THE
Western Rebel;
OR, THE
True Protestant Standard set up.
To the Tune of, Packingtons Pound.
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I.
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SEE the Vizors pulld off, and the Zelots are Arming,
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For our old Egypt-Plagues the Whig Locusts all Swarming.
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The true Protestant Perkin, in Lightning has spoke,
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And begins in a Flash to vanish in Smoke:
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Little Jemmys lanchd ore
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From the old Holland Shore,
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Where Shaftsbury marcht to the Devil before.
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The Old Games a beginning; for High-Shoes & Clowns
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Are turning State-Tinkers for mending of Crowns.
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II.
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Let his Desperate Frenzy to ruine spur on;
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The Rebel too late, and the Madman too soon.
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But politick Noddles without Wit or Reason,
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When empty of Brains have the more room for Treason.
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Ambition bewitches,
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Through Bogs and through Ditches,
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Like a Will with a Wisp: For the Bastard Blood itches:
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And the Bully sets up, with his High-Shoes and Clowns,
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A True Protestant Tinker for mending of Crowns.
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III.
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Let him banter Religion, that old Stale pretence,
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For Traytors to mount on the Neck of their Prince.
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But Clamor and Nonsence no longer shall fright us,
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Our Wits are restored by the flogging of Titus.
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Their Canting Delusion,
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And Bills of Exclusion,
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No longer shall sham the mad World to Confusion.
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The Old Cheats too gross, & no more Bores & Clowns
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For perching on Thrones, and prophaning of Crowns.
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IV.
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So the Great Murderd Charles, our Church, Freedom and Laws,
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Were all Martyrs of old, to the Sanctified Cause.
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Whilst Gospel and Heavn were the popular Name,
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The Firebrands of Hell were all light from that Flame.
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Reformation once tuned,
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Let Religion but sound,
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When that Kirk Bagpipe plays all the Devils Dance round.
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But the Whining Tub Cheat shall no longer go down:
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No more Kings on Scaffolds, and Slaves on a Throne.
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V.
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Let his hot-braind Ambition, with his Renegade Loons,
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Mount the Son of the People, for the Lord of Three Crowns;
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The Imposter on one hand, and Traytor on tother,
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Set up his false Title, as crackt as his Mother.
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But whilst Peacock-proud,
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He struts and talks loud,
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The Head of the Rabble, and Idol oth Crowd;
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From his false borrowd Plumes, & his hopes of a Crown,
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To his black Feet below, let thAspirer look down.
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VI.
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Then let him march on with his Politick Poll,
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To perch up his Head by old Bradshaw and Noll:
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Whilst the Desperate Jehu is driving headlong,
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To visit the Reliques of Tommy Armstrong.
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For theres Vengeance a working,
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To give him a Jerking,
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And humble the Pride of the poor little Perkin.
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Great JAMES his dread Thunder shall thIdol pull down,
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Whilst our Hands, Hearts, and Swords are all true to the Crown.
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