A NEW-YEARS GIFT
FOR THE
WHIGS:
Or, A True Relation of Threescore Presbyters (Foot and Horse) that surprized Two of the Kings
Guards in their beds, at an Inn seaven Miles from Edenborough, Cutting all the Flesh off their bones
till they were Dead, and carried the pieces to their Respective Friends, and there burned them in
Contempt of God and their King.
Tune of, Then then to the Duke let's fill up the Glass.
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GReat Souls that are free from Faction, rejoyce,
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and stand on y'r guard for y'r Country & King
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Observe the success of Papillion, Duboice,
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of Bethel and Cornish, and Tonys black Sting:
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Walcot and Colledge, and Young Horned Dotage,
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see how some are hang'd, and the rest run away;
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Let this be a warning, to Whigs rigid scorning,
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who choose to be Damn'd rather than to Obey.
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II.
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Yet still with the Scotch they dare to Conspire,
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the Dutch are not idle the French to send o're;
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The Scum of the Country from France do retire,
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to support the Old-Cause, come to breed on our Shore;
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To joyn with the Dutch or the whigs of our Nation,
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must be the Design of those Presbyter Saints;
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To th' ruine of our trade they have made an invasion
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pretence of Religion protects their false Cants.
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III.
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Whigs constant to nothing, but treason and change,
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o're-charging their Noddles with notions of State;
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With Trimming reflections on loyal LEstrange,
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more profligate Villains ne'r peept thru' a Grate;
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Let Oats be remember'd, ten thousand times perjur'd,
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and keep the Beast chained, until the next Term;
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And then through a Casement, to th' whigs great amazement,
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and next Sessions after he'l Tyburn adorn.
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IV.
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The Scotch-Covenanters to rouse up our Knaves,
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hath given us a Signet, as they did before;
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When the Bishops brains against the Coach-Naves
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they dash'd out, to shew what a God they adore:
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By th' light of the Spirit, some sixty in number,
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surpriz'd in their beds two of the Kings Guards;
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Alive legg and limb they cut 'um asunder,
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by Yea and Nay, Brother, they merit reward.
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V.
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with the flesh on the points of their swords they retir'd
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in Triumph, cry'd, This is the work of the Leard;
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For this holy murther by th' Saints we were Hir'd,
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Geud faith the next time let 'um stand on their guard
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Had they been the King & the Duke, we had glory'd,
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and a Thanksgiving-day had been hum'd in our Kirk,
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For their blood we do thirst, but their name we abhor it
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for we worship no King, but the De'el and the Turk.
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VI.
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And thus they disperc'd with the blood of their prey,
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in hopes of a better next time they do meet;
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This is the Religion our Saints hopes to sway,
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in murder and plunder thinks nothing more sweet.
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But God bless the King, the Duke and the Dutchess,
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for the line let's Fight to maintain
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'Gainst all that upon the Prerogative touches,
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conclude with this Health, let Charles ever Reign.
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