A Song in the Campaigners the words by Mr. Tho: Durfey.
To a tune of Mr. Henry Purcell's.
|
NEW Reformation,
|
begins through the Nation,
|
& our grumbling Sages,
|
that hope for good wages,
|
direct us the way:
|
Sons of the Muses,
|
then Cloak your abuses;
|
and least you shou'd trample
|
on Pious Example,
|
observe and obey.
|
Time frenzy Curers,
|
And Stubborn Non-Jurors,
|
for want of Diversion;
|
now Scourge the lewd Times;
|
they've hinted, they've Printed,
|
our Vein it profane is,
|
and worst of all Crimes;
|
Dull Clod pated Railers,
|
Smiths, Coblers and Colliers,
|
have Damn'd all our Rhimes.
|
2
|
Under the Notion,
|
Of Zeal for Devotion;
|
The Humour has fir'd 'em,
|
Or rather inspir'd 'em,
|
To tutor the Age:
|
But if in Season,
|
You'd know the true Reason;
|
The hopes of Preferment,
|
Is what makes the Vermin
|
Now raile at the Stage.
|
Cuckolds and Canters,
|
With Scruples and Banters,
|
The Old Forty-one Peale,
|
Against Poetry Ring:
|
But let State Revolvers,
|
And Treason Absolvers,
|
Excuse if I sing;
|
The Rebel that Chuses,
|
To cry down the Muses,
|
Wou'd cry down the King.
|
|
|
|
|
|