University of Virginia Library

In Times of Libelling and Squabbling,
When Fools in Politicks were dabbling,
And Knaves of no Church were Pretenders
To be Religion's best Defenders;
Till boasted Zeal had in Reality
Expung'd all Vertue and Morality,
And Faith, so much esteem'd of Old,
Was made a stalking-Horse to Gold;
That all sides, tho' they seem'd to differ
About some nice religious Cypher,
Yet in the main agreed to pray
(Like modern Saints) the gainfulest way,
Who to their Int'rest and their Ease
Conform their tender Consciences,
Holding it sinful to be serving
The LORD in any Cause that's starving;
Taking at all Times special heed
To pray as cunning Lawyers plead;
That is, but slightly, when they find
Heav'n does not see them to their Mind.

In these Fanatick Times there reign'd
A QUEEN that did the Faith defend,
Of all Her Sex the very best,
Yet greatly injur'd and opprest
By Faction and her envious Brood,
Who find most Fault with what's most Good,
And never will have done pretending
To mend, alass, what needs no Mending,
Tho' like dull Critick, or Translator,
They make Things worse, instead of better
Yet have the Vanity the while
To think they're bright'ning what they spoil:
O'er this Enthusiastick Race
Of Saints, and others full as base,
The best of Ladies was appointed
By Heav'n to rule, as GOD's Anointed.
Happy were all in such a QUEEN,
Or so, at least, they might have been,
Had they but had the sense to've known
The Vertues that possess'd the Throne:
But thro' Ingratitude or Blindness,
Ill Use was made of all Her Kindness,
And groundless Faults, by wicked Men,
Reflected falsely on Her Reign;
Tho' mighty Favours she had flung
On faithless Friends that did Her Wrong,
And always was the most betray'd
By Minions that Herself had made,
As if Ingratitude at Court
Was thought no Crime in any sort,
And Treachery from Time to Time
The Courtiers only way to climb.

Among the crafty Crew of Great
Pretenders to the Tricks of State,
Who waited round the Throne, in order
T'attend their Sov'reign, and to guard Her:
There was a Noble Fighting Lord,
Whose Deeds not only of the Sword
Have in our Gazettes been recorded,
As well as lavishly rewarded,
But all his virtues, by the Month
Of Fame, been spread from North to South;
His faithful Service to his Prince
Who rais'd him from the Ground long since,
And sav'd him from the gaping Waves,
When Hundreds made the same their Graves;
The wond'rous Courage that he shew'd,
As well as Love and Gratitude
To his kind Master, at a Time
When down-right Treason was no Crime,
And when he wanted Friends that durst
To've done their Best, and stood the worst,
Such Friends as would have ventur'd their Skin
Against the Flemish Boors in Bear Skins;
His Justice to his Master's Daughter,
Who rais'd him up so High soon after,
And made his Partner, in the sequel,
Her Confidant, in short, Her Equal,
And chose the Trusty Lord to be
Her noble Champion Càp-a-pee,
Forgetting quite how well his G---
Had serv'd Her Father in Distress;
His thankful Gratitude, when Great,
To Her who rais'd him to his State;
And all his kind Attempts, in vain,
To ease Her of Her careful Reign:
I say, these Grateful, Good behaviours,
In Ratribution of Her Favours,
Accompany'ng such Pers'nal Valour,
That never yet was tax'd with Failure,
But wisely to a purblind Lord
Had like to've shewn it self at Sword,
That ev'n the dimmest Eyes might see
His bold undaunted Bravery;
I say, such Vertue, so much Merit
Inherent in so brave a Spirit.
Could do no less than win the Publick,
And make his Pride a little Oblique;
However, aiming to aspire
As high as Monarchy, or higher,
And fancy'ng he could rule the State,
As well as Noll of ancient Date,
By Zara's Management he reckon'd
To be an Oliver the Second,
Fore-knowing that his wise Directress
Would make an excellent Protectress,
Or prove a very useful Wife
To a Lord General for Life.
But of sudden, all their Hopes
Are baffled, and the Project drops;
Their Royal Mistress found 'em out,
And smelt the Plot they were about,
Reproach'd th' ambitious Pair together,
And sent 'em packing, God knows whether,
Remov'd Her Sword, obtain'd a Peace,
Reliev'd Her Kingdoms in Distress;
And that which vex'd the Faction worse,
To safer Hands convey'd the Purse,
And would have done (had Some been hearty)
More Wonders for the Loyal Party;
But as between the Cup and Lip
Things unforeseen will often slip,
So Death was pleas'd to interpose
And gratify the Nation's Foes,
By cutting short a milder Reign
Than Faction e'er will find again;
For none that ever rul'd the Roast,
Less Ease, or greater Fame, could boast,
None labour'd more for England's Good,
Repay'd with such Ingratitude,
Nor QUEEN o'er stubborn Race
E'er suffer'd more, or punish'd less;
But yet no sooner was it known
That Heav'n had snatch'd Her from the Throne,
But Envy made Her Death her Sport,
And seem'd well pleas'd at the Report;
Whilst the glad Whigs reform'd their Faces,
And chang'd to Smiles their late Grimaces,
Advanc'd their Stocks, cry'd Heaven's bless Her,
And rung loud Peals to Her Successor,
Who was proclaim'd, as Princes ought,
With wondrous Joy surpassing Thought;
Which Tidings flying round, as fast
As Winds and Seas could give 'em hast,
Soon brought our Righted Champion over
From Foreign Shelter, back to Dover;
Thence moving on in Princely Pomp,
Like any Noll to meet a Rump;
Till he at length to Town was brought,
Hoping to be the Lord knows what;
And how he enter'd London City,
I'll tell ye in the following Ditty,

