THE
Sale of Esau's Birth-right;
OR,
The New Buckingham Ballad.
To the Tune of the London Gentlewoman, or Little Peggy Ramsey.
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A Wondrous Tale I will relate;
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The like was never told you,
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Of English men that England hate,
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The Town of Bucks has sold you.
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[T]o serve in Parliament they chose
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Two men I fear to name them;
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For if I did, you would suppose
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I told a Lye to shame them.
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That Beef and Ale should yet prevail,
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You need no longer wonder:
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For men of wit, must still submit
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To Fools of greater number.
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The D---, the Pope, and Tyranny,
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Need never fear a Down-fall,
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For Teige and Wakeman both would be
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Elected for a Town-hall.
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These Loyal men of Buckingham,
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(True only to their Purses)
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Would sell the Crown, t' enrich the Town,
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And laugh at all your Curses.
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When they have sin'd, and damn'd their Souls,
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Or to the Devil gave them;
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Their Friend the Pope, in him they hope,
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Well knowing he can save them.
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The Second Part, to the same Tune.
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IF Sc---s would take off Oates's head,
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He need not fear succeeding;
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But send him down unto this Town,
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He soon might see him bleeding.
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Of Thirteen men there are but Sir
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Who do not merit Hemp well;
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The other seven play their Tricks
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For L------ and T------
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The Father is a Reprobate,
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And yet the Son's Elected:
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The Gawdy Youth comes down in State,
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And must not be rejected.
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Our prating Knight doth owe his Call
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To Timber, and his Lady;
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Though one goes longer with Town-hall,
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Then t'other with her Baby.
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These men do to their choosing trudge,
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With all the speed that can be,
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And make the Son the Father's Judge,
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To save great Tom of D------
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The Bailiff is so mad a Spark,
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(Though lives by Tanning Leather)
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That for a Load of Temple's Bark
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He'd Sacrifice his Father.
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His Horns do shine, his Wife kept fine,
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All men would blame him had he
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Not made him stand, whose helping hand
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Must make him be a Daddy.
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He huffs and rants, and calls to Hall,
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But will not give men warning:
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When drunk o're night, he takes delight
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To play the Rogue i'th' morning.
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Next comes the Barber, who will do
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Whatever you desire him;
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He for a Groat, will cut your Throat,
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A Lowsie perjur'd Hireling.
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God damn and rot his Arm, he cries,
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And swears like any Lover,
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For to be true, to three in two,
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Poor Judas younger Brother.
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Of late he huff'd, and drank with Lords,
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But since a sad Disaster
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Hath summon'd him to Wash and Trim
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A Rev'rend Owl his Master.
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Another he hath kiss'd a hand,
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Which puts him in a Rapture;
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So have I known a Miss o'th' Town,
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Adore the Fop that Clapt her.
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Since kissing hands can so prevail,
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There's no man need want Riches;
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If they'l be kind, and come behind,
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They're welcome to our Breeches.
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Thus Buckingham hath led the way
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To Popery and sorrow:
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Those seven Knaves, who make us Slaves,
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Would sell their God tomorrow.
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