The Subjects Thankfulnesse:
OR,
God-a-mercie good Scot,
To the tune of, Blew Cap for mee.
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LOng time hath sweet England injoy'd her peace,
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under the good government of prudent Kings,
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Since Royall Elizabeth that Queen did cease,
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those jarres in this nation her fame ever rings,
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And in the next after that doe her succeed,
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as James of the Scots, a good King indeed,
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Our gracious King Charles he also begot,
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whom God still preserve here & blesse that good Scot.
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Who causeth Porjectors to hang down the head,
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they now from their projects begin to shrink back,
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Promooters, Informers, with grief are half dead,
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because they'r afraid their old trading to lack;
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I think they'l beyond sea to frolick and play,
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after Giles mum Parson who led them the way,
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If Empson and Dudley have left them by lot
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a twist thread is spun, God-a-mercy good Scot.
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How hie were they flown on the wings of their hope
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whilst they by their projects increase their bags,
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Their Pattens for pins, for Tobacco and sope,
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for glasses, for leather, for pipes and for rags;
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False Dice and false Cards too, besides a great fine,
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they yearely receiv'd by inhanching of wine
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The tide now is turning, let's drinke tother pot
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and merrily sing God-amercy good Scot.
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To play at bopeepe now our papists doe strive
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since they were commanded away to begonne,
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Who late with the devill a bargaine did drive
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but now to themselves he hath left them alone
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The peace of this kingdome they sought for to marr
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to change our sought plentie to famine and warr:
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But now it is thought tha'le pay the whole shott
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when the reckning is drawne, God-a mercy etc.
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Where are these proud Papests that stradle so wide
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let them to Rome like Pilgrims range
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For such as doth thinke the whole moone to bestride
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cannot proceed long ere they meet with a change;
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They have tread on our Nobles to trample them down
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to set up their miters above the Kings Crowne,
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That e're him was Clarke the Priest hath forgot,
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but pride wil come down, God-a-mercy good Scot.
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The second part. To the same Tune.
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BUt is there no hope now at such a dead lift,
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what must they he packing that fain would stay longer
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To break up the Parliament is there no shift?
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and fill this our Nation with error more stronger,
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Nor dare they repose any faith in their Creed,
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since there Avi-mary doth faile them at need,
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The House is acquainted with every fine plot,
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their minds is blown up, God-a-mercy good Scot.
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With Scriptures divine they do play at fast and loose,
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to fast a whole fortnight they'l make you beleeve,
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And turne holy writ to fat Capon and Goose,
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yet make the unlearned fast every Saint Eve,
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Their guts is their god, Religion they mock,
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to pamper their flesh they would famish the flock,
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To preach and to pray they have almost forgot,
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which now they'l be taught, God-a-mercy good Scot.
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Although this faire Iland abound with such crimes,
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it all by the Parliament yet shall be purg'd,
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So that all good subjects shall see better times,
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although that Projectors doe feare to be scourg'd;
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Then let us not faint like men without hope,
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a halter for Traytors, a fig for the Pope,
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Let Spaine and the Strumpet of Babylon plot,
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yet we shall be safe, God-a-mery good Scot.
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Have you no more Books by whole cartloads to burne,
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sent o're from beyond sea unbound up in haste,
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You see that our Nation's not like for to turne,
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your English Composers have studied in waste,
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The Hang-man with burning the last was so heat,
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it's doubtfull that he a great surfeit did get,
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For since he is dead, yet the sonne he begot,
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can work on his trade well, and tye the right knot.
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The Miser shall never liberall give to the poore,
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and one man all trading no more shall ingrosse,
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The City shall cozen the Country no more,
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to build up their fortunes on other mens losse,
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Oppression shall down while Justice doth smile,
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fierce Riot and Popery shall banish this Ile,
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Religion shall flourish without any spot,
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if this come to passe, God-a-mercy good Scot.
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