A Trick for Tyburn: OR A PRISON RANT. BEING A SONG of the Prisoners of Newgate, at the GAOL-DELIVERY. To the Tune of Hark the Thundering Canons Rore
|
TRumpets sound and Steeples Ring
|
Every Loyal Subject Sing,
|
With a Health to James our King
|
For his Pardon granted.
|
Prisoners half Dead that lay,
|
Closd in Stone, instead of Clay,
|
Have their Liberty to Day,
|
Which before they wanted.
|
Newgate lately did bring forth
|
Seventy Children at a Birth,
|
All in Wantonness and Mirth,
|
At a Gaol-Delivery.
|
But her Keepers they Ly In,
|
Money sick for want of Sin;
|
They will look both Pale and Thin,
|
Till a new Recovery.
|
Now the Doors are open wide,
|
Jack may take his Mare and Ride;
|
With a Leg on every side;
|
And the Jade be flinging.
|
Take her Halter Ketch, and try
|
Whats the nearest course to Die;
|
And well write thine Elegy,
|
Hes Hangd for want for want of Hanging.
|
Henceforth we will Steal no more,
|
Tho we should be ner so Poor,
|
If (by chance) we take a Whore
|
In single Fornication.
|
We Get a Soldier to the King,
|
Or a Sea-man who doth bring
|
From the Indies everything,
|
It doth not Wrong the Nation.
|
We were Rebels (more than Base)
|
To abuse an act of Grace:
|
Well ner dot in any Case;
|
Well Legal be and Loyal.
|
If the French begin to Reel,
|
English Hearts are true as Steel;
|
Well make their Breasts our Bullets feel
|
For James our King the Royal.
|
Should our Case be ner so bad,
|
We will never be so mad
|
As to go upon the Pad,
|
Whilst our Life endureth
|
This Rogue that was a great Trapan,
|
Is two parts turnd a Civil Man,
|
And honestly Drinks off his Can,
|
And nothing deadly feareth.
|
We wish that those that cannot pay
|
Their Debts, may have a Jubiley;
|
That Poor Men for the King may Pray
|
At his Great Coronation.
|
To see the Usurers go Mourn
|
And take with Jack a second Turn,
|
When their Bills and Bonds they Burn;
|
Would over-joy the Nation.
|
Whitington did build an House
|
Enough to Starve a Rat or Mouse,
|
But left Allowance for a Louse,
|
To give Poor Men the Fever.
|
But James the Great hath found a way
|
To turn his Scepter to a Key,
|
And give his Children all the Play;
|
God Bless him then for Ever.
|
|
|
|
|
|