From Ned Ward’s Works, vol. iv. 1709.
WHEN owles are strip’d of their disguise,
And wolves of shepherd’s cloathing,
Those birds and beasts that please our eyes
Will then beget our loathing;
When foxes tremble in their holes
At dangers that they see,
And those we think so wise prove fools,
Then low, boys, down go we.
If those designs abortive prove
We’ve been so long in hatching,
And cunning knaves are forced to move
From home for fear of catching;
The rabble soon will change their tone
When our intrigues they see,
And cry God save the Church and Throne,
Then low, boys, down go we.
The weaver then no more must leave
His loom and turn a preacher,
Nor with his cant poor fools deceive
To make himself the richer.
Our leaders soon would disappear
If such a change should be,
Our scriblers too would stink for fear,
Then low, boys, down go we.
No canvisars would dare to shew
Their postures and grimaces,
Or proph’sy what they never knew,
By dint of ugly faces.
But shove the tumbler through the town,
And quickly banish’d be,
For none must teach without a gown,
Then low, boys, down go we.
If such unhappy days should come,
Our virtue, moderation,
Would surely be repaid us home
With double compensation;
For as we never could forgive,
I fear we then should see
That what we lent we must receive,
Then low, boys, down go we.
Should honest brethren once discern
Our knaveries, they’d disown us,
And bubbl’d fools more wit should learn,
The Lord have mercy on us;
Let’s guard against that evil day,
Least such a time should be,
And tackers should come into play,
Then low, boys, down go we.
Tho’ hitherto we’ve play’d our parts
Like wary cunning foxes,
And gain’d the common people’s hearts
By broaching het’rodoxes,—
But they’re as fickle as the winds,
With nothing long agree,
And when they change their wav’ring minds,
Then low, boys, down go we.
Let’s preach and pray, but spit our gall
On those that do oppose us,
And cant of grace, in spite of all
The shame the Devil owes us:
The just, the loyal, and the wise
With us shall Papists be,
For if the _High Church_ once should rise,
Then, _Low Church_, down go we.
PHANATICK ZEAL,
OR
A LOOKING-GLASS FOR THE WHIGS.
From a Collection of 180 Loyal Songs.
Tune, “A Swearing we will go.”
WHO would not be a Tory
When the loyal are call’d so:
And a Whig now is known
To be the nation’s foe?
So a Tory I will be, will be,
And a Tory I will be.
With little band precise,
Hair Presbyterian cut,
Whig turns up hands and eyes
Though smoking hot from slut.
So a Tory I will be, etc.
Black cap turn’d up with white,
With wolfish neck and face,
And mouth with nonsense stuft,
Speaks Whig a man of grace,
And a Tory I will be, etc.
The sisters go to meetings
To meet their gallants there;
And oft mistake for my Lord,
And snivel out my dear.
And a Tory I will be, etc.
Example, we do own,
Than precept better is;
For Creswell she was safe,
When she lived a private Miss.
And a Tory I will be, etc.
The Whigs, though ne’er so proud,
Sometimes have been as low,
For there are some of note
Have long a raree-show.
And a Tory I will be, etc.
These mushrooms now have got
Their champion turn-coat hick;
But if the naked truth were known
They’re assisted by old Nick.
And a Tory I will be, etc.
To be and to be not
At once is in their power;
For when they’re in, they’re guilty,
But clear when out o’ the tower.
And a Tory I will be, etc.
To carry their designs,
Though ’t contradicts their sense;
They’re clear a Whiggish traytor
Against clear evidence.
And a Tory I will be, etc.
The old proverb doth us tell,
Each dog will have his day;
And Whig has had his too,
For which he’ll soundly pay;
And a Tory I will be, etc.
For bodkins and for thimbles
Now let your tubsters cant;
Their confounded tired cause
Had never yet more want.
So a Tory I will be, etc.
For ignoramus Toney
Has left you in the lurch;
And you have spent your money,
So, faith, e’en come to Church;
For a Tory I will be, etc.
They are of no religion,
Be it spoken to their glories,
For St Peter and St Paul
With them both are Tories;
And a Tory I will be, etc.
