Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry Part 3

I.

Ye worthy Patriots, go on To heal the Nation's Sores, Find all Men's Faults out but your own, Begin good Laws, but finish none, And then shut up your Doors.

II.

Fail not our Freedom to secure, And all our Friends disband, And send those Men to t'other Sh.o.r.e Who were such Fools as to come o'er To help this grateful Land.

III.

And may the next that hears us pray, And in Distress relieve us, Go home like those without their Pay, And with Contempt be sent away For having once believ'd us.

IV.

And if the _French_ should e'er attempt This Nation to invade, May they be d.a.m.n'd that list again, But lead the fam'd Militia on, To be like us betray'd.

V.

As for the Crown you have bestow'd, With all its Limitations, The meanest Prince in _Christendom_ Would never stir a Mile from home To govern three such Nations.

VI.

The King himself, whom once you call'd Your Saviour in Distress, You in his first Request deny'd, And then his Royal Patience try'd With a canting sham Address.

VII.

Ye are the Men that to be chose Wou'd be at no Expences, Who love no Friends, nor fear no Foes, Have ways and means that no Man knows To mortify your Senses.

VIII.

Ye are the Men that can condemn By Laws made _ex post facto_, Who can make Knaves of honest Men, And married Women turn again To be Virgo and Intacta.

IX.

Go on to purify the Court, And d.a.m.n the Men of Places Till decently you send them home, And get your selves put in their room, And then you'll change your Faces.

X.

Go on for to establish Trade, And mend our Navigation, Let India invade, And borrow on Funds will ne'er be paid, And Bankrupt all the Nation.

XI.

'Tis you that calculate our Gold, And with a senseless Tone, Vote that you never understood, That we might take them if we wou'd Or let them all alone.

XII.

Your Missives you send round about With Mr. _Speaker's_ Letter, To fetch Folks in, and find Folks out, Which Fools believe without dispute, Because they know no better.

XIII.

With borrow'd s.h.i.+ps, and hir'd Men, The _Irish_ to reduce, Who will be paid the Lord knows when; 'Tis hop'd whene'er you want again, You'll think of that Abuse.

XIV.

Ye laid sham Taxes on our Malt, On Salt, on Gla.s.s, on Leather, To wheedle c.o.xcombs in to lend; And like true Cheats, you dropt that Fund, And sunk them all altogether.

XV.

And now y'are piously enclin'd The Needy to employ; You'd better much your time bestow To pay neglected Debts you owe, Which makes them multiply.

XVI.

Against Prophaneness you declar'd, And then the Bill rejected; And when the Arguments appear'd, They were the worst that e'er were heard, And best that we expected.

XVII.

'Twas voted once that for the Sin Of Whoring Men should die all; But then it was wisely thought again.

The House would quickly grow so thin, They durst not stand the Tryal.

XVIII.

King _Charles_ the Second knew your aim, And Places gave, and Pensions; And had King _William's_ Mony flown, His Majesty would soon have known Your Consciences Dimensions.

XIX.

But he has wisely given you up To work your own desires, And laying Arguments aside, As things that have in vain been try'd, To Fasting calls, and Prayers.

CHORUS-- Your Hours are choicely employ'd, Your Pet.i.tions lie all on the Table, With Funds Insufficient, And Taxes Deficient, And Deponents innumerable.

For shame leave this wicked Employment, Reform both your Manners and Lives; You were never sent out To make such a Rout, Go home, and look after your W----s.

JUSTICE IN MASQUERADE; OR, SCROGGS UPON SCROGGS.

A Butcher's Son's Judge Capital Poor Protestants for to enthral, And England to enslave, Sirs; Lose both our Laws and Lives we must When to do Justice we entrust So known an arrant Knave, Sirs.

Some hungry Priests he did once fell, With mighty Strokes sent them to h.e.l.l, Sent presently away, Sirs; Would you know why? The Reason's plain They had no _English_ nor _French_ coin To make a longer stay, Sirs.

The Pope to Purgatory sends Who neither Money have nor Friends, In this he's not alone, Sirs; For our Judge to Mercy's no inclin'd, 'Less Gold change Conscience and his Mind, You are infallibly gone, Sirs.

His Father once exempted was Out of all Juries [6]; why? because He was a Man of Blood, Sirs; And why the Butcherly Son (forsooth) Shou'd now be Jury and Judge both Cannot be understood, Sirs.

The good Old Man with Knife and Knocks Made harmless Sheep and stubborn Ox Stoop to him in his Fury; But the brib'd Son, like greasie Oaph, Kneels down and wors.h.i.+ps Golden Calf, And so do's all the Jury.

Better thou'dst been at Father's Trade, An honest Livelihood to have made, In lamp'ring Bulls with Collars, Than to thy Country prove unjust, First sell, and then betray, thy Trust, For so many hard Rix-Dollars.