A NEW BALLAD,
OR, THE
True-Blew-Protestant Dissenter:
With their sad Lamentation for their late Loss in
ALDERSGATE-STREET.
To the Tune of the Down-fall of Anthony.
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WHEN Jeroboams Calves were rear'd,
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And Church was neither lov'd nor fear'd:
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When Treason had a fine new Name,
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And Pulpits did like Beacons flame.
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When sent by Teacher of the Word,
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The Rabble, arm'd with Gun and Sword,
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Did fight the Battels of the Lord.
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Dissenter (now grown a great Rabby)
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Was then in's Swadling-Clouts a Baby:
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Dissenter, Son of Presbyter,
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Who was undoubted Son and Heir
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Of Puritan, who was the Son
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Of Calvin; he was christned John,
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And sign'd with hot Iron at Noyon.
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From whence, as Sober men descant,
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Knaves learn'd to burn Board Protestant,
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That with a doleful sigh and groan,
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Foretells the Good Old Cause must down;
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And from this Calvin John, the great
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Learn'd Doctor T.O. as some relate,
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Found a way in at Boy's Back-gate.
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Dissenter, Brat of Presbyter,
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That Gospel-Comet, that Dog-Star,
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Whose very Preaching slew more men
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Than Bonner with Fire, Stake, and Chain.
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He with wild Zeal, and Lungs like Boreas
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Once fought and taught, and 'tis notorious!
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Murther'd his King to make him glorious.
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Dissenter in his Tub begins,
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And bawls out loud, Friends, leave your sins:
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But, rallying up his Saints in swarms,
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He whispers, Boys, stand to your Arms!
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Stand to your Arms, by Tory rude
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Our Gods can never be subdu'd;
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Money, I mean, and Multitude.
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Next, in a rage, and frantick fume
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He bellow's out, Beware of Rome,
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The Pope and Arbitrary Power,
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Like Dragons fierce will us devour:
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O Hellish, Popish Plot! down, down!
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Then whispers; Boys (let's not be known)
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We have contriv'd Plot of our own.
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Dissenter, speaking words like these,
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Doth give his Handkerchief a squeeze,
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With pleasing twang then tunes his Prose,
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Drawing John Calvin through his Nose.
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He tells the Sisters, if Plot take,
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The Righteous, as before, will make
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The greatest in the Kingdom shake.
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But (Oh alas!) who can foresee
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The wild intrigues of Destiny?
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In steps a Fatal Messenger
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Acquaints the Tubster, Noble Peer
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Absconds himself. The dire affright
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Perplext the Audience; yet the Knight
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O'th Tub bawl'd on with all his might.
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Thou little Mortal of three Names,
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Pilot of Plots, and Sire of Shams,
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Thou Subteranean, secret Spring,
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That mov'st all Engines 'gainst the King:
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If thou forsake us, we dispair,
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The Tory Sheriffs, and new Mayor
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Will th' Righteous all to pieces tear.
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Wo, wo be now to all our Clubbs,
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And Colonels of Plot-Meal-Tubs!
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Now Salamanca wo to thee,
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And thy illustrous Family!
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Wo unto thee thou stubborn Whigg,
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Who whilom lookt so bold and big,
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Thou wilt be taught another Jigg!
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Goals, Dungeons, Racks (he knock'd his Breast,
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Inspir'd as Prophet, and as Priest)
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Ropes, Halters, Hatchets, Pillories
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Present themselves before our Eyes:
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Oh true blew Protestant Rioters!
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Off goes your Heads, and eak our Ears;
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The Sisters pour'd out floods of Tears.
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Associate, mount, raise the rude Rabble,
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Reform the Kingdom to a Babel,
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Cry up false Jelousies and Fears:
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Turn Paring-shovels into Spears!
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Yet, Brethren, boast your Innocence,
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Religion being your Pretence,
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Torture the Text to any Sence.
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And cry aloud, We love the King,
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Though we intend not such a thing;
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For our Designs do drive us rather
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To serve him as we serv'd his Father;
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Whom we (his Subjects good and true)
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Made stand at's Gate to publick view
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In White Cap, and in Wastcoat blew.
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Tubster concludes, and so will I,
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Affirming that the Azure Skie
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Will fall, and Larks find a hard tryal,
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When Dissenter turns Subject Loyal.
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Oblivion Acts change not his Case,
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No Clemency, no Laws of Grace
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Make white this Ethiopians Face.
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