The Oxford Health:
OR,
The Jovial Loyalist:
A New Song:
We will be Loyal and Drink off our Wine,
Though Pope or Presbyter should both repine;
No State-affairs shall e're turmoil our brain,
Let those take care to whom they appertain:
We'l love our King, and wish him happy days,
And drink to all that dayly speak his praise;
We'l Loyal prove, and evermore will be
With Plotter and their Plots at enmity.
To the Tune of, On the Bank of a River: Or, Packington's Pound.
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HEre's a health to the King and his lawful Successors
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To Tantivy Tories, and Loyal Addressers;
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No matter for those that promoted Petitions,
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To poyson the Nation and stir up Seditions?
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Here's to the Queen and her Ladies of Honour,
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A pox take all them that put sham-plots upon her:
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Here's a health to the Duke and the Senate of Scotland,
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And to all Honest Men that from Bishops ne'r got land.
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Here's a health to L'Estrange, and to boon Heraclitus,
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A fig for those Whigs that for Papist indict us;
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Not forgetting those that continually spight us,
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For Loyalty still to our King does unite us:
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Here's a Health to our Church and to all that are for it,
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A shame take all Papists and Whigs that abhor it;
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Safe may she be still from the new ways of Refiners,
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And Justice be done to true protestant Joyners.
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Let all the contrivers of our Last trouble,
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Have their reward at last heap'd on them double;
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Here's a health to the downfal of those whose devotion,
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Does tend to nought else but to raise up commotion:
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Come round let it go boys, let each drink his Bumper,
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To all honest men that ne'r lov'd a Rumper:
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The thirtieth of January let us remember,
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And let it be joyn'd to the fifth of November.
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Here's a health to all Loyallists, let us carrouse it,
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For why there is Wine to be had in the house yet:
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Here's to all those who yet never spoke evil
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Of Church or of State, but that still have been civil:
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Come let it go round boys, and fill up our Glasses,
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We'l now be more merry than Whiggs with their Lasses:
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Let Hypocrites who dare in all things dissemble,
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And by changing shapes the Camelion Resemble,
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With twenty wry faces, and all to disguise 'em,
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Yet from sedition none e're can advise 'em;
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Here's to the Cenfusion of Plots and all Plotters,
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And here's a good health to him that ne'r alters;
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Come let it go round, and fill each man his brimmer,
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For he's no good diver that first en't a swimmer;
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And here's to our happiness that we see dawning,
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In spight of the Plots that Geneva is spawning.
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A fig for their policies, they shall ne'r fright us,
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Do all what they can they shall never more bite us;
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For Oliver now and old Bradshaw are rotten,
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Tho' their cursed names shall ne'r be forgotten:
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Here's a Health to all Cavaliers that ne'r were turn-coats
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We'l drink it in spight of the Pope and his Cut-throats;
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Or in spight of those Rebels that envy our blessing,
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Who once more our Land would so fain be possessing.
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Here's a Health to the Burghers who still in their choices
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For eminent Loyalists do give their voices;
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And will not be Byas'd whatever betide 'em,
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Who fear no Whigg-Landlords who for it shall chide 'em
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To the Prince and the Princess of Orange come fill it,
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To the brim let it flow, but beware how you spill it:
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Not forgetting the rest of the Royal Branches.
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We'l drink our brisk Wine till each his soul drenches.
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Here's a health to all that express their good meaning,
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And hold to the end as they make their beginning
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Come fill it away Boys, and let us be merry,
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We'l drink each his Bumper, and never be weary:
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And no true Subject we'r sure will deny it,
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For this is the way that we always deny it;
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Come fill it again to the ruin of Rumpers,
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I'le make no scruple to turn off three Bumpers.
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Then come all you Loyalists though the Whigs mutter,
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And about nothing do make all this clutter:
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In spight of the Pope or Jack Presbyter either,
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We will live merry, and will regard neither.
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Although they Tory or Tantivy name us,
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We care not a pin there's none honest will blame us:
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We'l drink to the King and his Lawful Successors,
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And to all those that prove Loyal Addressers.
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