RUSSEL's Farewel.
To a pleasant Tune, called, Oh, the merry Christ-Church Bells! etc.
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I.
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OH, the mighty Innocence
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Of Russel, Bedfords Son!
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That dy'd for the Plot,
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Whether Guilty, or not,
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By his last (Equivocating) Speech!
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By the words of a dying man
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I here protest I know no Plot
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'Gainst the Life of the King, or Government,
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Either by Action, or Intent.
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Fy, fy, fy, fy, fy, fy, my Lord,
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What are you about to do?
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To sink to Hell
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By the sound of your Knell,
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Both Soul and Body too.
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II.
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Oh, the shallow memory
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Of this blood-thirsty Lord!
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T' deny and confess,
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And all to express
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His guilty Insolence the more:
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I at Mr. Shepherd's house
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Did hear some little slight discourse,
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How easie 'twas the Guards to seize;
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Yet I am guiltless, if you please;
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No, no, no, no, no, no, my Lord,
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Your Guilt's too plainly seen,
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And M------th too,
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With Shaftsburys Crew,
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To destroy both King and Queen.
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III.
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Next your Lordship does protest,
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No man had ever yet
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That Impudence
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Against his Prince,
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To your face to propose any foul Design:
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Then you confess immediately,
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At the House of Politick Shaftsbury
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You heard such words
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Were sharp as Swords,
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The worst can be thought, or English affords;
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Which rais'd your Righteous Spirit to
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Exclaim against their sense;
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Yet this you conceal'd,
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And never reveal'd,
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Till in your blind Defence.
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IV.
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Popery (your Lordship says)
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Is Bloody and Unjust;
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What (then) you design'd
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With those you combin'd,
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Was farce, to jest our Lives away;
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For when the Duke of M------th came
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T' acquaint your Honour of his Fear
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Of being undone by the heat of some,
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Too violent for the bloody Cause,
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Away you go to Shepherds strait,
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Where pernicious words were said,
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In Passion all,
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With Judgment small,
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But consequence of Dread.
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V.
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From the time of choosing Sheriffs,
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I did conclude the heat
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Would this produce.
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That's no excuse,
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But just Confession of the Fact.
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Presently your Lordship says,
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For farther Confirmation still,
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You are not surpriz'd to find it fall
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On your Honour, who deserv'd it all:
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Immediately you would proclaim
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Aloud your Innocence.
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Why your Lordship's mad,
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In a Cause so bad,
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To put that Sham-pretence.
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VI.
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O ye True-blew-Protestants,
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Whose times are yet to come,
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You see your Fate;
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Early or late
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Follow you must, 'tis all your Doom.
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M------h, Armstrong, Ferguson,
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Grey, Goodenough the Under-Shrieve,
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With all your Ignoramus Crew,
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That Justice hate, and Treason brew;
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Scaffold, Tyburn, Halter, Ax,
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Those Instruments of Death,
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As 'tis your due,
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May 't you pursue,
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Till you resign your Breath.
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