The Mourners:
Found in the Streets, 1702.
[_]
The attribution of this poem is questionable.
In Sable Weeds your Beaux and Bells appear,
And cloud the coming Beauties of the Year.
Mourn on, you foolish fashionable things,
Mourn for your own Misfortunes, not the King's;
Mourn for the mighty Mass of Coin mis-spent,
That prodigally given, and idly spent;
Mourn your Tapestry and Statutes too,
And Windsor gutted, to adorn your Loo;
Mourn for the Miter long from Scotland gone,
And much more mourn your Union coming on;
Mourn for a ten Years War, and dismal Weather,
And Taxes, strung like Necklaces together,
On Salt, Malt, Paper, Syder, Lights and Leather.
Much for the Civil List need not be said,
They truly mourn who're fifteen Months unpaid.
Well then, my Friends, since things you see are so,
Let's e'en mourn on, 'twould lessen much our Wo,
Had Sorrel stumbled thirteen Years ago.
The Counterpart.
Ye
English Nations, put your Mourning on;
Mourn not the King's Misfortune, but your own.
For Realms of Light and of Eternal Day
He lately chang'd his Temporary Sway,
And left you blundring in the tractless Way.
He was the Star by which all Europe steer'd,
The Compass shew'd us how its Councils veer'd.
When e'er you are on raging Billows tost,
Think of the skilful Pilot you have lost;
Think on the Dangers he did for you prove,
The Storms and Thunder of Almighty Jove:
How midst fork'd Lightning, show'rs of Shot and Blood,
Divinely bold our Mighty William stood,
Not for his own, but for our Country's Good.
Our Native Land was not his only Care,
Nations far distant did his Bounty share;
The Rhine, the Tiber, Ganges, with their Streams,
Do mourn in Consort with our groaning Thames.
