The Coat of Arms of N.T. J.F. & R.L.
An Answer to Thomsons Ballad call'd The Loyal Feast.
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A True Blue Protestant will never stain
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His good profession, for the hopes of gain:
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Most Loyal thou dost call them, and sayst true,
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For they're no such dissembling Knaves as you.
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The Whigs from North to South, from West to East
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Did all contribute to a Loyal Feast,
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To shew their hatred to the Roman Beast.
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Eight Hundred Guineys were laid up in store,
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There would have been at least as many more,
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Such hatred we do bear the Roman Whore.
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This Feast was thrown aside, and nought but reason:
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Some did surmise a new Gun-Powder Treason,
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That cou'd not be suppos'd, for our good King,
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Doth hide his Parliaments beneath his wing:
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He will not let them meet in any place,
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For fear of mischief from the Roman Race.
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Let this be Sung to what tune Thomson
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pleases, but let therest be to his own Tune,
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Sawny will ne're be my Love again.
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Tory is small and of no good race,
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And is belov'd by very few;
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He broaches his Shams in e'ry place,
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And that in time I hope he'l rue.
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He sends to Yeoman, Lord and Knight,
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His Roguish tricks to entertain:
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But Tory'l be hang'd, if he has but his right,
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Then Tory shall ne're be my Love again.
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He sends to the Devil for Plots good store,
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And they too oft do come to Town:
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His Tap doth run for the Roman Whore;
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The True Blue Protestants to drown.
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He sends to Rome, and France, and Spain,
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To all the Papists in the Land,
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That they may bring in Plots amain.
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And Tory shall ne're be my Love again.
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At some great Houses in this Town,
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Tory did meet with a Jovial Crew,
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Of Traytrous Lords of high renown,
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Not one a Protestant True Blue.
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They threw in heeps of yellow boys,
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The dam'd Sham Plots for to maintain.
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Old Rowly their Treason now destroys,
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And Tory shall ne're be my Love again.
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They all ow'd duty to their Prince,
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And Loyal Subjects should have been:
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But their duty was all worn out long since,
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By their Plots we have too plainly seen.
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From Church to Chappel they did go,
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Their Popish guests to entertain,
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They sought to kill us at one blow,
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Now Tory sholl ne're be my Love again.
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The D. They Love, but not the King,
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Can any tell a reson why,
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Can any tale or tydings bring,
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Why they should raise the D. so high?
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They'd Crown him if they might have leave,
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And our good King they would have slain:
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These things do make the Nation grieve:
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And Tory shall ne're be my Love again.
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The bloody Papists shall no more,
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Contrive against Great Charles his Reign;
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Though they have done it oft before,
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We will not let them do't again:
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Give them an inch they'le take an ell;
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To work his ruine they're in pain,
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Their bloody actions comes from Hell,
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And Tory shall ne're be my Love again.
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A True Blue Protestant will pray,
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That Heav'n would still protect the King:
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And I am sure they'l all give way,
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For a Popish ------ to take a Swing:
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But he that hopes Popes here shall sit,
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And Protestants shall all be slain:
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I hope his hopes will be besh------
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And Tory shall ne're be my Love again.
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Fat Capons then shall fly about,
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With Frigacees of Ambergreece,
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When we the Popish Tribe do Rout,
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And do enjoy our happy Peace,
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That Council shall not have a bit,
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That did our Peace so long restrain.
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Nor Popish Nat shall not lick the spit,
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No nor Tory shall ne're be my Love again.
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Le'Strange that Monckish Scribling Fopp,
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That has abus'd the Kingdom so,
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Shall starve before he gets a Sop;
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For he's a Tory Curr we know.
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A Priest shall feed upon a Pope,
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Till all the Tory Tribe are slain,
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Then we shall have our Peace I hope,
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And Tory shall ne're be my Love again.
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