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45
The Zealous Constable; or, the Criminal Stirling Impeach'd for High-Treason.
A zealous Brother of the Canting Crew,
A Sabbatarian, stricker than a Jew,
Who thinks Hipocrisy a Gospel Creed,
And solid Piety, but a legal Weed,
A Sabbatarian, stricker than a Jew,
Who thinks Hipocrisy a Gospel Creed,
And solid Piety, but a legal Weed,
On his Reforming Survey, Sabbath last,
(He'll turn that Festival unto a Fast,)
Seiz'd on a joicie Joint of roasted Meat,
And bid the graceless Owner chew the Spit.
Ungracious Man! I'll execute the Law,
And keep it to my own Spiritual Maw,
The plunder'd Person staring in his Face,
Cry'd twenty De'ils go down, make that the Grace,
(He'll turn that Festival unto a Fast,)
Seiz'd on a joicie Joint of roasted Meat,
And bid the graceless Owner chew the Spit.
Ungracious Man! I'll execute the Law,
And keep it to my own Spiritual Maw,
The plunder'd Person staring in his Face,
Cry'd twenty De'ils go down, make that the Grace,
The Seisure's made, O! then he gravely says,
(For when he Robbs, he penitently prays)
Ale drinking's a sad Sin, but none of mine,
The Spirit rises better with Good Wine.
(For when he Robbs, he penitently prays)
Ale drinking's a sad Sin, but none of mine,
The Spirit rises better with Good Wine.
There's yet another Sin which much prevails,
Women on Sabbaths bearing Milking Pails;
Elders and Deacons, tho' the Church's Prope,
Had never Courage yet to seize a Stoup.
Officer, Go take the Milk from yon Milk Maids,
And Poind their Pinners, since they have no Plaids.
The Beagle said, before he made them stand,
This holy Work will sour upon our Hand.
But he chastis'd a worse Transgression yet,
This Holy Man is for his Office fit,
People prophane; whose Tongues are Satan's Swords,
Transmit their Venom to their Bairns and Birds.
Women on Sabbaths bearing Milking Pails;
Elders and Deacons, tho' the Church's Prope,
Had never Courage yet to seize a Stoup.
Officer, Go take the Milk from yon Milk Maids,
And Poind their Pinners, since they have no Plaids.
The Beagle said, before he made them stand,
This holy Work will sour upon our Hand.
46
This Holy Man is for his Office fit,
People prophane; whose Tongues are Satan's Swords,
Transmit their Venom to their Bairns and Birds.
A Stirling hatch'd in some Malignant Nest,
Had learn'd a Song which should not be exprest,
Thrice with his Batton did he touch the Cage,
And roaring forth, like Doctor on a Stage,
Cries, O, thou art a Mad Malignant Bird,
To sing a Song, that's Treason every Word!
Had ye been taught by me, a Bow-head Saint,
You'd Sung the Solemn League and Covenant;
Bessie of Lanerk, or the Last good Night:
But you're a Bird Prelatick, that's no right;
Ye have a Breath that doth pollute the Air,
You turn a Tory-Tune unto a Sabbath Prayer.
Ye have been bred by that Malignant Lown,
Dean of Dumblain, I seiz'd upon his Gown.
Go, take it to the Guard, and Owner both,
Until they swear the Abjuration Oath,
Compear before the Constables and Session,
And make an ample and sincere Confession.
These Stirlings are an unco kind of Folk,
This is a Rebel worse than the Muir-cock,
O could my Batton reach the Leavrocks too,
They're chirping Jammie, Jammie, just like you,
I hate vain Birds that lead Malignant Lives,
But love the Chanters to the Bow-head Wives.
Had learn'd a Song which should not be exprest,
Thrice with his Batton did he touch the Cage,
And roaring forth, like Doctor on a Stage,
Cries, O, thou art a Mad Malignant Bird,
To sing a Song, that's Treason every Word!
Had ye been taught by me, a Bow-head Saint,
You'd Sung the Solemn League and Covenant;
Bessie of Lanerk, or the Last good Night:
But you're a Bird Prelatick, that's no right;
Ye have a Breath that doth pollute the Air,
You turn a Tory-Tune unto a Sabbath Prayer.
Ye have been bred by that Malignant Lown,
Dean of Dumblain, I seiz'd upon his Gown.
Go, take it to the Guard, and Owner both,
Until they swear the Abjuration Oath,
Compear before the Constables and Session,
And make an ample and sincere Confession.
These Stirlings are an unco kind of Folk,
This is a Rebel worse than the Muir-cock,
O could my Batton reach the Leavrocks too,
They're chirping Jammie, Jammie, just like you,
I hate vain Birds that lead Malignant Lives,
But love the Chanters to the Bow-head Wives.
The Captain smil'd to see the merry Jest,
A well-bred Bird mock'd by an ill-bred Beast.
A well-bred Bird mock'd by an ill-bred Beast.
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