The Pompous Cavalcade.

As cruel Nero triumph'd o'er
His Lifeless Mother heretofore,
And shamefully expos'd the Womb,
That brought the Monster into Rome;
To shew their Madness much the same,
Our quondam Champion, and his Dame,
In mighty Pomp, the other Day,
Came in t'insult their Mother's Clay
That is, a QUEEN, who'd been in troth
A Nursing-Mother to them both,
And made 'em, as 'tis understood
By all the World, more Great and Good.

From Kent, where they dispens'd their Bounty
To win the Rabble of the County,
And bribe the Rural Looby Louts
To change their Hisses into Shouts,
They mov'd in State to Kent-street End
With scarce a Follower or a Friend,
Besides the Civil-List our Lord—
Protector landed from a Board:
But here a mottl'd prick-ear'd Troop
Of Horse were drawn in Order up,
Consisting of a factious Crew
Of all the Sects in Roffe's view,
From Calvin's Anti-Babylonians,
Down to the Frantick Muggletonians
Mounted on founder'd Skins and Bones,
That scarce could crawl along the Stones,
As if the Round-heads had been robbing
The Higglers Inns of Ball and Dobbin,
And all their Skeletonian Fits
That could but halt along the Streets:
The frightful Troop of thin-jaw'd Zealots
Curs'd Enemies to Kings and Prelates,
Those Champions of Religious Errors,
Looking as if the Prince of Terrors
Was coming with his dismal Train
To Plague the City once again.

Before this inconsistent Throng,
In solemn Order march'd a long
A File of Liv'ry Men or two
On Horseback, cloath'd in German Blue
To shew the Whigs, that tho' they led 'em,
Their Masters ready were to head 'em.

Behind these blue Dragoons, cut out
To serve on Horseback, or on Foot,
Advanc'd a Brewing-Knight notorious
For Actions foolish and inglorious,
An exc'llent Doctor, well as Warder,
To cure or keep Madmen in Order;
Or, by sequestring what they've got,
To make Men mad, in case they're not.
Nor is this Noble Knight less Valiant
Than any Covent-Garden Gallant,
But claims a Place among Bravadoes,
For paying Bills with Bastinadoes,
And tearing Notes himself has made,
Before they're satisfy'd or paid,
Besides, as other Knights have kill'd
Their Dragon-Foes in open Field,
And conquer'd Giants, in Defence
Of Ladies and their Innocence;
So has our Knight vouchsaf'd to thwack
A surly Carman's sturdy Back,
And prick'd his Thill Horse in the Arse,
To shew himself a Son of Mars;
So laid him sprawling him on the Ground,
With one victorous bloody wound;
And all because the Brute they say,
Refus'd to give the Knight the way.
Thus do some Champion with Renown,
By Deeds of Prowess they have done,
Whilst other Knights who fear to face
Like Dangers, dwindle to Disgrace.

