(1)
The Country Squire's Ditty.
A
BALLAD.
To the Tune of To you fair Ladys, etc.
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I.
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TO you, dear Topers, at the Court,
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We Country Tories write:
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We will no longer make you Sport,
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Nor with such Fools unite.
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We are no Sheep for you to fleece;
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Nor will be gaul'd by such a Peace;
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With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la.
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II.
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The Duke of Cambridge, whom God bless,
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Comes in the Nick of Time;
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And O-----d ev'ry Day grows less
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In Grandeur, not in Crime:
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While others Ruin he debates,
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His Head shall crown the City Gates;
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With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la.
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III.
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Or since his fav'rite South-Sea-Trade
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He would pretend to love;
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We'll thither send the wife Lord's Head,
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Their Projects to improve:
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And when he's once remov'd so far,
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Who doubts the Stock will be at Par?
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With a fa, la, la, la, la, la.
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IV.
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Friend Harry next we would advance
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To some unlucky Hap:
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I think we'll send him back to France,
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To get another Cap.
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And however bitter be the Pill,
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He'll take it, if 'tis gilded well;
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With a fa, la, la, la, la, la.
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V.
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For P------, who has nor Law nor Sence;
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But shew'd in Dublin Town,
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That there was English Impudence
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Far greater than their own.
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To the wild Irish let him fly,
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And be one of their Ministry;
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With a fa, la, la, la, la, la.
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VI.
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But let all Protestants combine
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Against a Bastard Race:
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Bring in the Hanoverian Line,
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And slavish Jacks disgrace.
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And send the present M------y
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To sing out, Heigh Boys up go we;
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With a fa la, la, la, la, la.
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