A NEW SONG
Made by a Person of Quality,
Sung before HIS MAJESTY
AT
WINCHESTER.
To the Tune of, Cook Lawrel.
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A Tory came late through Westminster-hall,
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and as he past by heard a Citizen bawl;
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The Judges are Per-jur'd, and We are un-done,
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our Li-ber-tys lost, our Char-ter is gone.
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II.
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This comes of our Prating since Colledge is dead;
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This comes of Plotting without Tonys Head:
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For he had more wit in his Treason by half,
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As he hook'd himself on, he crook'd himself off.
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III.
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He scarce had said this when a Baron aproach'd,
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That ruin'd two Sisters, the younger debauch'd:
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The Reasons he cry'd, I'm loath to describe,
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He would have a Maiden-head out of the Tribe.
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IV.
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The next came a Peer, the Knight of great Fame,
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One famous for Stabbing, the other was Lame;
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O Heavens! in what a strange age do we dwell,
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When Bully's Reform, and Cripples Rebell.
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V.
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With them the sweet Speaker, Wi. W------s I saw,
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His Head full of Projects, but empty of Law;
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For he ('tis observ'd) has been dull as a Dog,
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Since Pa---n batoon'd him for calling him Rogue.
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VI.
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Peart Wa------op and Win---on, Mutinies breed
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Yet still in the Cause, for no purpose are Fee'd:
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For Cradock will offer himself for the Drudge,
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If either of them will be fit for a Judge.
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VII.
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Old Ma------rd, all ages in Faction was cheif;
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Now mumbles by rote, ne'r looks in his Breif:
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But rotten Rebellion will never last long,
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He spit out his teeth, & will cough out his tongue.
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VIII.
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Now by the Recorder, new Cards must be plaid,
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That Body of Law with a Sarazens-Head,
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That (Span'el-like) fawns on the King to his Face,
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And yet makes the Whigs just amends for his place.
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IX.
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For Magistrate Patience, I plainly confess,
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I've little to say, because he's in Distress;
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But he that's sat in th' Cities great Chair,
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Would a Pillory grace; so I wish he were there.
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X.
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Dubois and Papilion, the Cities sham Shrieves,
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Whose Truth & whose Loyalty no man believes;
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That Arrested the Mayor and no danger he saw,
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To keep from self-Hanging, I leave to the Law.
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XI
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For Law they complain'd, of the Lawyers they boast,
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They'r pleas'd, till by Law they their Ch. had lost:
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Law, Law, was the cry of the Mutinous Crew,
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The Devil's in't if they ha'nt Law enough now.
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XII.
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Scribe Cl---n's Wife deckt with the spoils of the Poor,
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Embroider'd in Scarlet like Babylon's Whore;
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But let me advise him to strip off her Red,
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And make her a Peticoat of her Green Bed.
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XIII.
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Old Pl------yers grow'n rampant, late pickt up a Whore,
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And swore he'd recant, and be Whigish no more;
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By Tories made Drunk in the Company's view,
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The Saint kist her C---t, and drank healths in her Shoe.
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XIV.
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Now listen ye Whigs, and hear what I speak,
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A Monarch (like Heav'n) can give, and can take;
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But You for Rebellion no Reason can bring,
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So hang yourselves all; and God save the King.
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