Next to the Knight there rode a true,
Blue Cobbling Protestant St. Hugh,
So call'd because the Saint is made
The Leather Patron of his Trade;
These Wooden Bones he worships more
Than God, his Church, or Sovereign Power
Or any thing except his Glorious
Triumphant Idol so victorious,
Ador'd by all the Gentle Craft
That work in Garrets up aloft;
As well as Cobbling Sots that Breath;
Her Praises out in Stalls beneath.

Next him a famous Southwark Taylor
A trusty Whig of equal Valour,
Rode shouting to the hissing Crowd,
And crying Liberty aloud,
Altho' whene'er the Laws o'ercome us,
His Business is to keep it from us,
And Tyrant-like to never grant it,
Unless we pay for't, when we want it.
So Rebels, that inflame a Nation,
Whene'er they rise, cry Reformation;
But if they bring their Betters under,
Their whole Religion ends in Plunder.

Saint Luke the Baptist next appear'd
Among this wild Republick Herd,
Who, when the best of Queens possess'd,
The Throne, and all the Kingdom bless'd,
Could talk High-Treason in his Shop,
With Tongue more oily than his Soap.
And wish'd his Firkins turn'd to Barrels,
Of Powder that by civil Quarrels
The Pious Faction, might once more
Subvert the Church and Sov'reign Pow'r,
And thus his zealous Friends and he
In greater Readiness might be,
After he'd Sung a Psalm or two,
And pray'd as he had wont to do,
With firy Zeal and Courage hearty,
Cast Bullets for the Godly Party,
Hoping that in a little time
Rebellion wou'd be thought no Crime,
And that such Implements once more
Might wound the Babylonian Whore.
But factious Fools are oft mistaken,
And lose instead of, save their Bacon.
The King of Evil Spirits next
Appear'd and in his Mouth a Text;
Who does the Publick double Wrong,
And Poisons these he gets among,
Both with Geneva and his Tongue:
For when he rides the Country round,
Where Fools and Chapmen may be found,
He does not only drench and drain 'em,
But with his Doctrines dam and sham 'em.
Thus sells his Spirits, Cants and Prays,
And propagates his Trade two ways;
Is of their Faith a double Pillar,
Both Baptist, Preacher, and Distiller;
Altho' his Cordials with the Saints,
Are stronger than his Arguments,
Yet both intoxicate by Turns,
One warms their Ears, but t'other burns,
And makes their Entrails by Degrees
Much Blacker than their Consciences.
A canting Sot does next succeed,
Who deals in Hops, that bitter Weed;
A mighty preaching Saint among
The Southwark Annabaptist Throng,
Regarded highly for his Cunning,
And all the shifts thereto belonging;
Yet cannot keep for all his Craft
The Curse their murder'd Kings have left.
Upon that Scabby Race, from fretting
His Wrists, which he relieves at Meeting
By scratching, or by Button Whetting!

Next these an Independant Brother,
That looks one way and rows another,
The Dung-Boat Captain of a Squadron
Of Lighters loaded by the Chaldron,
And sometimes at the Lay-Stalls where
He's glad to make a Turd his Fare,
And waft it up the Thames to sell it
To th' Gard'ners who delight to smell it.
And prize it when its Old and Mellow,
As Misers do their Golden Yellow.
This Charon of Fanatick Souls,
Made black by wafting them and Coals,
Is rev'renc'd highly by the Saints,
Not for his Worth, but Impudence,
In daring to blaspheme the Name
To Mem'ry of the Royal DAME,
To whom we owe more thankful Praise,
Than Heart can wish, or Tongue can raise.

