King James's Lamentation
For the Loss of
His Three Kingdoms.
It was Written Originally in Irish, by Bryon Onail, Chaplain in Ordinary
to the Earl of Tyrconnel: And now Translated into English, by Patrick
and Teague, Monks of the Order of St. Benedict, and Members of the
Pop's most Sacred Conclave.
To the Tune of, Billy and Mally.
With Allowance.
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LEt all the Kings on Earth draw nigh,
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and hear my Lamentation;
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No Man's unhapier then I,
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in any Place or Nation;
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I was Great Britian's King, more great
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then all that were before me;
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But the Rogues of Rome, have me Undone,
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my Kingdoms do abhorr me.
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Before that Charles fell from his Throne,
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I at his Honour aimed:
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No sooner was my Brother gone,
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but I was King proclaimed;
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Three years I liv'd in all delight,
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ne'r thinking on the Morrow,
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But now my Fate is turn'd to Hate,
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I sink in Seas of Sorrow.
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I Married an Italian Queen,
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my Greatness which Confounded:
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Her Father's poor Estate is seen,
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with Fourscore Miles surrounded:
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By Hocus pranks, and Lazie priests,
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and Popish Conjurations,
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She's pull'd me down, I've left my Crown,
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and Three brave Warlike Nations.
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I to my Subjects broke my Word,
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and Popery brought in Fashion:
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I Tyranized with my Sword,
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and made them feel my passion;
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Their Bishops, Clergy-men with all
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their Cities and their Charters,
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Both Church and State, did feel my hate,
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and would have been my Martyrs.
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My Council was Compos'd of Fools,
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the prosolites of Popery,
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Of Monks and Friars, and silly Tools,
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the Fathers of fond Fopperies;
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And if a Wiseman Council gave,
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foretelling of my danger;
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He was run down, and term'd a Clown,
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to policy a stranger.
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The Bishops I sent to the Tower,
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and would have no denial:
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I Hang'd my Subjects by my power,
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and then brought them to Tryal,
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I did repute them Hereticks
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that had not with me closed.
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But the Pope of Rome doth pass no Doom,
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their new King's not deposed.
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I seldom heard the poor Man's Cause,
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or granted his Petition:
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The pride of Rome I made my Laws,
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which flam'd unto Sedition;
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Poor Women I did Head and Hang,
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as Guilty of High Treason,
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And every Act was Popish Black,
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and distitute of Reason.
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The Scrabling Quacks, that please the Times,
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did blind me with Delusion,
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They drave with Nonsence, prose, and rimes,
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the Wheels of my Confusion,
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For Toozer he did Bark and Roar,
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and Ring-wood led the Bridle,
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And shuffling Mall the Breeches wore,
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her priests were never Idle.
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You Kings and Governours that be,
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attend my Lamentation,
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And take Example now by me,
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be wise by my Relation;
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For providence doth rule all things,
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in Country, King, and People,
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But great's the Fall, and worst of all,
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that's from promotion's Steeple.
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