THE LOYALIST’S ENCOURAGEMENT.
From the Loyal Garland.
To the tune of “Now, now the fight’s done.”
You Royalists all, now rejoice and be glad,
The day is our own, there’s no cause to be sad,
The tumult of faction is crush’d in its pride,
And the grand promoters their noddles all hide,
For fear of a swing, which does make it appear
Though treason they loved yet for hemp they don’t care.
Then let us be bold still, and baffle their plots,
That they in the end may prove impotent sots;
And find both their wit and their malice defeated,
Nay, find how themselves and their pupils they cheated,
By heaping and thrusting to unhinge a State,
Of which Heaven’s guardian fixt is by fate.
Though once they the rabble bewitch’d with their cant,
Whilst cobler and weaver set up for a saint;
Yet now the stale cheat they can fasten no more,
The juggle’s discover’d and they must give o’er;
Yet give them their due that such mischief did work,
Who revile Christian princes and pray for the Turk.
Oh! give them their due, and let none of ’em want
A cup of Geneva or Turkish turbant,
That, clad in their colours, they may not deceive
The vulgar, too prone and too apt to believe
The fears they suggest on a groundless pretence,
On purpose to make ’em repine or their prince.
THE TROUPER.
From the Loyal Garland. A pleasant song revived.
Come, come, let us drink,
’Tis vain to think
Like fools of grief or sadness;
Let our money fly
And our sorrows dye,
All worldly care is madness;
But wine and good cheer
Will, in spite of our fear,
Inspire us all with gladness.
Let the greedy clowns,
That do live like hounds,
They know neither bound nor measure,
Lament every loss,
For their wealth is their cross,
Whose delight is in their treasure;
Whilst we with our own
Do go merrily on,
And spend it at our leisure.
Then trout about the bowl
To every loyal soul,
And to his hand commend it.
A fig for chink,
’Twas made to buy drink,
Before we depart we’ll end it.
When we’ve spent our store,
The nation yields no more,
And merrily we will spend it.
ON THE TIMES,
OR
THE GOOD SUBJECT’S WISH.
From the Loyal Garland.
To the tune of “Young Phaon.”
Good days we see, let us rejoice,
In peace and loyalty,
And still despise the factious noise
Of those that vainly try
To undermine our happiness,
That they may by it get;
Knavery has great increase
When honesty does set.
But let us baffle all their tricks,
Our King and country serve;
And may he never thrive that likes
Sedition in reserve:
Then let each in his station rest,
As all good subjects should;
And he that otherwise designs,
May he remain unblest.
May traytors ever be deceived
In all they undertake,
And never by good men believed;
May all the plots they make
Fall heavy on themselves, and may
They see themselves undone,
And never have a happy day,
That would the King dethrone.
THE JOVIALISTS’ CORONATION.
From the Loyal Garland.
Since it must be so, why then so let it go,
Let the giddy-brain’d times turn round;
Now we have our King, let the goblets be crowned,
And our monarchy thus we recover;
Whilst the pottles are weeping
We’ll drench our sad souls
In big-belly’d bowls,
And our sorrows in wine shall lie steeping.
And we’ll drink till our eyes do run over,
And prove it by reason,
It can be no treason
To drink or to sing
A mournifal of healths to our new-crowned King.
Let us all stand bare in the presence we are,
Let our noses like bonfires shine;
Instead of the conduits, let pottles run wine,
To perfect this true coronation;
And we that are loyal, in drink shall be peers;
For that face that wears claret
Can traytors defie all,
And out-stares the bores of our nation;
In sign of obedience
Our oaths of allegiance
Beer glasses shall be,
And he that tipples tends to jollitry.
But if in this reign a halberdly train,
Or a constable, chance to revel,
And would with his twyvels maliciously swell,
And against the King’s party raise arms:
Then the drawers, like yeomen o’ the guard,
With quart-pots
Shall fuddle the sots,
Till they make ’um both cuckolds and freemen,
And on their wives beat up alarms,
Thus as the health passes,
We’ll triple our glasses,
And count it no sin
To drink and be loyal in defence of our King.