The Patriots.
Writ about the Year 1700.
1
Ye Patriots go on
To heal the Nation's Sores,
Find all Mens Faults out but your own,
Begin good Laws, but finish none,
And then shut up your Doors.
2
Fail not our Freedom to secure,
And all our Friends disband,
And send those Men to t'other Shore
Who were such Fools as to come o'er
To help this grateful Land.
3
And may the next that hear us pray,
And in Distress relieve us,
Go home like those without their Pay,
And with Contempt be sent away
For having once believ'd us.
4
And if the French should e'er attempt
This Nation to invade,
May they be damn'd that list again,
But lead the fam'd Militia on,
To be like us betray'd.
5
As for the Crown you have bestow'd,
With all its Limitations,
The meanest Prince in Christendom
Would never stir a Mile from home
To govern three such Nations.
6
The King himself, whom you have call'd
Your Saviour in Distress,
You in his first Suit have deny'd,
And then his Royal Patience try'd,
With a canting sham Address.
7
Ye are the Men that to be chose
Would be at no Expences,
Who love no Friends, nor fear no Foes,
Have ways and means that no Man knows
To mortify your Senses.
8
Ye are the Men that can condemn
By Laws made ex post facto,
Who can make Knaves of honest Men,
And married Women turn again
To be Virgo and Intacta.
9
Go on to purify the Court,
And damn the Men of Places,
Till decently you send them home,
And get your selves put in their room,
And then you'l change your Faces.
10
Go on for to establish Trade,
And mend our Navigation,
Let India India invade,
And borrow on Funds will ne'er be paid,
And bankrupt all the Nation.
11
'Tis you that calculate our Gold,
And with a senseless Tone
Vote what you never understood,
That we might take them if we wou'd,
Or let them all alone.
12
Your Missives you send round about
With Mr. Speaker's Letter,
To fetch Folks in, and find Folks out,
Which Fools believe without dispute,
Because they know no better.
13
With borrow'd Ships, and hir'd Men
The Irish to reduce,
Who will be paid the Lord knows when;
'Tis hop'd when e'er you want again,
You'l think of that Abuse.
14
Ye laid sham Taxes on our Malt,
On Salt, on Glass, and Leather,
To wheedle Coxcombs in to lend;
And like true Cheats you dropt that Fund,
And sunk them all together.
15
And now y'are piously enclin'd
The Needy to employ,
You'd better much your time bestow
To pay neglected Debts you owe,
Which makes them multiply.
16
Against Profaneness you declar'd,
And then the Bill rejected;
And when the Arguments appear'd,
They were the worst that e'er were heard,
And best that we expected.
17
'Twas voted once, that for the Sin
Of Whoring Men should die all;
But then 'twas wisely thought again,
The House would quickly grow so thin,
They durst not stand the Tryal.
18
King Charles the Second knew your aim,
And Places gave and Pensions;
And had King William's Money flown,
His Majesty would soon have known
Your Consciences Dimensions.
19
But he hath wisely given you up
To work your own Desires,
And laying Arguments aside,
As things that have in vain been try'd,
To Fasting calls and Prayers.
Chorus.
Your Hours are choicely employ'd,
Your Petitions lie all on the Table,
With Funds insufficient,
And Taxes Deficient,
And Deponents innumerable.
For shame leave this wicked Employment,
Reform both your Manners and Lives;
Tou were never sent out
To make such a Rout,
Go home and look after your W---s.
