“THE WHIGS’ ADDRESS TO HIS MAJESTY.
“We who were never yet at quiet,
Lovers of Change, Disorder, Riot,
Old Sticklers for a Common-wealth,
(If you believe us) wish you Health,
A long, a safe, a prosperous Reign.
(The wicked Tories think we feign.)
We, who all Monarchy despise,
Hope to find favour in your eyes;
Think you a Protestant so hearty
As not to disoblige our Party,
And humbly beg, at any rate
To be Chief Ministers of State,
Or else your person we shall hate;
For tho’ Religion bears the name,
It’s GOVERNMENT is all our aim.
We’ll be as faithful and as just
As to Your Uncle, Charles the First;
Grant this request, your Cause we’ll own,
And ease the burden of the Crown;
Make it the easiest e’er was worn,
You’ll scarcely know you’ve any on.
But if (Great Sir) we find you slight us,
Ourselves can tell which way to Right us;
And, let you know, by sad disasters,
Tho’ you are Lord, yet we are Masters.
This truth you cannot choose but know,
We prov’d it sixty years ago;
Yet shall you find us now on Trial,
Your faithful subjects, OR WE LIE ALL!”
Disappointment, and a long spell of disfavour at Court, embittered the Tory wits, and lent a barb to those satirical shafts which they freely launched at their powerful opponents, the Whigs in office and in parliament.
“THE PATRIOTS. 1700.
“Your hours are choicely employ’d,
Your Petitions all lie on the Table.
With Funds insufficient
And Taxes deficient,
And Deponents innumerable.
For shame leave this wicked employment,
Reform both your manners and lives;
You were never sent out
To make such a rout,
Go home, and look after your wives.”
A poetic effusion, one of the relics of a parliamentary election in the reign of William III., was printed in 1701. It is entitled “The Election, a Poem,” and evidently describes an election for the city of London; the scene of the incident is the Guildhall, where the electoral struggle was fought out beneath the shelter of the civic guardians, Gog and Magog. This production, redolent of the savour of the seventeenth century, is interesting as displaying the nature of “election squibs” under an early guise. The poem opens with a brief introduction of the principal performers, and alludes to the scene of the contest.
“The day was come when all the folks in furs
From sables, ermines, to the skins of curs,
In great Augusta’s Hall each other rub’d
And made it but one common powd’ring tub;
Ne’er was that Hall so throng’d in days of yore,
Ne’er were there seen such numerous crowds before.
From end to end the warm Electors thrust,
And move like ants in heaps of straw and dust.
Each busy mortal does his forces rally,
And from one nook to t’other quarter sally.
So close they prest, with such inhuman twitches;
The Civit Hogo did arise from breeches,
Which thro’ the air increas’d into a breeze
Made e’en the mighty Giants cough and sneeze.
Here a fat spark could scarce his tallow save,
And there a fool was jostled by a knave.
Came to sweat out their venom ’gainst the State,
Old feuds revive, and mischiefs new create.”
The bard describes the “City Godmother,” an obsolete mistress, whose traditions were with the Tories of the past:—