THE RUMP ULULANT,
OR
PENITENCE per FORCE;
BEING
The Recantation of the old rust-roguy-rebellious-rampant, And
now ruinous rotten-rosted
RUMP.
To the Tune of Gerrards Mistresse.
|
FArewell
|
False Honours, and usurped Power Farewell,
|
For the great Bell
|
Of Justice rings in our affrighted Ears.
|
The Gripes,
|
Of wounded Conscience far exceed all Stripes,
|
Yet are small Types,
|
Of those sharp Payns Rebellion justly fears,
|
See how,
|
Th' unmasked People hisse us out of Doors,
|
And call us Knaves,
|
Because though We, Their Servants be,
|
We made them but our Slaves.
|
For since
|
We layd the Country wast like ravenenous Bores,
|
They seek our Blouds,
|
Because we prize, their Liberties,
|
But to devour their Goods.
|
Our Hands
|
We dip'd in Royal Bloud, to have his Lands
|
At our Commands,
|
And made three Kingdoms headless at one Blow,
|
The Strife
|
We caus'd was chiefly to cut off his Life,
|
With cursed Knife;
|
He that was Vertues Friend, must be our Foe.
|
We made
|
Religion do our Drudgery to base Ends,
|
But now we find,
|
They that do sow Pretences, mow
|
A Harvest of the Wind.
|
And now
|
When clamorous Vengeance Calling for Amends
|
Begins our Grief,
|
Our Friend the Devil, with his Evil,
|
Can give us no Relief.
|
Go search
|
All Lands beneath the Suns Star-spangled Perch,
|
You'll find no Church
|
Like Ours, whilst reverend BISHOPS held the Chayr.
|
But those
|
We knew with our Designs would never close;
|
And therefore chose
|
In their steads to set up Extempore Prayer.
|
Poachd Eyes
|
And words twang'd through a whining Lecturers Nose,
|
Did fill our Purses,
|
That many have Rings, and better Things,
|
Which now give only Curses.
|
And thus
|
Hell was our Text, though Heav'n were our Gloze,
|
And Will our Reason,
|
Religion we made free of Hocus trade,
|
And voted Loyalty Treason.
|
Since We
|
With wicked Arms have made the Crosier flee,
|
Errour is free,
|
To lay her Nets, to make weak Minds her Prize.
|
All Sects,
|
Schismes, cursed Heresies with stubborn Necks,
|
Corrupt our Texts,
|
And Crane up Scripture to maintain their Lyes.
|
You see
|
The Crop-ear'd Anabaptist sowing Tares
|
In every Ground,
|
Though the Plagues of Warr, wherever they Are
|
The Church and State Confound.
|
So do
|
The Roman Noses vend their Popish Wares,
|
By Twylight still;
|
And the Quaker half mad, though he looks so sad,
|
Grinds in the Jesuites Mill.
|
Our Drums
|
Did drown your Processe, and your Writs; our Plums,
|
Bid kiss our Bums,
|
We sent your Laws and Persons to the Tower:
|
From whence
|
To be deliver'd, 'Twas in vain to Fence
|
By talking Sence;
|
No Habeas Corpus in the Court of Power.
|
The Gown
|
Did stoop his reverend Velvet to a Crew
|
In short red Coats,
|
Who many a Day, Have made you pay,
|
For cutting your own Throats.
|
We rob'd
|
The Whole of Food to pamper up the Few,
|
Excis'd your Wares,
|
And tax'd you round, Six pence the Pound,
|
And massacred your Bears.
|
But now
|
Dispayrs black clowds do hang upon our Brow,
|
For All do Bow,
|
Their Hearts, to their true Shepheard, Charles their King.
|
And We
|
Their Wolfish Rulers now must Subjects be
|
To Destiny,
|
And end our Juncto in a fatal String.
|
Then learn
|
All future Traytors by our Tragick Doom,
|
E're 'tis too late;
|
Lest when you make, Kingdoms to shake,
|
You Copy out our Fate.
|
We know
|
Our High Affronts to Church and State make Room
|
For Us in Hell;
|
But yet We'll Hope, till the sad Rope
|
Sayes, Bid the World Farewell.
|
|
|
|
|
|