thee, Kings reign not by men,
'Tis a higher pow'r, thou'lt find it plain.
The Pope, the Pagan, and the Turk,
'Tis all by fire and sword they work:
We Quakers are of greater merit,
We conquer none but by the Spirit;
But thou, and each thy like's a cheat,
That pretend to rule the turns of fate,
And will fight against the great decree,
As of winds and waves would ruler be,—
The Pope pretends to curse and bless,
And yet cannot create a Louse,
Nor make a dead beast live again,
For all the might he does preten':
Yet claims a power in heav'n and earth,
Of judgment here there is a dearth,
But O! what madness fills their head?
To pray to saints thousand years dead!
If dead men had such power to sell,
Many of them wou'd been living still.
And if those dead men they could hear us,
They might sometimes send news to cheer us.
Thou may return if 'twere to-morrow,
I know, the Pulpit and the Press
Were the great means of thy distress,
And thou hadst got no wit to guide it,
No Principle thou had provided.
Hadst thou, like Oliver appear'd
In devout mood, thou might been heard:
But a Prince without a principle!
What thou couldst be, I cannot tell.
The Protestants look'd badly on thee,
So many wicked hang upon thee,
And of thy forbearers, they plainly tell,
Of Popery thou bearst a smell.
Thou trustedst nought to ordination,
But thought to force a crown and nation.
I tell thee, Kings reign not by men,
'Tis a higher pow'r, thou'lt find it plain.
The Pope, the Pagan, and the Turk,
'Tis all by fire and sword they work:
We Quakers are of greater merit,
We conquer none but by the Spirit;
But thou, and each thy like's a cheat,
That pretend to rule the turns of fate,
And will fight against the great decree,
As of winds and waves would ruler be,—
The Pope pretends to curse and bless,
And yet cannot create a Louse,
246
For all the might he does preten':
Yet claims a power in heav'n and earth,
Of judgment here there is a dearth,
But O! what madness fills their head?
To pray to saints thousand years dead!
If dead men had such power to sell,
Many of them wou'd been living still.
And if those dead men they could hear us,
They might sometimes send news to cheer us.
By Yea and Nay, the Popes are thieves,
And he's as stupid that believes
These roguish priests, who pardons sell,
Or yet pray back a soul from hell.
He's surely of the devil's kind,
Who thus deludes the vulgar blind;
And who adheres to such a college,
Will be destroy'd for lake of knowledge,
With Beads and Waffers, the Devil's batter,
Your musty Mass, and Holy Water,
Wherewith ye blind the souls of men,
For to encrease your worldly gain,
Done with pretence of holiness:
O hypocrites, why live ye thus?
You thump, you mump, with face awray,
And at one time ye rob and pray,
Pretend so much to chastitie,
None of your priests can married be,
Yet run like rams, and lead lewd lives,
Ye're but a pack of venereal thieves:
You practise cuckoldom and whoredom,
That innocents have no freedom,
Dreading the power of curse and bless,
You thus put modesty in distress,
Pretending Miracles and Charms,
To keep from evil spirits harms,
Such as Clover-leaves, and branch of Yew,
Will keep the devil from man or cow,
And that Holy Water has such effect,
As make him run and break his neck;
Ay, to the vulgar too you'll tell,
Of sending letters to heaven or hell,
Bring half burnt souls from Purgatory,
For gold you'll harle them out in hurry,
And those who cannot money raise,
You'll do it for butter, beef or cheese;
But they may there stay, eternalie,
Whose friends will not pay you a fee:
I think a stronger delusion,
Was never in any ages known,
The Turk, the Pagan and the Jew,
More mercy have to show than you,
Your ceremonies so ye cook,
The devil gets none but poor fo'k,
Who cannot pay the priest his fee;
Accurs'd be such belief for me.—
And he's as stupid that believes
These roguish priests, who pardons sell,
Or yet pray back a soul from hell.
He's surely of the devil's kind,
Who thus deludes the vulgar blind;
And who adheres to such a college,
Will be destroy'd for lake of knowledge,
With Beads and Waffers, the Devil's batter,
Your musty Mass, and Holy Water,
Wherewith ye blind the souls of men,
For to encrease your worldly gain,
Done with pretence of holiness:
O hypocrites, why live ye thus?
You thump, you mump, with face awray,
And at one time ye rob and pray,
Pretend so much to chastitie,
None of your priests can married be,
Yet run like rams, and lead lewd lives,
Ye're but a pack of venereal thieves:
You practise cuckoldom and whoredom,
That innocents have no freedom,
Dreading the power of curse and bless,
You thus put modesty in distress,
Pretending Miracles and Charms,
To keep from evil spirits harms,
Such as Clover-leaves, and branch of Yew,
247
And that Holy Water has such effect,
As make him run and break his neck;
Ay, to the vulgar too you'll tell,
Of sending letters to heaven or hell,
Bring half burnt souls from Purgatory,
For gold you'll harle them out in hurry,
And those who cannot money raise,
You'll do it for butter, beef or cheese;
But they may there stay, eternalie,
Whose friends will not pay you a fee:
I think a stronger delusion,
Was never in any ages known,
The Turk, the Pagan and the Jew,
More mercy have to show than you,
Your ceremonies so ye cook,
The devil gets none but poor fo'k,
Who cannot pay the priest his fee;
Accurs'd be such belief for me.—
And now, dear Charles, how dost thou think,
Such doctrine would in Britain stink,
Into a Presbyterian's nose,
Or any who good plain sense knows?