They’re excellent contrivers,
I wonder what they’re not,
For something they can make
Of nothing and a plot.
And a Tory I will be, etc.
But now your holy cheat
Is known throughout the nation;
And a Whig is known to be
A thing quite out of fashion.
And a Tory I will be, etc.
A NEW GAME AT CARDS:
OR,
WIN AT FIRST AND LOSE AT LAST.
A popular ballad, written immediately after the restoration of Charles
II.; and in which the victorious Cavaliers render honour to General Monk,
Duke of Albemarle.
Tune, “Ye gallants that delight to play.”
YE merry hearts that love to play
At cards, see who hath won the day;
You that once did sadly sing
The knave of clubs hath won the king;
Now more happy times we have,
The king hath overcome the knave.
Not long ago a game was play’d,
When three crowns at the stakes were laid;
England had no cause to boast,
Knaves won that which kings had lost:
Coaches gave the way to carts,
And clubs were better cards than hearts.
Old Noll was the knave o’ clubs,
And dad of such as preach in tubs;
Bradshaw, Ireton, and Pride
Were three other knaves beside;
And they play’d with half the pack,
Throwing out all cards but black.
But the just Fates threw these four out,
Which made the loyal party shout;
The Pope would fain have had the stock,
And with these cards have whipt his dock.
But soon the Devil these cards snatches
To dip in brimstone, and make matches.
But still the sport for to maintain,
Bold Lambert, Haslerigg, and Vane,
With one-eyed Hewson, took their places,
Knaves were better cards than aces;
But Fleetwood he himself did save,
Because he was more fool than knave.
Cromwell, though he so much had won,
Yet he had an unlucky son;
He sits still, and not regards,
Whilst cunning gamesters set the cards;
And thus, alas! poor silly Dick,
He play’d awhile, and lost his trick.
The Rumpers that had won whole towns,
The spoils of martyrs and of crowns,
Were not contented, but grew rough,
As though they had not won enough;
They kept the cards still in their hands,
To play for tithes and college lands.
The Presbyters began to fret
That they were like to lose the sett;
Unto the Rump they did appeal,
And said it was their turn to deal;
Then dealt with Presbyterians, but
The army swore that they would cut.
The foreign lands began to wonder,
To see what gallants we lived under,
That they, which Christians did forswear,
Should follow gaming all the year,—
Nay more, which was the strangest thing,
To play so long without a king.
The bold phanatics present were,
Like butlers with their boxes there,
Not doubting but that every game
Some profit would redound to them;
Because they were the gamesters’ minions,
And every day broach’d new opinions.
But Cheshire men (as stories say)
Began to show them gamester’s play;
Brave Booth and all his army strives
To save the stakes, or lose their lives;
But, oh sad fate! they were undone
By playing of their cards too soon.
Thus all the while a club was trump,
There’s none could ever beat the Rump,
Until a noble general came,
And gave the cheaters a clear slam;
His finger did outwit their noddy,
And screw’d up poor Jack Lambert’s body.
Then Haslerigg began to scowl,
And said the general play’d foul.
Look to him, partners, for I tell ye,
This Monk has got a king in’s belly.
Not so, quoth Monk, but I believe
Sir Arthur has a knave in’s sleeve.
When General Monk did understand
The Rump were peeping into’s hand,
He wisely kept his cards from sight,
Which put the Rump into a fright;
He saw how many were betray’d
That show’d their cards before they play’d.
At length, quoth he, some cards we lack,
I will not play with half a pack;
What you cast out I will bring in,
And a new game we will begin:
With that the standers-by did say
They never yet saw fairer play.
But presently this game was past,
And for a second knaves were cast;
All new cards, not stain’d with spots,
As was the Rumpers and the Scots,—
Here good gamesters play’d their parts
And turn’d up the king of hearts.
After this game was done, I think
The standers-by had cause to drink,
And all loyal subjects sing,
Farewell knaves, and welcome King;
For, till we saw the King return’d,
We wish’d the cards had all been burn’d.