The Virtue of a Protestant Orange:
Being the best ANTIDOTE against
ROMAN POYSON.
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GOOD People draw near,
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And your Money prepare,
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To Buy up my Basket of Fruit that's so Rare;
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chear all your Hearts,
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And cure all your Smarts;
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'Tis Fruit that's indeed beyond our Deserts:
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Yet an Orange.
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There's none can express,
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Your great Happiness,
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The like never seen since the days of Queen Bess:
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A Nation Enslav'd,
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And Justice out-brav'd,
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To be thus Redeemed, and gallantly Sav'd,
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By an Orange.
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O who can declare,
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A thing that's so rare,
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To be thus delivered, from Danger and Care:
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It never was known
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That the English Throne
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Should grow Sick of a Fevor, and Cured alone,
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By an Orange.
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The Guns in the Tower
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Have desperate Power.
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To fright all the City in less than an Hour;
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But tho' Powder and Shot
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Be cursedly hot,
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It may yet ye cool'd, pray why may it not,
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With an Orange.
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The Zealots were bold
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To March through the Cold,
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And few could believe it a Truth that was told,
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How they carried the Train,
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To Salisbury Plain,
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And so quickly were frighted to turn back again,
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By an Orange.
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Our terrible Guns,
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And Catholick Sons,
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Did March with their Bullets in Barrels and Tuns,
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But as People say,
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They kept Holy-day,
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Till most of their Keepers were frighted away,
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By an Orange.
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Alas, who can tell,
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How perfectly well
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The Juice of an Orange may take down the Swell
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Of Catholick Pride,
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If fitly apply'd,
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When they once the Vertue have thorowly try'd
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Of an Orange.
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To tell the brave Tales,
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Of our Young Prince of Wales,
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And how he was Cur'd of his wonderful Ails.
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E'gad's very fine,
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If the Invention were mine,
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I'de give no other Physick at all, than the Rhine
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Of an Orange.
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Great Joy for an Heir,
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And a Motherly care
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Are things that in England are not very Rare,
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And though some conceal
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As if they did Steal,
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Yet all will be Publick, e're long, and Reveal'd
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By an Orange.
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Our Catholick Fools,
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And Tantivy Tools,
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That have been train'd up in Pontifical Schools;
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So long till their Rage,
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Has ev'n frightned the Age,
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There's nothing their Malice can sooner asswage
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Than an Orange.
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Our Fryars and Devils,
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And such kind of Evils,
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That pester'd our Nation, has now got the Snivels,
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Yet still they can Croak,
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And keep on their Cloak,
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But thinking to Swallow, they meet with a Choak
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From an Orange.
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Now Juggling Jack Taylor
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Would fain turn a Sailor,
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Lest he be Confin'd by some mischievous Jaylor;
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All his Catholick Skill,
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Nor his Pestilent Quill,
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Can save him from tasting the dangerous Pill
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Of an Orange.
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Our Irish Dear-Joys,
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And such Tory-Boys,
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That lately disturb'd all our Nation with Noise;
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And gave out their Votes,
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For cutting of Throats;
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There's nothing against them, can make Antidotes
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Like an Orange.
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Alas! what cursed Fate,
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Brought Teague and his Mate,
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To be thus exposed to Fury and Hate;
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When they came to Fight
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For the young Prince's Right,
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They should be thus shamefully put to the Flight,
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By an Orange?
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Alloo, Allagone.
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Fait had we now known,
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De Trick de Damn'd Heretick to us have done,
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Wee'd taake up our dwell,
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In St. Patricks Well,
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So we had escaped de damnable Smell
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Of an Orange.
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Hey ho Holiday:
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Now what shall we say?
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A Parliament Call'd, and the King gone away:
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The Writs ran about,
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And the Pardons were out;
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Yet poor He himself was put to the Rout
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By an Orange.
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O Vat shall we do,
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By my Shoul I don't know,
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For all be Confounded, de High and de Low,
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Some never did shun,
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Either Pistol or Gun,
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That now broken Hearted, do greedily run
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From an Orange.
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What scampering Play
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Do we see e'ry day?
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What Monkish Devices, to run clear away?
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Our Jesuits now
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Do both Swear and Vow,
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They'd run far enough, if they did but know how,
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From an Orange.
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Now ye Protestants all,
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That so yourselves Call,
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Whtre ever you Dwell, tho it be at White Hall,
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It doth you behove,
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Your time to Improve,
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And whilst 'tis in Season, learn quickly to love
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A Dutch Orange.
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For if you delay,
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And trifle away
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Your time (that is given to Work in) at Play;
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You'l surely be crost,
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And dreadfully tost,
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And sadly Repent, you so foolishly lost
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A Brave Orange.
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If you love your Lives,
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Religion and Wives,
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Then turn out the Hornets that lurk in your Hives;
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Don't let Dirt and Mud
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Run through your Blood,
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For Protestant Stomachs there is nothing so good
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As an Orange.
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This bold Roman Witch
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Has been digging a Ditch,
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And long time advancing with Spur & with Switch
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Till your Fetters were fast,
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And your Hopes were ev'n past;
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But Providence sent you a Med'cine at last,
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In an Orange.
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Let Malice now cease;
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Let true Love and Peace,
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'Mong all sorts of Protestants daily increase:
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Let Friendship remain,
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Let Charity reign,
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That we the like Bondage may ne'er see again;
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Nor lose our Orange.
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When you have got Power,
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O do not devour,
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Your Brethren (as formerly) every Hour:
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But let's all agree,
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To give Liberty,
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And bless God Almighty, for setting us free,
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By an Orange.
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