A Dialogue between
JACK KETCH and his Journey-Man;
Concerning their Profession and present Affair in the world.
They are affraid they cannot send so many to Heaven, as Baxter, Lobb, and Bull,
has sent to HELL.
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JACK.
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COme prithee Nick,
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Look sharp, be quick,
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for now begins our Harvest;
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Throw by thy Coat,
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Thoust have a Cloak,
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for Charles is now in earnest:
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His Friends no more shall hang like dogs
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to please a bloody Faction;
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Our damnd Phanatick Plotting Rogues,
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shall breed no more distraction.
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NICK.
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Then use your Art,
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And play your part,
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and leave your course of Whoring;
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Of Axe and Ropes,
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Clear all the Shops,
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be stocked without scoring:
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You must not use three blows at one,
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now Trading comes in faster;
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Lest you be Hangd for fumbling John,
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and I be made your Master.
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JACK.
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O peace good Nick,
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A Drunken trick,
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but made well for the Saints tho;
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For they each drop,
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Of Blood lickt up,
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and scrapd the Scaffold also:
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To make the factious fools believe,
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a Traytor dyd a Martyr;
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But now the Whigs to undeceive,
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he dyd more like a Tartar.
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NICK.
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The worst I find,
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Yet stays behind,
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and hates to hang in order;
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His Grace and Peers,
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In Towns or Shires,
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or sculks upon the Borders:
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Argile, and Melvin, Ferguson,
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and Rumbold the blind Malster:
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Nelthorp Elby, Cocheran,
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are all run from the Halter.
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JACK.
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Chesteeres and Lobbs,
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Two Whigish scabs,
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they preached nought but Treason,
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At th end oth Farce,
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Now hangs an Arse,
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at groaning Tyburns Reason:
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The roaring Bull throws by his Gown,
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and wipes his greasie Whiskers:
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While Mother Criswel rubs him down,
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and claps him twixt two sisters.
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NICK.
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Both Gibs and Row
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And Norton too,
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are run to save their Bacon;
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Would I were drunk,
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With my sweet Punk,
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were they but hangd or taken:
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Charlton of the old Rump,
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and Treason still promoting,
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Hes come to town both Legg and Slump,
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wel spoyl his art of Voting.
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NICK.
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By Heavens Jack,
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Of all the pack,
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hes like to bring us Cole boy,
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For all his gang,
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Hel Peach and Hang,
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to keep out of the Hole boy:
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Hel send fors party bundeld up,
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like loads of Kentish Faggots,
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Then with the Hatchet and the Rope,
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wel spoil their Fiery Maggots.
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JACK.
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If this Trade hold,
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Wel want no Gold,
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old Stumps their chief Pay Master;
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Of Every Rogue,
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And Treacherous Dog,
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that sought the Kings Disaster:
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Five hundred pound Ile have at least,
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if ere I take a Prentice,
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Come lets go drink, our Trades the best
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wel make um know what Hemp is.
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