Next these a Lecturer of Note,
A Preaching Scandal to his Coat,
A busy prating Fractious Priest
Advanc'd as joyful as the rest,
Distinguish'd by his Habit Holy,
Tho't gave no Sanction to his Folly,
But made the wiser sort believe
A Knave was hid in Pudding Sleeve;
To Pulpit rais'd by Whigs, to smother
The Doctrines of his sacred Mother,
And to confound his factious Hearers
With Whiggish and Fanatick Errors,
Which he had done with Zeal so hearty,
To curry Favour with his Party,
That his whole Parish to his Shame,
Is nick-nam'd Little Amsterdam;
Himself a prating Good-for-Nothing,
A very Wolf in Shepherd's Cloathing,
Who does his utmost Forces bend
To wrong the Church he shou'd defend,
And Caterpillar like indeed
Destroys the Tree, by which he's fed.

Among this wild Fanatick Train,
Appear'd a famous Small-Coal-Man
Who does not only sell his Ware,
To this and t'other Maiden fair,
But is the noblest Quack in Town,
Who boasts a Nostrum of his own
By which alone, 'thout Wit or Fear,
He kills his Thousands in a Year;
And when his Talent he employs,
Best pleases when he most destroys,
And as the Slaughter proves the greater,
More Credit gains and thrives the better:
For Buggy Bedsteds are in chief
His Patients, and the best Relief
He gives 'em, is by fatal Unction,
By which he kills without Compunction
And in one Night will poison more
Than Warwick-Lane can do in four.

The next that did on Horseback strut
Among this Factious Rabble Rout,
Was a pert, little, prating, proud,
Black Mercer, near the Gate of Lud.
A Presbyterian by Profession
Who rattles with such Indignation
Against the Church as if his Skull
Was not of Brains, but Malice full;
And that he holds no other Faith,
But what is founded in his Wrath:
For seldom does he break his silence,
But with Inveteracy and Violence;
And never can keep his busy Tongue
From ill asserting what is Wrong,
But makes a Mock to shew his Folly
Of all that's Rightful True and Holy;
Is one of Faction's Party Drums,
That rattles wheresoe'er he comes
At Sam's oft beats up Civil Wars,
And sets whole Room fulls by the Ears
But Coward-like has Wit to shun
Th' approaching Danger when he's done
For rather then be beat, he'll run,
This Party-Champion with so fierce
A Tongue, was mounted on a Horse
He'd borrow'd of a Quaking Saint,
Who loves to Drink as well as Cant;
A Maggot-Monger, by his Trade,
Who has 'em both in Shop and Head;
Yet was not such a Zealot neither,
To mix with Kent-street Mob, but rather
Consented wisely that his Horse
Should add his Presence to the Farce
Altho' his Master hung an Arse.
Therefore since Ananias could not
Attend the Pomp or may be, would not,
Ne prov'd so Civil as to send
His Horse, and much less worthy Friend,
Hoping two Brutes in such a Train
Might serve instead of Horse and Man.

Amidst this pompous Cavalcade,
The Doctor on his spotted Jade,
Not only made the greatest Jest,
But the best Show of all the rest;
Spurring into his Horse new Vigour,
That both might make the better Figure;
Attended with his Indian Trump,
And Pacquet-Bearer at his Rump;
One sounding forth the Victor's Fame
In Notes adapted to the same,
Whilst t'other two, strain'd hard to raise
Their hoarse-flux'd Voices in his Praise,
And made them a Consort sweeter far,
Than that which terrify'd the Ear
Of poor Belfega, when 'twas told him,
His noisy Wife was come to scold him.

The rest were Hatters, Dyers, Cobblers,
Mounted on Skeletonian Hobblers,
Fellows not worth the crazy Tits
That lamely carry'd 'em thro' the Streets;
Just such as follow at the Heels
Of C---x into St. George's Fields,
When t'other side and their Instructors
Cry, No Horse-killers, no mad Doctors.

