The Oxford Health,
OR,
The Jovial Loyalist:
A New Song.
We will be loyal and Drink off our Wine,
Though Pope or Presbyter should both repine;
No State-affairs shall ere turmoil our brain,
Let those take care to whom they appertain:
Wel love our King, and wish him happy days,
And drink to all that dayly speak his praise;
Wel loyal prove, and evermore will be
With Plotter and their Plots at enmity.
To the Tune of, On the Bank of a River: Or, Packingtons Pound.
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HEres a health to the King and his lawful successors,
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To Tantivy, Tories, and Loyal Addressers:
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No matter for those that promoted Petitions,
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To poyson the Nation, and stir up Seditions:
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Heres a health to the Queen and her Ladies of Honour,
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A pox on all those who put Sham-plots upon her:
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Heres a health to the Duke and the Senate of Scotland,
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And to all Honest Men that from Bishops ner got land.
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Heres a health to LEstrange, and to boon Heraclitus,
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A fig for those Whigs that for Papists indict us;
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Not forgetting those that continually spight us,
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For Loyalty still to our King does unite us:
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Heres a health to our Church, and to all that are for it,
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A shame take all Papists and Whigs that abhor it;
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Safe may she be still from new ways of Refiners,
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And Justice be done to true Protestant Joyners.
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Let all the contrivers of this our late trouble,
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Have their reward at last heapd on them double;
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Heres a health to the downfall of those whose devotion,
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Does tend to nought else but to raise up commotion:
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Come round let it go boys, let each drink his Bumper,
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To all honest Men that yet ner lovd a Rumper:
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The thirtieth of January let us remember,
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And let it be joynd to the fifth of November.
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Heres a health to all Loyallists, let us carrouse it,
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For why there is wine to be had in the house yet:
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Heres to all those who yet never spoke evil
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Of Church or of State, but that still have been civil:
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Come let it go round boys, and fill up our Glasses,
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Wel now be more merry then Whigs with their Lasses
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Let Hipocrites who dare in all things dissemble,
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And by changing shapes the Camelian Resemble.
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Make twenty wry faces, and all to disguise um,
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Yet from sedition none ere can advise um;
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Heres to the Confusion of Plots and all Plotters,
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And heres a good health to him that ner alters;
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Come let it go round and fill each man his brimmer,
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For hes no good diver that first ent a swimmer;
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And heres to our happiness that we see dawning,
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In spight of the Plots that Geneva is spawning.
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A Fig for their policies, they shall ner fright us,
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Do all what they can they shall never more bite us;
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For Oliver now and bold Bradshaw are rotten,
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Tho their curst names they shall ner be forgotten.
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Heres a health to all Cavaliers that ner were turn-coats,
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Wel drink it in spight of the Pope and his Cut-throats;
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Or in spight of those Rebels that envy our blessing,
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Who once more our Land would so fain be possessing.
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Heres a health to the Burghers who still in their choices,
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For eminent Loyalists do give their voices;
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And will not be Byasd whatever betide them,
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Who fear no Whig-Landlords who for it shall chide them:
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To the Prince and the Princess of Orange come fill it,
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To the brim let it flow, but beware how you spill it;
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Not forgetting the rest of the Royal Branches,
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Wel drink our brisk Wine till each his Soul drenches.
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Heres a health to all those that express their good meaning,
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And hold to the end as they make their beginning;
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Come fill it away Boys, and let us be merry,
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Wel drink each his Bumper, and never be weary:
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And no true Subject wer sure will deny it,
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For this is the way that we always shall try it;
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Come fill it again to the ruine of Rumpers,
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Ile make no scruple to turn off three Bumpers.
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Then come all you Loyalists though the Whigs mutter,
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And about nothing do keep all this clutter:
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In spight of the Pope or Jack Presbyter either,
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We will live merry, and will regard neither.
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Although they Tory or Tantivy name us,
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We care not a pin theres none honest will blame us:
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Wel drink to the King and his Lawful Successors,
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And to all those that prove Loyal Addressers.
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