University of Virginia Library

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.
Thus I in Temple-Cloysters walking,
O're heard a Man t' himself a talking:
But if for Lye you this will Chalk;
At least I thought he thus would talk;
For by a Discontented Phiz,
One sometimes reads a Thought which lies,
Full Fifteen Fathom under Water:
If this is false, thank Erra Pater
For in his Book, the Fourteenth Chapter,
About an Astrological Rapture,
He says,—But why do I thus strive
To tell you what you wont believe?
But I my self being somewhat curious,
Did follow this Old Huncks Penurious,
Through Streets, Lanes, Alleys and By-ways,
More than are found in Stow's Surveys,
Traversing almost as much Ground,
As on New-Market Heath is found,
Leading me such a dainty jaunt,
As if one on an Errand sent,
Missing his way, which did not hap well,
Should go by Lambeth to White-Chappel;
How'ere at last, in Lane of Fetter,
Than which, there is not many better,
In Magpye-court, or Yard, or Alley,
For which 'twas, Faith, I cannot tell ye,
He stopt at Door, which stood at jar,
And whisp'ring softly in the Ear,
Of one whose looks declar'd Suspicion,
Receiv'd into the House Admission:
I seeing this, with Confidence,
Whate're might be the consequence,
Went boldly up, and gave the Sign,
(The Word I mean) and so got in;
But by their jealous Looks and Eyes,
I plainly read their strange Surprize,
To see one to their Meeting come,
Whom they believ'd was none of Them;
They Star'd—and I forgot to Blush,
But boldly to the midst I rush,
And sate me down upon a Hassock,
Expecting Clergy-man in Cassock,
That Holy Smith who blows the Coals
Of Discontent, and Saves their Souls,
By telling them that no Salvation
Can be to Men of Abdication,
And that a Hell is still appointed
For those resist the Lord's Anointed.
But he, it seems, was not come yet,
But staid behind to take a Whet
Of White Wine, in a brimming Taster,
In Mem'ry of his Absent Master,
Which might his Spirits better quicken;
But now the Plot begins to Thicken,
Folks to the Place in Clusters Trolling,
(As Snow-balls gather by their Rolling,
So fast, altho the Room was Large,
'T was cram'd as full as Gravesend Barge,
'Tho different Sexes, different Ages,
(For some were Youths and some were Sages)
Made up this private Congregation,
Yet Envy, Discontent and Passion,
In Face of every one appear'd,
Both of smooth Chin and grisly Beard,
As plain as is the Light in Phœbus,
When he Looks down on Mortal Rebus.
Nor could the grinning smile conceal
The Passions, which in Breast they feel,
As if these People took delight,
Only to wait on God for Spite;
Soft buzzing Whispers fill the Room,
And into close Committees, some
Retire, to give their Thoughts a Vent,
And Drevil forth their Discontent,
Which Poyson, as the one spits forth,
The other Licks it up, in Troth.
A Man perceiving of a Dry Nod,
Came to a little Private Synod,
Or Junto, which was just behind me,
To prate they fall, and did not mind me;
But not in words so soft and Butter'd,
But I could hear each word they Vtter'd;
Quoth one, I wonder what a Devil
Should make the Parliament so civil,
Such Taxes on the Land to Draw,
We must make Bricks, yet have no Straw;
If they go on, 'tis plain and clear,
The French, which we so idly fear,
As soon will make Descent on Finland,
As e're Attempt to Land in England.
Within three years we shall become
The Poorest State in Christendom;
All Nations will on us be Pissing,
And we become the Scorn and Hissing,
Of all the Kingdoms which are known,
'Twixt us and Land of Prester John.
Besides, the Mony which is Rais'd
Pays not the English, God be Prais'd;
No, poor contented Villains, they
Must venture on, yet have no Pay,
Except a little small Subsistance,
A very trifling small Assistance,
Just to keep Life and Soul together,
Against the force of Wind and Weather,
Whilst Brandenburgers, Danes and Dutchmen,
Sweeds, Germans, and all other such Men,
Are duly paid off to a Penny,
And long Arrears they have not any.
You speak the very truth on't Neighbour,
Replies his Friend (with Thought in Labour
To be Deliver'd of some Matter,
Which sore opprest his Pia Mater)
If our forefathers were complaining,
That Rome was still their Purses Draining;
By Peter's Pence, and such Taxation,
How just are now the Cries o'th' Nation?
Four Shillings first in every Pound,
Did fine Estates most largely wound,
(Estates as well as Bodies needing,
For their Healths sake a timely Bleeding)
The Double Excise, which all men reckon'd,
To hold but one year, lasts a Second,
And it may still for ought that we know,
Till Day of Judgment so continue;