Dissenters and we they Quakers call,
Protest, they're not of Israel,
Who pretend a power to damn or save,
Or bear a rule beyond the grave.
All is given us from above,
And souls are saved by mere love;
But the sp'rit of men, which some hold money,
I term it but the devil's honey,
Wherewith you blind the ignorant,
And cozen them who hate repent:
But as thou profess no principle,
Thou might have turn'd a What ye will:
But those who no profession own,
Are of kin to the beasts alone:
They surely have but little wits,
Who esteem no God above their guts.
What wa'st thou sought? What wa'st thou got?
Surely 'twas nothing but thy lot.
Though Popes pretend to rule the earth,
They cause nought but a sp'ritual dearth,
As they can neither rule earth nor sea,
Witness what has behappen'd thee:
It surely makes your Pope a knave,
To pretend a pow'r beyond the grave:
Had his apostolic pow'r been true,
Thou wou'dst been King of Britain now.
Wert thou a Protestant in heart,
I'd wish thee very well in part;
But the last wish thoul't get from me,
Is, God keep our land of Pop'ry free!
May the throne continue in Protestant race,
And ne'er a Papist fill his place.
Thus saith to thee an honest Quaker,
Thou ne'er shalt here be a partaker:
For all Rome's plots and magic spell,
'Tis seldom now they prosper well,
Her days of witchcraft are near run,
Few Ave's or Te Deum's sung,
A Mass that's mumbled o'er in haste,
Spoke in the language of the beast,
Which but by few is understood,
Poor chaff instead of sp'ritual food:
But ignorance, the Papists say,
Is unto heaven the nearest way:
But, O ye wretches, this I doubt,
While you the sp'ritual light keep out,
And teach so freely, and off hand,
To break the very Lord's command,
And on no other things lay hold;
But trust the priest, and give him gold.
All sins by them are pardoned,
So by the nose the poor are led;
Not blinded nations or ideots,
But the rich, learned reprobates,
Who will not from sinning hold,
As long's they have one bit of gold.
Wo will be to such priests, I say:
For hell's prepar'd for such as they.
Such doctrine would in Britain stink,
Into a Presbyterian's nose,
Or any who good plain sense knows?
Dissenters and we they Quakers call,
Protest, they're not of Israel,
Who pretend a power to damn or save,
Or bear a rule beyond the grave.
All is given us from above,
And souls are saved by mere love;
But the sp'rit of men, which some hold money,
I term it but the devil's honey,
Wherewith you blind the ignorant,
And cozen them who hate repent:
But as thou profess no principle,
Thou might have turn'd a What ye will:
But those who no profession own,
Are of kin to the beasts alone:
248
Who esteem no God above their guts.
What wa'st thou sought? What wa'st thou got?
Surely 'twas nothing but thy lot.
Though Popes pretend to rule the earth,
They cause nought but a sp'ritual dearth,
As they can neither rule earth nor sea,
Witness what has behappen'd thee:
It surely makes your Pope a knave,
To pretend a pow'r beyond the grave:
Had his apostolic pow'r been true,
Thou wou'dst been King of Britain now.
Wert thou a Protestant in heart,
I'd wish thee very well in part;
But the last wish thoul't get from me,
Is, God keep our land of Pop'ry free!
May the throne continue in Protestant race,
And ne'er a Papist fill his place.
Thus saith to thee an honest Quaker,
Thou ne'er shalt here be a partaker:
For all Rome's plots and magic spell,
'Tis seldom now they prosper well,
Her days of witchcraft are near run,
Few Ave's or Te Deum's sung,
A Mass that's mumbled o'er in haste,
Spoke in the language of the beast,
Which but by few is understood,
Poor chaff instead of sp'ritual food:
But ignorance, the Papists say,
Is unto heaven the nearest way:
But, O ye wretches, this I doubt,
While you the sp'ritual light keep out,
And teach so freely, and off hand,
To break the very Lord's command,
And on no other things lay hold;
But trust the priest, and give him gold.
All sins by them are pardoned,
249
Not blinded nations or ideots,
But the rich, learned reprobates,
Who will not from sinning hold,
As long's they have one bit of gold.
Wo will be to such priests, I say:
For hell's prepar'd for such as they.
Nathan Nomore.
| The collected writings of Dougal Graham | |