When this ill-favour'd Troop was past,
Brought up by one who rode the last,
And did like Mr. Finis look,
At the End of an old tatter'd Book;
Next these ill mounted scare-crow Warriors,
That mov'd like Northen Pack-Horse Carriers
Advanc'd the Southwark Grenadiers,
With Rats-Tails tuck'd behind their Ears;
In tall, tremendous Caps, to fright
The Boys from Laughing at the sight;
All cloath'd in Buff, as we suppose,
To look more frightful to their Foes,
With Guns upon their Shoulders ready,
To guard their Idol, and his Lady;
In this good Order and Decorum,
Coaches behind, and Horse before 'em,
Eight Files of Faction, who had stript
Their Rags off, to be thus equipp'd,
Tom-turd-men, Broom-men, Hostlers, Porters,
Just started from their drunken Quarters,
Advanc'd to carry on the Jest,
In Marshal Pomp, among the rest;
I ed by an Adamite of Note,
Who oft in Meeting strains his Throat,
And tho' sometimes he wears a Sword,
Can say Amen, or spread a T---d;
A Whig that does not only trade
In Psalms, but occupies the Spade,
And serves, for Profit and for Praise,
The Godly, in these pious Days,
With Herbs, as well as Ekes and Ays,

Nor did he think his Buff Appearance,
With all his Good-Old-Cause Adherents,
Enough to honour him and her,
Whose Presence made this mighty Stir;
But he must also bring his young
Apprentice, bred to spade and Dung,
To make a florid Speech in Meter,
Compos'd by a Fanatick Teacher,
In Praise of Quixot and his Dame,
Who stopp'd their Coach, and heard the same;
Giving five Shillings as a Token
To him, by whom the Words were spoken;
But had they giv'n as much agen,
And made the little Sum up Ten,
They'd prov'd as generous a Pair,
As the two Kings of Brentford were,
When they bestow'd an equal Prize
Upon the Army in Disguise;
And then the Spokes-Man might have made
The Answer in the Play, and said,
Thanks to you both, we have not seen
So large a Sum the Lord knows when.

Tho' but one Leader their Troop,
They'd two Lieutenants at their Poop;
The one an Anabaptist Vict'ler,
T'other an Independant Stickler,
By Trade a Tanner, and a great
Reformer of the Church and State;
The first before he venter'd out,
Took care to line his Skin with Stout,
That he might prove the more Pot-valiant,
In case he met with some Assailant.

The other, as he march'd along,
Stunk of Raw-Hides so very strong,
That the Dogs smelt him in the Rear,
And bark'd like Mungrels at a Bear,
Expressing at his Arse such Anger,
As if they thought their Skins in Danger,
The Curs all knowing well enough
His Trade, by smelling to his Buff,
And therefore at the Scent took Snuff

Thus the proud Warriors march'd along,
Surrounded by a noisy Throng,
Huzza'd by all their factious Brothers,
But pelted, hiss'd, and scoff'd by others,
Till their Buff-Coats were stain'd with Badges
Of Kennel-Dirt, the only Wages
They met with from the Loyal Side,
For hum'ring such insulting Pride;
A poor Revenge to shew their Spleen
And Malice to a Lifeless QUEEN,
Who had deserv'd so much from those
That triumph'd in their Death, like Foes,
And march'd in Pomp, with Beat of Drum,
Attended by a Kent street Scum,
Crying aloud, They come, They come.

No sooner were these Tidings heard,
But Coach and six in State appear'd,
Wherein like Demi-Gods there sate
The conq'ring Idol and his Mate,
Most humbly bowing to the Crowd,
For fear the Mob should think 'em proud;
Still courting as they mov'd along,
The gazing, loud huzzaing Throng,
Who swarm'd about the Coach for Money,
Like Wasps about a Pot of Honey;
Rending their Throats each time they hollow'd,
To please the Ears of those they follow'd,
Who sat and smil'd on all without,
Bowing full low at ev'ry Shout;
Yet blush'd the while, to find so rude
A Mob express such Gratitude
For Actions past, when mighty Men
Look on their Patrons with Disdain,
And trample with insulting State
Upon their Dust who made 'em Great.

Next these, in following Coaches came
The Daughters of the Princely Dame,
Those shining Stars without a Brother,
So like their Father and their Mother;
Attended by those Noble Lords
They'd bound in Matrimonal Cords;
Their beautious Ladies so renown'd
For all the Charms in Woman found;
Knowing where e'er they shew their Faces.
The Crowd must wonder at their Graces,
And gather round so fair a sight
By Day, as Moths, who sport by Night,
Do round a Taper's flaming Light.

