The Bully WHIG:
OR,
The Poor Whores Lamentation for the Apprehending
OF
Sir THOMAS ARMSTRONG.
To the Tune of, Ah! Cruel Bloody Fate! etc.
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I.
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AH! Cruel Bloody Tom!
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What canst thou hope for more,
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Than to receive the Doom
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Of all thy Crimes before?
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For all thy bold Conspiracies
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Thy Head must pay the score;
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Thy Cheats and Lies,
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Thy Box and Dice,
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Will serve thy turn no more.
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II.
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Ungrateful thankless Wretch!
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How could'st thou hope in vain
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(Without the reach of Ketch)
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Thy Treasons to maintain?
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For Murders long since done and past,
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Thou Pardons hast had store,
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And yet would'st still
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Stab on, and kill,
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As if thou hop'dst for more.
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III.
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Yet Tom, e'r he would starve,
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More Blood resolv'd to've spilt;
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Thy flight did only serve
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To justifie thy Guilt:
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While They whose harmless Innocence
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Submit to Chains at home,
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Are each day freed,
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While Traytors bleed,
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And suffer in their room.
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IV.
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When Whigs a PLOT did Vote,
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What Peer Justice fled?
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In the FANATICK PLOT
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Tom durst not shew his head.
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Now Sacred Justice rules above,
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The Guiltless are set free,
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And the Napper's napt,
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And Clapper clapt
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In his CONSPIRACY.
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V.
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Like Cain, thou hast a Mark
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Of Murder on thy Brow;
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Remote, and in the dark,
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Black Guilt did still pursue:
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Nor England, Holland, France, or Spain,
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The Traytor can defend;
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He will be found
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In Fetters bound,
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To pay for't in the end.
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VI.
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Tom might about the Town
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Have bully'd, huff'd and roar'd,
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By every Venus known,
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Been for a Mars ador'd:
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By friendly Pimping and false Dice
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Thou might'st have longer liv'd,
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Hector'd and shamm'd,
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And swore and gam'd,
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Hadst thou no Plots contriv'd.
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VII.
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Tom once was Cock-a-hoop
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Of all the Huffs in Town;
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But now his Pride must stoop,
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His Courage is pull'd down:
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So long his Spurs are grown, poor Tom
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Can neither fly nor fight;
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Ah Cruel Fate!
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That at this rate
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The shou'd foil the Knight!
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VIII.
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But now no remedy,
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It being his just Reward;
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In his own Trap, you see,
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The Tygre is ensnar'd:
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So may all Traytors fare, till all
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Who for their Guilt did fly,
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With Bully Tom
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By timely Doom
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Like him, unpity'd die.
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