The Protestant Court of England:
OR, THE
Joyful Coronation of K. William III. and Q. Mary II.
Setting Forth
The English, Welsh, Scots, and Dutch-Man's Defiance of the Common Enemy, and
Disturber of this Protestant Kingdom, the JESUITE; with the Irish-Man's and Monsieur's
[Ro]mish Vindication of Him. The Tune of, The Pudding.
|
English-man.
|
COme Gallants, let's tender
|
Those Hearts we surrender
|
At the blest Coronation of our Faiths great Defender,
|
Now Glory shall Rule:
|
No more Popish Edge-tool;
|
Thank Heav'n, of a knave we've at last made a Fool,
|
of a Jesuit.
|
Who but they and their Crew
|
Poor James could undo,
|
And lose him his Honour and Diadem too;
|
By Petres false measure,
|
Th' unfortunate Caesar,
|
Turn'd (alas) out a grazing, like Nebuchadnezzar,
|
by the Jesuit.
|
With you Chancellor false Steward,
|
Romes Scholar so toward,
|
Your Castlemain Nuncio & your Cardinal Howard,
|
You have out-done the shot
|
Of your Gunpowder Plot,
|
And blown up the credulous James; have ye not?
|
ye false Jesuit.
|
Our Freedoms and Charters
|
Were the first of your Martyrs,
|
For Rome had begun to take up her head Quarters
|
Her Vengeance to wreak,
|
All Faith we must break,
|
For Law, Oaths, & Gospel are all Bonds too weak
|
for a Jesuit.
|
Taffy.
|
A Shesuit, that Sheater,
|
Rogue, Villain, and Traytor:
|
By the flesh of her pones, her Welsh plood rises at her;
|
Very fine, Shemle folks,
|
A Welsh Heir, with a pox,
|
Was her get a Prince in a Shugglers Box?
|
Cunning Shesuit.
|
Has her forehead no blush on
|
Such Prosbects to push on,
|
As was raise her Welsh Heir to Three Crowns from a Cushion
|
To who, splutternalls,
|
Does her tell her sham Tales?
|
Has her none to put trick on but her Nation of Wales,
|
Roguy Shesuit?
|
Oh! to pay her old score,
|
Had her Son of a Whore
|
On a Ladder as high her ow[n] Penmenmour
|
Was her once but [tr]uss'd up,
|
Till Her cut the Rope,
|
Her might hang there till doomsday, her self & her Pope
|
for a Shesuit.
|
Sawny.
|
THe Pope that saw Turk,
|
So [sleely] at [wo]rk,
|
With aw his faw [i]mps to pull down the [K]irk,
|
Now the Mange, our Scotch plague,
|
On that Scarlet Whore-Hag,
|
And Deel split the wem, the luggs, and the crag
|
of the Jesuit.
|
For awd Jemmy's sad folly,
|
With J[u]ggy and Dolly
|
He dance a Scotch Jig for bonny WILLY and MOLLY;
|
With Jockey and Sawny,
|
Aw lads teugh and brawny,
|
Weese drub the faw face, aw black, blew, & tawny,
|
of the Jesuit.
|
Monsieur.
|
O De Rogue English trick!
|
Dat de poor Catolick
|
Shou'd be kick, knock, & tump, and run down to Old Nick.
|
But Begar, de Vengeance
|
Of my Ma'ter of France
|
Sall lead English Heretick dog a French Dance,
|
for de Jesuit.
|
Sall Lewis sit still?
|
Vat fool, tink he will,
|
When old Jame and he so long piss in a Quill?
|
No, Bourgre Garsoon,
|
With Monsieur Dagroon,
|
Begar we come o're, and fight blood and woon
|
for de Jesuit.
|
Dough Jemmy Monsier,
|
(Pox taka Myn-heer)
|
Has losta de Crewn of de damn Angletere;
|
In Eerland, brave boy,
|
With Vive le Roy
|
We crewn him agin a new Monarch dear-joy,
|
for de Jesuit.
|
Teague.
|
Bub a boo! Bub! oh hone!
|
The Broder of the son,
|
And de Shild of mee Moder de poor Teague undone!
|
Pull down Mass-house and Altar,
|
And burn Virgin Psalter,
|
And make hang upon Priest, and no friend cut de Halter
|
of poor Jesuit.
|
When Teague first came o're
|
To de Engeland shore,
|
Wid 6, 7, 8 Tousand Irish Lads, all and more:
|
Teague was promist good Fashion,
|
Great Estate in de Nation,
|
Wid all London in his pocket, upon mee shaul washion
|
by de Jesuit.
|
But when de Bore Dutch,
|
Get Teague in his clutch,
|
Stead of make great estate, & Chrees knows what much
|
Damn'd Heretick Dogue
|
Made Teague a poor Rogue,
|
Turn'd him home to make starve widout shoe or broge;
|
for de Jesuit.
|
But I'le beg Captains Plaash
|
Of de sweet Eyes and Faash
|
Of mee De r-joy Tyrconnel his Majesties Graash;
|
And fight like a Hero,
|
By mee shoul a Mack-Nero,
|
Cut Troat for Shaint Patrick, and sing Lilli burlero
|
for de Jesuit.
|
Hym-heer.
|
HOld cut-weason Skellom,
|
And let Myn-heer tell om,
|
For Englond's great Hogan & Megan Lord Willom
|
And the dear English-mons,
|
Their Church, Laws, and Londs,
|
Van Dutch-londers fight with all hoarts & honds,
|
'gainst the Jesuit,
|
English-man.
|
Say'st thou so, Friend Myn-heer?
|
Then adieu to all fear,
|
France, Ireland, Pope, Devil, come all if you dare,
|
Come Lads, let's be jogging,
|
The French Ears want lugging,
|
And Teague, and Tyrconnel's false Hide must have floggin[g]
|
Farewel Jesute
|
|
|
|
|
|