Next these, to their immortal Fame,
Some Low-Church City Elders came,
In their own Coaches, to attend
Their High and Mighty valiant Friend
And to declare their Approbation
Of his Designs upon the Nation;
Old stanch Republican Professors,
Glass Window sanctify'd Addressors,
Who never bend to Church or Crown,
But with Intent to pull 'em down;
Nor ever compliment or flatter
Their Princes but to play the Traytor.

Next these, who, like to blazing Stars,
Portend Domestick Feuds and Wars,
Came Managers and Bank-Directors,
King-Killers, Monarchy-Electors,
And Votaries for Lord-Protectors;
That had old subtile Satan spread
His Net o'er all the Cavalcade,
He might at one surprizing Pull
Have fill'd his low'r Dominions full
Of Atheists, Rebels, Whigs, and Traytors,
Reforming Knaves and Regulators;
And eas'd at once this Land of more,
And greater Plagues, than Ægypt bore.

In this fine Order they proceeded,
Much blam'd, altho' but little heeded,
Moving from Kent-street till they came,
To old St. George's Church of Fame,
Where neither Ensign was display'd
To compliment the Cavalcade,
Nor Bells permitted to proclaim
New Cromwell, and his good old Dame;
Which vex'd the Brewing Knight so sadly,
That he behav'd himself so madly;
And order'd the Fanatick Rout
To break the Windows round about
The sacred Dwelling of the Lord,
To shew how highly he adord
God's House, His Clergy, or his Word.

From thence, they mov'd like Clock-work thorough
That squabbling Town call'd Southwark Borough;
Where Butchers Dogs, and Hatters Boys,
Huzza'd and bark'd t'express their Joys,
Whilst all the Laniarian Fry
That saw the Cavalcade pass by,
Welcom'd their bowing Friends with Peals
They rung on Cleavers with their Steels,
That those who knew not the Occasion
Of such a noisy odd Procession,
Expected they should find anon
The same to be a Skimington!
A Riding Neighbours makes in Course,
Whan the Grey Mare's the better Horse,
To terrify those scolding Witches
That fight and wrangle for the Breeches

At length they to the Bridge advanc'd,
And o'er shose cockling Peables pranc'd;
But as the World, and all therein,
Are full of Chances unforeseen,
That interupt our wisest Measures
And ruffle all our smoothest Pleasures
So here an Acccident fell out,
That much alarm'd the moving Rout;
For o'er the Arches of the Bridge
To which both Stream and Tide lay Siege,
There lives an Æsculapian Brother,
Who lov'd his Country's Royal Mother,
And thought himself oblig'd to pay
Due Honours to Her sacred Clay;
This honest, well designing Son
Of Loyalty to Church and Throne,
Unable to behold a Sight
That savour'd of Fanatick spight,
A vile Procession purely made
T'insult the best of QUEENS when dead,
And trample o'er Her lifeless Mold,
Before Her Royal Corps was cold
Resolv'd to fling a Mouth-Grenade
Among the factious Cavalcade
And to upbraid 'em for their rude
Revenge upon a QUEEN so Good
Accordingly his Post he took
At his own Door, that he might look
The pompous Leaders in the Face
And thus his Loyal Mind express.

Shame on ye all, the factious Scrubs
Ye Sons of Pantiles, and of Tubs,
Poison'd by Dunces up and down
In Holes, who prate 'gainst Church and Crown,
And teach you to insult the best
Of PRINCES now Her Soul's at Rest;
Is this a Time when Thousands Mourn,
For you to make their Grief your SCORN,
And bring your banish'd IDOLS in,
Like Burton, Bastick and old Prin?
Hang down for Shame your prickt up Ears,
Change your indecent Joys to Tears,
And leave the ungrateful Pair to shew
Their MALICE where their Grief is due!

