All Shams.
[_]
To the Tune of, Packington's Pound.
I
An Invasion from Dutchland is all the discourse,
And incredible Tale of Incredible force!
While each graver Sir Pol unfolded his Sheet,
An exact Computation of Army and Fleet:
Of their Horse and their Foot,
And their Great Guns to boot,
Each Fireship, each Tender, and Flat-bottom'd Boat;
The time of their Landing, and place, can reveal,
But that, as a secret, as yet he'l conceal.
II
While each busie-brain'd Machnie, and Fool,
Each chattering Barber, each Aporn and Rule;
Let his private concern be of ne'r so much weight,
And nought but his Trade he can call his Estate:
Yet straight he declares,
It has long been his Fears,
He dreaded this business for several Years:
Nay, the future events he cou'd easily relate;
But 'tis dangerous, Neighbours, and touches the State.
III
Now while we are hearing and telling of Lyes,
A Cloud from the West does quite darken the Skies:
All Ægypt's ten Plagues do at once on us fall,
For, in Naming the Irish, it comprehends all:
To what purpose they come
Is no secret to Rome;
And, to guess at the consequence, we may presume:
Old England was ne're so unhappy before,
While the Scum of three Nations for aid we Implore.
IV
Now lay by Chimeras of Fleets, and Armados,
And, if you can, fairly march off to Barbadoes,
Jamaica, Virginia, or any Plantation,
Except that of Will Pen, the disturber o'th' Nation;
To Lapland, or Greenland,
Nay sail into Finland,
To Presbyter John, or the Islands within Land:
And leave both your Honors, Estates and your Wives,
On condition that you may depart with your Lives.
