 | The Jacobite Conventicle |  |
Tedious have been our hopes, and long our Prayers,
Within the compass of the three past Years,
How oft in private have we met to Mourn,
And whine and snivel for Our Lord's Return?
Our Wishes too, how strangely were they crost,
When the French Fleet drew near the English Coast,
When we expected our Deliverance near,
From Choaking Oaths and Taxes so Severe;
A glimps of Heaven we having then in view,
But ah! how soon that gawdy Scene withdrew,
Leaving a dismal Prospect in its room,
Of thousand Miseries are yet to come;
Must still our thoughts endure the wracking pain,
Always to hope, and wish, but yet in vain?
Nay, Heaven it self, to add to our Dispairs,
Seems to neglect and put by all our Prayers
Is there no hopes that wretched, cheated we,
Shall Once more taste of Luscious Liberty;
Once more be thought the Favourites of the Nation,
And trample o're the Men of Abdication?
Those Rogues, who to increase their guilty score,
Found out a word was never heard before.
Yet there a time may come, (but when it will,
Exceeds the reach of Learned Gadb'rys Skill)
When Loyalty shall meet in due regard,
And those that dare be honest, find reward.
The time may come—when Right will have its place,
And lie no longer under Black Disgrace.
To Skill in Stars, tho I make no pretence,
Methinks I view it in the Present Sense;
Methinks I see th'Approaching smiling Years,
Roul on a-pace to recompence our Tears.
Fly fast, ye Weeks, ye Months, post quickly on,
And settle J***once more upon his Throne.
But hold—to what strange Notions am I brought
By the too strong Impulses of my thought?
To Church I'll go—that word, Good Heaven, forgive,
The Church shall be my Odium while I live:
I hate the Priest, who has a Double Face,
Religion's Scandal, and his Gown's Disgrace.
Give me the Man with Conscience void of blame,
Is in all Turns of Government the same,
Who hates Rebellion, nor can Treason bless,
And does not judge of Actions by Success:
That Man should never starve while I was able,
I'de serve him with my Purse, my Bed, my Table;
His Doctrine I much sooner would believe,
Than a Spruce Bishop's in his white Lawn Sleeve:
Such Men I've heard, and hope to hear agen.
Bless me! 'tis late—the Clock has just struck ten.
But hold—Before to Fetter Lane I go,
'Tis requisite the Entrance word I know:
Last Sunday 'twas Commandement the fifth,
And now St. Germains is the Shibboleth.
'Tis fo—and now with eager steps I fly
To the true Church of England's Ministry,
To hear a sort of Men who ever knew,
Still to be faithful, loyal, firm and true,
Who from their Souls detest the swearing Vice,
Eeither to get or keep a Benefice.
Within the compass of the three past Years,
How oft in private have we met to Mourn,
And whine and snivel for Our Lord's Return?
Our Wishes too, how strangely were they crost,
When the French Fleet drew near the English Coast,
When we expected our Deliverance near,
From Choaking Oaths and Taxes so Severe;
2
But ah! how soon that gawdy Scene withdrew,
Leaving a dismal Prospect in its room,
Of thousand Miseries are yet to come;
Must still our thoughts endure the wracking pain,
Always to hope, and wish, but yet in vain?
Nay, Heaven it self, to add to our Dispairs,
Seems to neglect and put by all our Prayers
Is there no hopes that wretched, cheated we,
Shall Once more taste of Luscious Liberty;
Once more be thought the Favourites of the Nation,
And trample o're the Men of Abdication?
Those Rogues, who to increase their guilty score,
Found out a word was never heard before.
Yet there a time may come, (but when it will,
Exceeds the reach of Learned Gadb'rys Skill)
When Loyalty shall meet in due regard,
And those that dare be honest, find reward.
The time may come—when Right will have its place,
And lie no longer under Black Disgrace.
3
Methinks I view it in the Present Sense;
Methinks I see th'Approaching smiling Years,
Roul on a-pace to recompence our Tears.
Fly fast, ye Weeks, ye Months, post quickly on,
And settle J***once more upon his Throne.
But hold—to what strange Notions am I brought
By the too strong Impulses of my thought?
To Church I'll go—that word, Good Heaven, forgive,
The Church shall be my Odium while I live:
I hate the Priest, who has a Double Face,
Religion's Scandal, and his Gown's Disgrace.
Give me the Man with Conscience void of blame,
Is in all Turns of Government the same,
Who hates Rebellion, nor can Treason bless,
And does not judge of Actions by Success:
That Man should never starve while I was able,
I'de serve him with my Purse, my Bed, my Table;
His Doctrine I much sooner would believe,
Than a Spruce Bishop's in his white Lawn Sleeve:
4
Bless me! 'tis late—the Clock has just struck ten.
But hold—Before to Fetter Lane I go,
'Tis requisite the Entrance word I know:
Last Sunday 'twas Commandement the fifth,
And now St. Germains is the Shibboleth.
'Tis fo—and now with eager steps I fly
To the true Church of England's Ministry,
To hear a sort of Men who ever knew,
Still to be faithful, loyal, firm and true,
Who from their Souls detest the swearing Vice,
Eeither to get or keep a Benefice.
| The Jacobite Conventicle | |