This vex'd the Brewing Knight, who led
The Helter-Skelter Cavalcade,
And caus'd him to attempt a Knock
On Galen's Medicinal Block;
Who fearing the Assault thought fit
To make a politick Retreat,
In which he wisely chanc'd to grovel
Behind the Door for Paring Shovel,
With which he met, and laying hold
O th' useful Weapon, grew so bold,
As to advance against the Knight,
And dare him to renew the Fight;
But Courage failing when he found,
His Foe resolv'd to keep his Ground,
He spurr'd his Horse, and slipp'd away,
To save himself from bloody Fray,
And looking upwards where there hung
St. George's Foe with bearded Tongue,
Altho' a Knight whom Knaves do brag on
Would combate neither Man nor Dragon,
But letting fly, upon his Saddle,
A Cracker as he sat a straddle,
Rode safely off before his Troop,
With Brewer's Fizzle at his Poop,
So the poor Hern, when Hawk is near,
Soars high, and Squatters down for fear.
However, tho' the Knight withdrew,
He gave his factious Mob the Loo,
Who like Fanatick Desperadoes,
Attack'd the Foe with Dirt-Granadoes,
Which did not only daub and wound him,
But brought down Shelves of Slops arround him;
That what with Dabs the Rabble flung
Which in his Peruke clotted hung,
'Twixt Syrrups, Dirt and Aqua-vitæ
Poor Galen look'd enough to fright ye.
But as ill Usage makes the Brave
The more despise the threatning Grave;
So angry Galen, when he found
His broken Gally-Pots lie round,
Bleeding their Syrrups on the Floor,
As fresh and red as human Gore,
Renew'd his Courage with a jerk,
And sally'd out as fierce as Turk,
Moving all down that stood before
His Castles Windows or his Door,
Forcing the Assailants to retire,
Well beaten to their Hearts desire,
Upbraiding every Coach that came,
With basely trampling to their shame
On th' Ashes of the Royal DAME;
Which made the Party-Tools within
Look out; who finding Galen's Sign
A Dragon Green, that Monstrous Beast,
Believ'd him a St. George at least,
So left him to prepare his Plaisters;
For broken Heads, and such Disasters,
He'd well distributed among
The factious Mob, who'd done him Wrong,
from thence they mov'd thro' Grace-church-street,
Where sullen Bull Dog chanc'd to meet
The Horsemen as they march't along
And Dubnose wond'ring at the Throng,
Surpriz'd by Shooting and Drumming,
Believ'd the Bulls and Bears were coming;
Accordingly began to lick
His Lips, and growing Chollerick,
Mistook as if the silly Dog,
Had been begot in Land of Bog,
And in his Heat and Fury made
A Bull of a FANATICK Jade;
Proving in his Attack so fierce,
That he had pull'd down Man and Horse,
Had not the Mob, by Pots made Valiant,
Stept in, and kill'd the poor Assailant.
From thence thro' London-street they mov'd
Hiss'd, pelted, scoff'd, and much reprov'd,
Huzza'd by none but Butchers Boys
And Rabble that delight in Noise,
Who only gather into Routs
To please themselves with merry Bouts
For those that glory in their Shouts.

Thus on they march'd, much Joy exprest,
Till past St. Dunstan's in the West,
Where Providence, as some oonclude
Broke down the Wheels of Gratitude;
And let the Idol drop to show,
The highest Pride may tumble low.
Some shook their Heads at the Misfortune,
And cry'd 'twas Ominous for Certain,
From thence most wisely did Conjecture,
This Year he would not be P---r
As he that backward flings his Chair,
Desponds that Year and being May'r
Some recollected pious NOLL
Had once upon a Time a Fall
From out his Coach Box which portended
His Reign soon after should be ended.
As he and many more believed;
Nor were they in their Guess deceived:
For from that Hour as some report,
He took the Accident to Heart;
Reflected on the Ground that caught him,
And dwindl'd till the Devil fetch'd him.
Pray God the like may not attend
This Nations disappointed Friend!

After a little Hurly-Burly,
Some Laughing, others looking Surly,
The lame Old Pair, by Help of Crutch
Remov'd into a following Coach,
And angry that their Wheels should rend,
Proceeding to their Journey's End;
Leaving all Parties to deride
Their spightful, and indecent Pride.

MORAL.

Thus when Revenge does Reason's Scepter rule,
It turns the Wisest Statesman to a Fool,
Eclipses Fame, precipitates the Brave
Into rash Errors scorn'd by ev'ry Slave,
Then let's with Reason punish or forgive,
And ne'er forget the Bounties we receive,
For when the Great no Gratitude can boast
Their other Vertues are intirely lost.