But that which was the topping sole Act
Of the last Sessions, was the Poll Act,
Where each man must, or nill, or willing,
For's Head, pay quarterly a Shilling,
When most Mens Brains in Head which rest, Sir,
Are hardly worth a single Tester;
But 'tis much better sure in one sense
To Pay for Head, than Pay for Conscience,
For Faith I should be very loth
To Pay Two pounds or take an Oath.
The Oaths!—As soon I'de swallow Ratsbane,
Or any other Poyson that's Bane,
(Rejoyns a third) O 'bomination,
What swallow down my own Damnation;
A Butter'd Hedg-hog I could better
Digest, than of the Oaths a Letter.
But pray what News have y' in the City?
Sure matters there go very pretty,
And Guineas into Guild-hall go,
As if our Land were Mexico,
Or as each Merchant there a Dweller,
Had found a Golden Mine in's Celler:
Well, if their Faith for things above,
Like that for things below, does prove,
'Tis Ten to One, and Two to Eleven,
They all of them will meet in Heaven.
They say the King and all his Allies,
(Speaks a fourth Man amongst these fellows)
Intend, as folk's report most true is,
To pull down Pride of Mighty Lewis,
And William for a Wager carries
His Arms into the Heart of Paris,
And of the strange Opinion some are,
That all this must be done this Summer:
Well, they may please their idle Fancies,
With such like Tales and State Romances;
But I believe they'l find more Odds,
Than Giants did that Fought with Gods;
Alas, their mighty Preparations,
Made of the Scum of several Nations,
Are not to France so Formidable,
As are to Us a City Rabble;
You'll find their Mighty Hopes Defeated,
And They most miserably Cheated.
Hold, let's forbear our idle Tales,
Hes come,—Who is't?—Why Mr. Sh***
A precious Man.—Hist, silence there,
At which all instantly forbear,
And looking at the Ministers,—God bless you, Sir.
His Surplice on, and then prepare
To Joyn with him in Common-Prayer,
Nor Psalms nor Prayers does he omit any,
Till coming to that place i'th' Littany,
Wherein oblig'd by Name to Pray,
For those who bear the Sovereign Sway;
He did in's Prayers no Name put in,
But those of Gracious King and Queen;
Which Prayer, no sooner did it reach the
Ears of them all,—but—We beseech thee,
Echoed more loud by Persons there,
Than the Responce to any Prayer,
Which in the Liturgy we read,
From the Lord's Prayer to Nicene Creed.
The Service done, I then expected
T'ave heard a singing Psalm directed;
But having got the Pious Qualms,
Their Souls were not in tune for Psalms,
For how can ever Captives bring
Their Minds into a Frame to Sing?
Tho it is plain that Fetters none
They had, but what themselves put on;
But if they would have tun'd their throats,
To Sternholds or to Hopkins Notes,
It would, according as 'tis reckond,
Have been to Psalm call'd Seventy Second,
Lord give thy Judgments to the King,
Therein Instruct him well,
And with his Son that Princely thing,
Lord, let thy Justice dwell.
But now the Priest was to Pulpit gone,
At least to what might pass for one;
After a short Prayer, not forgetting
Of King and Queen, to mind his Knitting,
Who with a Zeal most mighty Fervent,
Were thought of by their suffering Servant;
Remembring likewise most Devoutly,
To Pray for Mother Church most stoutly,
The Church of England, which they fancy,
None out of their Communion can see;
The Church opprest, distrest and warried,
And in a sence Spiritually carried
Captive away, whilst its Adorners
Are forc'd to Preach and Pray in Corners.
This done, and th' Audience composing
Themselves for Hearing, or for Dozing;
To a Bible of Geneva size,
Himself Devoutly Priest applies,
And from a thousand various Texts,
This part of Scripture strait Selects.

ROM. 13. 1, 2.

Postscript.

Ah me! How great a Cordial's Hope,
When sawcy Fear don't interlope?
How sweetly at the Tett we tipple,
Till Fear puts Wormwood on the Nipple?
How hot was t'other day's Discourse,
That mighty Force of Foot and Horse,
Headed by ever Valiant J---s,
Were come almost to mouth of Thames;
Nay, some to carry on the Joke,
Swore he would Land at Puddle-dock;
But Expectation is a Blessing,
Surmounts the pleasure of Possessing;
Yet 'tis a question worth Solution,
Who'd gain by such a Revolution?
Unless we think Ropes, Fire and Axes,
Are milder things than Modern Taxes;
Or when from Pockets Rome takes Toll,
Is better than a Quarter Poll,
And think the Levies of Commission,
More cruel than the Inquisition;
If words, of mind, the true Intent is,
These men are sure Non compos mentis,
And Bedlam must be sure Enlarg'd,
When 'tis with such State-blockheads charg'd,
Where they themselves may hourly tickle,
And keep each day a Conventicle.