Vulgus Britannicus :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Sacred Pile b'ing now in Flames,
To th' Grief of many Pious Dames;
Who wept to see the Rabble use,
Their Consecrated Seats and Pews;
Like Crazy Chairs with broken Backs,
And Beadsteads full of Bags and Cracks;
Disabl'd by the sinful Follies,
Of Common Strumpets and their Bullies;
And from some Brothel torn away,
Upon an Easter Holyday;
At such a Merry time to please,
The Cropear'd London 'Prentices;
That they might learn when Young and Bold,
To Mob with better Grace when Old.

Have we, said they, on Powder-Treason,
When Bonfires are the most in Season,
Collected broken Tubs and Hōops,
To burn their Devils, and their Popes;
Supply'd their Wants with thin Old Groats,
To chear their Hearts and wet their Throats;
That they might Revel, Whoop and Hollow,
With more undaunted Zeal when Mellow;
Break Popish Windows where no light,
Appear'd to celebrate the Night;
Stop Coaches, and exact a Fee,
For crying, Down with Popery;
And Worry those that would not stand,
To hear and answer their Demand;
And have they now at last turn'd Tail,
On us that always wish'd 'em well;
And set them up so oft to be,
The Bulwark of our Libertie.

O Shame on this Ungrateful Croud,
The Scandal of the Multitude;

Who never fail'd, we must allow,
To be our faithful Friends till now;
But always readily agreed,
To serve us at a time of Need.

Who'd think that in these Pious Days,
They should be so depriv'd of Grace;
Who always us'd to lend the Nation,
A willing Hand tow'rds Reformation;
And at all Seasons were so free,
To pull down Popish Tyranny.

But now they're sunk into a State,
That's Wicked, Base and Reprobate;
And are no longer to be trusted,
When Matters come to be Adjusted.

By this, alas, it is too Plain,
There is no Confidence in Man;
O Neighbours! Flesh and Blood we see,
Are Wanton, Frail, and Slippery;

And never truly as they shou'd,
Stand long to any Cause that's good;
But soon Draw-back, and fall at length,
For want of Constancy and Strength.

Alas, I'm almost spent, for why,
Much talk has made me wond'rous dray;
If you're not faint, I vow I am,
Here Neighbour, 'tis a Cordial Dram;
E'en let them take their own ill way,
The Wind will turn and so may they.

The sober Brethren too beheld,
With Shaking Heads the Shining Field;
And with full Hearts and flowing Eyes,
Bemoan'd the Burning Sacrifice;
One would cry out in Indignation,
What means this suddain Alteration;
Good L---d who would have though the Rabble;
Were so ingrateful and instable;
Have we for many Reigns together,
Tutor'd and Nurs'd 'em like a Father;

Made them the Curb of Sov'reign Pow'r,
Religion's strong defensive Tow'r;
Taught them by Clamour how to give
A Check to the Prerogitive;
To hunt down Pop'ry when we meant,
To fall upon another Scent;
That is, to Chase the Government:
And can they now O Brutes declare,
For what we know they never were;
And tune their Old Republisk Throats,
To such Prophane ill-boding Notes;
That threaten all we have projected,
With Disappointments unexpected;
So Good Intents in Holy Times,
Of old were often constru'd Crimes;
And by the People set at naught,
When to a hopeful Crisis brought.

Have we bestow'd such Annual Boons,
And Stipends on Apollo's Sons;
Our gifted Brethren of the Pen,
Those Pious, Learn'd and Honest Men;

Who spread their Morals up and down;
In e'ery Corner of the Town,
That those who would Instructions seek,
Might read their Duty e'ery Week;
And o'er their Coffee for a Penny,
Ferment their Zeal in Case they've any;
And grow as wise in State Affairs;
As City Aldermen and Mayors;
That e'ery Novice might be taught;
To tell his Brother Dunce what's what;
And thwart a Man of twice the Sense,
With Modish Noise and Impudence.

And has all this Expensive Pains,
The Cost of Mony and of Brains;
Fix'd no more Justice in the Rabble,
Than if our Prints on Coffee-house Table,
Had been no more than Bibble Babble.

O Brethren! 'tis a Burning Shame,
Our Holy Things should end in Flame;

And that the Seats of our Devotion,
Thro' our Old Friend's Mistaken Notion;
Should thus be Plunder'd and Confounded,
By such a Mob, which if well sounded,
Are not true Cavalier, but Roundhead.

For look ye, Brethren, pray consider,
Altho' they've stretch'd beyond their Tedder;
Perhaps, Poor Lambs, they might revolt
For Int'rest, then it was no Fault;
Because we cannot but allow,
That's a strange Plea, as things go now:
You know sometimes for Interest sake,
We take an Oath we mean to break;
Step a few Yards within the Door
O'th' Church, to gain a Customer;
Submit to th' Sacramental Tye,
When e'er we see good Reason why,
Yet never think we're Bound thereby.

For since the Wicked do agree,
'Tis best for their Security;
To fence their Intrest round about,
With Oaths, to keep the Righteous out;
It always ought to be our Care,
To make a Gap that we may share,
Th' Advantage they would fain ingross,
By keeeping all that's gainful close,
In case we had no Ways to Break,
Or Leap those Fences which they make.

Therefore, as Profit is a Plea,
For all Out-side Conformity;
And Men may Quarrel or Comply,
According as their Int'rests Lie.

On second Thoughts, we should excuse,
The People's playing Fast and Loose;

Provided in the end 'tis found
That Mony made them change their Ground;
For Int'rest cannot be withstood,
By those who're Conscious of their Good;
No more than Wantons can refuse,
Those Pleasures they delight to use.

The End of the Fourth CANTO.