The Jesuits Lamentation,
OR, THE
Priests n ever Better Fitted.
Tune of, Hey boys up go we; or, Russel's Farwel.
|
WAlking one Evening in a Grove
|
to taste the wholsome air,
|
I heard two Jesuits sigh and sob,
|
being acted by dispair;
|
Quoth one to th' tother, Ah my Friend,
|
we now are quite undone,
|
Our Romish tricks have now an end,
|
we for our lives must run.
|
Our prop is lost, and we must fall
|
by Halter or by Ax;
|
Great James is gone, and with him all
|
our little bubbling knacks:
|
The great King William he has come,
|
and spoil'd our thriving Church,
|
He hates the Scarlet Whore of Rome,
|
we are now in the lurch.
|
Our Masses will no longer pass
|
for current English pay,
|
Their Cheats discovered are alas,
|
and we must hence away;
|
The people now are undeceiv'd,
|
they can our Cheats descry,
|
We can no longer be believ'd,
|
if we stay we surely dye.
|
Our Trading now is grown as dead
|
as Saints to which we pray:
|
Our Purgatory now is fled,
|
with Peter's pence away:
|
Our Holy Pardons now are dead,
|
and not esteemed here;
|
Our Pilgrimages too are fled,
|
with all we held most dear.
|
The people will no more give ear
|
to such apparent lyes;
|
Our Cheats too plainly now appear,
|
and all our Knaveries:
|
The King from hence will rout us out
|
with a strong Hempen band;
|
He loves no Romish Imps about
|
his Royal Throne should stand.
|
For well he knows wheree er we dwell
|
we reign and reign alone,
|
Which makes him take care us to expel
|
far from his Royal Throne:
|
Were ever Jesuits so crost,
|
as wretched we have been;
|
The day we thought our own is lost,
|
the King has chang'd the Schene.
|
We thought the English to have slain
|
with a bloody Romish hand;
|
But now Experience tells us plain,
|
Heaven doth our Tricks withstand.
|
Then farewel to the English Shore
|
and all our pleasures past;
|
We never shall say Mass here more;
|
all our Delights are lost.
|
|
FINIS .
|
|
|
|