THE LOYAL HEALTH.
A Court Song, to a Delicate new Tune, called,
At the Foot of a Willow, close under the Shade.
|
[1.]
|
SInce Plotting's a Trade,
|
Like the rest of the Nation:
|
Let 'em Lie, and Swear on,
|
To keep up the Vocation;
|
Let Tinkers, and Weavers,
|
And Joyners agree,
|
To find work for the Cooper,
|
They'l have none of me;
|
Let Politick Shams,
|
In the States-man abound,
|
While we quaff our Bumpers,
|
And set the Glass round:
|
The jolly true Toper's
|
The best Subject still,
|
Who drinks off their Liquor,
|
And thinks no more ill.
|
[2.]
|
Then let us stand to't,
|
And like honest Men fall,
|
Who love King and Country,
|
Duke, Dutchess and all;
|
Not such as wou'd blow up
|
The Nation by stealth,
|
And out of the flame
|
Raise a new Common-wealth:
|
No such, who against Church
|
And Bishops do rage,
|
To advance old Jack Presbyter,
|
On the new Stage.
|
But to all honest Tories,
|
Who'l fight for their King,
|
And to Crown the brave Work,
|
With the Court wee'l begin.
|
[3.]
|
Here's a Health to the King,
|
And his Lawful Successors,
|
To honest Tantivies,
|
And Loyal Addressors;
|
But a pox take all those,
|
That promoted Petitions
|
To Poyson the Nation,
|
And stir up Seditions;
|
Here's a Health to the Queen,
|
And her Ladies of Honour,
|
And a pox take all those,
|
That put Sham-Plots upon her.
|
Here's a Health to the Duke,
|
And the Senate of Scotland,
|
To all honest Men,
|
That from Bishops ne're got-Land.
|
[4.]
|
Here's a Health to L'estrange,
|
And the boon Heraclitus:
|
With true Tory Thompson
|
Who never did slight us;
|
Not forgetting Broom, Paulin,
|
And Alderman Wrightus,
|
With Tony and Bethel,
|
Ignoramus, and Titus:
|
Here's a Health to the Church,
|
And all those that are for it,
|
Gonfusion to Zealots,
|
And Whigs that abhor it;
|
May it ever be safe,
|
From the new mode Refiners:
|
And may Justice be done
|
Upon Coopers and Joyners.
|
[5.]
|
Here's a Health to old Hall---,
|
Who our joys did restore;
|
And pox take each Popular
|
Son of a Whore;
|
To the Spaniard and Dane,
|
The brave Russian and Moor,
|
Who come from far Nations,
|
Our King to adore;
|
To all that do Worship,
|
The God of the Vine,
|
And to old Jolly Bowman
|
Who draws us good Wine;
|
And as for all Traytors,
|
Whether Baptist or Whig,
|
May they all trot to Tyburn,
|
To dance the old Jig.
|
[6.]
|
Here's a Health to all those,
|
Love the King and his Laws,
|
And may they near Pledge it
|
That Broach the Old Cause.
|
Here's a Health to the State,
|
And a Plague on the Pack
|
Of Common-wealth Canters
|
And Presbyter Jack;
|
To the uppermost pendent
|
That ever did play
|
On the highest Top-gallant
|
Oth' Soveraign oth' Sea;
|
And he that denies,
|
To the Standard to lore,
|
May he sink in the Ocean,
|
And never Drink more.
|
|
|
|
|
|