The Lamentation of High-Church, 1704.
Thus God does bless our Sovereign Anne,
Makes her a glorious Queen,
For by her Arms such Feats are done,
The like was never seen.
She for the Clergy did provide,
Which was full well I trow;
And now we must be on her side,
Whether we will or no.
But Moderation is her Text,
Which she does so explain,
That we shall sorely be perplext
How to turn Tale again.
For my Lord Duke, and my Lord Sly,
Both join in with the Court,
And they are lifted up so high
They'l make us but their Sport.
The Duke the Victory did obtain,
Or else h'had got a Tartar;
If he had been beaten back again,
Perhaps he had been shorter.
And now they take the Sons of the Church,
And put them into Places,
Which makes them leave us in the lurch,
Oh! this the very Case is.
Our rich and constant M---ll now,
Since they a Place have gave him,
He votes not as he us'd to do,
But just as they would have him.
Our Bully-back Jack H---w, alas!
Since he is made Pay-Master,
What my Lord Sly will have him do,
He'l do it in all hast Sir.
Young H---d too, that talkt so much
To bring the Lords to Trial,
He minds not Us, nor Them, nor Church,
But minds the Navy-Royal.
Our prating Ar---r M---re, whom we
Always rely'd on still,
For seven hundred Pounds a Year
Does vote against the Bill.
That Cunning Fox the Speaker too,
That us'd to trick and trim,
Wherein his Interest is concern'd,
The Church may sink or swim.
Thus you may see that Sons of Church
The Places are prefer'd to;
And that the Queen might please us all,
Sh'as oblig'd the Sacred Herd too.
And yet the Whigs vote for the Queen
More heartily than we do;
And is not this as sad a thing
As any Man can see to?
Now the Cause I will explain,
Why we do grumble still,
We cannot persecute again,
Altho we have the Will—
We thought when their Dutch King was dead,
We should have leave to smite 'em,
But now our Hands are so ty'd up,
We cannot Gibeonite 'em.
And now they say the House of Lords
Do's keep 'em all from Ruin,
Whilst to bring home our Natural Prince
I'th t'other House is brewing.
Thus sorrowfully must we sing,
Or mournfully may say,
Our Queen is so much like Their King,
Alack and well-aday.
