THE
Salamanca Doctor's Farewel:
OR,
TITUS'S
Exaltation to the Pillory, upon his Conviction of PERJURY.
A BALLAD.
To the Tune of, Packintons Pound.
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I.
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COme listen, ye Whigs, to my pitiful Moan,
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All you that have Ears, when the Doctor has none;
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In Sackcloth and Ashes let's sadly be jogging,
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To behold our dear Saviour oth' Nation a flogging,
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The Tories to spight us,
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As a Goblin to fright us,
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With a damn'd wooden Ruff will bedeck our Friend Titus:
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Then mourn all to see this ungrateful Behaviour,
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From these lewd Popish Tories to the dear Nation-Saviour.
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II.
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From three prostrate Kingdoms at once to adore me,
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And no less than three Parliaments kneeling before me;
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From hanging of Lords with a Word and a Frown,
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And no more than an Oath to the shaking a Crown:
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For all these brave Pranks,
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Now to have no more thanks,
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Than to look thro' a Hole, thro' two damn'd oaken Planks.
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Oh! mourn ye poor Whigs with sad Lamentation,
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To see the hard Fate of the Saviour oth' Nation.
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III.
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Forever farewel the true Protestant Famous
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Old days of th' Illustrious great Ignoramus;
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Had the great Heads-man Bethel, that honest Ketch Royal,
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But sate at the Helm still, the Rogues I'de defy all;
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The kind Teckelite Crew,
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To the Alcoran true,
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Spight of Law, Oaths or Gospel, would save poor true Blue:
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But the Tories are up, and no Quarter nor Favour,
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To trusty old Titus, the great Nation-Saviour.
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IV.
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There once was a Time, Boys, when to the Worlds wonder,
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I could kill with a Breath more than Jove with his Thunder;
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But, oh! my great Narrative's made but a Fable,
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My Pilgrims and Armies confounded like Babel:
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Oh they've struck me quite dumb,
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And to tickle my Bum,
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Have my Oracles turn'd all to a Tale of Tom Thumb.
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Oh! weep all to see this ungrateful Behaviour,
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In thus ridiculing the great Nation-Saviour.
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V.
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From Honour and Favour, and Joys, my full swing;
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From 12 pound a week, and the World in a string;
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Ah poor falling Titus! 'tis a cursed Debasement,
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To be pelted with Eggs thro' a lewd wooden Casement[!]
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And oh muckle Tony,
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To see thy old Crony,
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With a Face all benointed with wild Locust Honey:
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'Twould make thy old TAPP weep with sad Lamentation,
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For trusty old Titus, thy Saviour oth' Nation.
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VI.
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See the Rabble all round me in Battel array,
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Against my wood Castle their Batteries play;
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With Turnep-Granadoes the Storm is begun,
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All weapons more mortal than Pickering's screw'd Gun:
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Oh! my Torture begins
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To punish my Sins,
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For peeping thro' Key-holes, to spy Dukes and Queens!
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Which makes me to roar out with sad Lamentation,
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For this tragical Blow to the Saviour oth' Nation.
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VII.
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A curse on the day, when the Papists to run down,
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I left buggering at Omers, to swear Plots at London;
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And oh my dear Friends! 'tis a damnable hard case,
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To think how they'll pepper my sanctify'd Carcass;
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Were my Skin but as tough,
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As my Conscience of Buff,
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Let 'em pelt their Heart-bloods, I'd hold out well enough:
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But oh these sad Buffets of Mortification,
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To maul the poor Hide of the Saviour oth' Nation.
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VIII.
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Had the Parliament sate till they'd once more but put
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Three Kingdoms into the Geneva old Cut,
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With what Homage and Duty to Titus in Glory,
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Had the worshipping Saints turn'd their Bums up before me:
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But oh the poor Stallion,
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Alamode de Italian,
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To be futred at last like an English Rascallion.
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Oh mourn all ye Brethren of th' Association,
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To see this sad Fate of the Saviour oth' Nation.
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IX.
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Cou'd I once but get loose from these troublesom Tackles,
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A pocky stone Doublet, and plaguy steel Shackles,
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I'd leave the damn'd Tories, and to do myself justice,
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I'd e'n go a mumping with my honest Friend Eustace.
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Little Commyns and Oats,
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In two Pilgrim Coats,
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We'd truss our black Bills up, and all our old Plots;
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We'd leave the base World all for their damn'd rude Behavi-ours.
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To two such heroick true Protestant Saviours.
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X.
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But alack and a day! the worst is behind still,
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Which makes me fetch Groans that wou'd e'n turn a Wind-mill:
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Were the Pillory all, I should never be vext,
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But oh to my sorrow the Gallows comes next;
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To my doleful sad Fate,
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I find tho' too late,
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To this Collar of Wood comes a hempen Crevat;
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Which makes me thus roar out with sad Lamentation,
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To think how they'll truss up the Saviour oth' Nation.
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