A
NEW SONG
Between
Whig and Tory.
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To the Tune, Some say the Papists had a Plot.
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Tory.
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1.
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WHat Chear poor foul mouth'd Whig what Chear?
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Come rouse thy Snivelling Cant,
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What quite Crest faln within this Year,
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Are Sham-plots grown so Scant,
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Thy whining fleers foretells thy Fate,
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Thy Splaymouth'd Chaps Devine,
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Jack Catch has Squared out thy Date
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And Tyborne for thy Shrine.
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Whig.
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2.
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Undone, Condem'd and Dam'd, and all,
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Too late now to Rebel,
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The Sport's all spoil'd since Dagons Fall,
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His Tap's consum'd in Hell.
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Our new Cabals, and Polish Kings
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Of Select Knaves and Fools,
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Our Intrigues to Destruction brings
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With our Fanatick Souls.
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Whig.
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3.
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Aresting the Kings Magistrates,
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Expos'd our Great Designs,
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The Nation knows the Rabble waits
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On Rebels at such times.
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The City Charter void of Cure
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We're stript of all our hopes,
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Of making Kings by Broom-staff Power,
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And every Year New Popes.
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Tory.
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4.
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Faith Whig joyn all the Knight o'th Post,
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And to your Martyrs Pray,
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That they'l bring Hell and all its Host
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For to regain the Day.
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Judg Bradshaw, Hewson, Colledge bold,
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Fitz-Harris and such Saints,
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Since you with such Infernals hold,
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They may repair your wants.
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Whig.
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5.
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Let Fiends and Furies take their course,
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By Hobbs I dare not pray,
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For when I think on God by force
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More Sacred Souls than they.
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Blood Spangled Ghosts of Innocents
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Which fright me from their Sight,
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And leaves me guilty in a Trance
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Of the Eternal Night.
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Tory.
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6.
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Then please thyself with what is past,
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When none durst call thee Knave,
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That short Arst-Rump at Oxford last,
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What Power to Rogues they gave.
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The Sociations great Success
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'Gainst York, what Whelps appear'd,
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The glorious drift of your Address
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from Cripl'd Tonys Beard.
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Whig.
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7.
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Confound all thought of Glories past,
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We'll still New Plots contrive,
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Though M---fields Letter flew too fast
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To let that Sham-Plot thrive.
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In Mischeif we will still delight
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To plague the Peace and Crown,
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Imbracing all things but the Right,
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Till Vengeance press us down.
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LONDON, Printed for J. Dean. 1683.
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