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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
|
