EBBA 32576

Huntington Library - Miscellaneous

Citation Ballad Sheet Facsimile Facsimile Transcription Text Transcription Text Mining

Ballad XSLT Template

A POEM
ON THE
Burning of the Pope.
Being SOLEMNLY Performed
On Queen Elizabeths Birth-Day:
This Instant November the 17th. 1679.

WHat Pageants this that Marches thus in State?

Three Images! the Worlds Triumphirate;

Three Privy-Counsellors, Plotters of Evil,

A POPE, a Jesuit-Cardinal, and a Devil.

Has Father Time turnd back his Hour-Glass,

To shew us present Mortals what once was?

Is the Platonick-Year Rould back again,

And this our great Eighth Henrys Daughters Reign?

Or is our London turnd Madrid in Spain?

Tis some Procession sure! tis Holiness,

Down on your Knees, quickly your Sins confess;

Get an Indulgence, else the Jesuits Knife

Will soon Dispatch and Godfery your Life:

And when your Dead, his Holiness will send

Your Soul to Hell a present by some Friend.

But if youv useless Gold to grease the Fist

Of some Debauchd and old Gorbellied Priest,

According as you give, you Years shall tarry

In the Popes Prison: I mean Purgatory.

Hold Doting Fool, put on your Spectacles,

See one of London Boys great Miracles;

Who an whole Hundred Years brings back again,

And shows you our Eighth Henrys Daughters Reign;

Mistake me not, tis not as you did Guess,

Not bloody Maries, but Triumphant BESS;

Her Glorious, Happy, Golden Raign they shew,

And in her Memory, on her Birth-Day too

Do over now again, what she did do.

In Spight of Hell and all its Cursed Bigotts,

She still Confounded all these Devilish Plotts;

(By Heaven assisted) she still overthrew,

What ever Hell and all its Fiends could do.

The Wicked Jesuits from her Realm she chasd,

Or if they stayd, with them she Tyburn gracd.

And for Example to the Age to come,

In shining Fires Burnt all the Trash of Rome:

Then howling Priests made a more hideous Mew,

Then all the Squawling Pope-burnt-Cats do now:

Their Copes, their Coules, their Beads, their Crucifixes,

Their Gods of Wood, and Wafers kept in Pixes.

Their Mass-Books, Psalters, Rosaries, and all

Their Trash and Trumpery, both great and small

(That Holy Queen whose Memory we adore,

And whose so happy Days we yet act ore,)

Sent to the Fire, as a most Sweet Oblation

Of her then Glorious Happy Reformation:

See there she comes, the Great ELIZABETH,

Who the great Romish-Babylon with her Breath

Threw to the Ground: Romes Daubers ner were able

Since her Blest Reign yet to Re-build their Babel.

Her very Image makes the Jesuit Pale

Tho but of Wax: It hath as much avail

To daunt the Jesuited Sons of Rome,

And to provoke the Generous Zeal of some,

As Ziseas Skin Converted to a Drum:

Or Castriots Bones against the Turks of Fame,

Or with the French of old great Talbots Name:

So now ner Fourscore Years after her Death,

Romes Terror still is Great ELIZABETH:

And in Effigies the Hierarchie of Evil

Confounds the Pope, the Jesuit, and the Devil.

Away with them, and to the Fire in State,

Remember now the Flames they did create,

When Famous London with their Fires did Burn,

Which did its Temples into Ashes turn:

Tis Punishment, although it be but small,

By Fire should Incendiaries fall.

Down from the Lofty Spire of Rebuilt BOW,

The Dragon looks, and sees this Pompous Show;

The Great QUEENS Crest, movd to the West she Sings,

And for meer Joy, claps both her Iron Wings:

She Hopes no more to feel Curst Jesuits Fire,

But to Roost Ever, on that Lofty Spire.

With a Black-Guard of Links the Pageant comes,

Attended by a Troop of Dirty Grooms,

With Clubs and Staves to Guard it to the Fire,

Where these Three Holy Martyrs must Expire:

Bound all together in a Trebble Rope,

Saint JESUIT, Saint DEVIL, and Saint POPE;

In that Place where the Fire made a Stand,

Which was Inkindled by their Flaming Brand:

Where all its Rage in Smoaky Ashes fell,

There in Effigies are They sent to Hell:

Whilst Squalls of Burning Cats, their Requiem Sing,

And Cracking Squibs, do Powder-Treason Ring.

Well fare the Soul of STUBS the glad Boys cry,

With Lusty Shouts, while the Images do Fry;

Who this Way gave tos Holy Rage a scope,

And First began the Burning of a POPE.

FINIS.
LONDON,
Printed for J.C. in the Year,
M.DC.LXXIX.

View Raw XML

Search EBBA

EBBA 32576