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A Congratulatory POEM on the WHIGG's Entertainment.
HOllow Boys, Hollow, Hollow once again!
'Tother half Crown shall then reward your pain.
Alas, Poor Whigg, where wilt thou sneaking go,
Thy Wine is spilt, thy Pyes, and Cakes are Dough?
Down go the Coppers, Tables, Shelves and all,
And so Farewel to Haberdasher's Hall!
Damn'd Protestants! that when the Court abhor't,
Dare eat, and drink without a Patent for't.
And what true Catholicks, no doubt, will say,
Was ten times worse, upon a Fasting day!
No Northern Healths would with Huzza's be crown'd,
No Loyal Dammee's there would rend the Ground.
These hungry Covenanting Currs, contrive
To gobble up the King's Prerogative.
In Pasties, Plots, in Custard, Treason lies,
And hot Rebellion lurks in Pudding-Pyes.
Fear always through Perspective looks, and thus
A Sausage must be dubb'd a Blunderbuss.
Poor Wood-cocks, Loyal Subjects counted be;
Condemn'd by sly Phanaticks, Treachery.
Spitts Rapiers are to stab obedient Geese,
A Stately Pasty is a Mortar-piece.
Glasses are Hand-Granadoes, which may fall
At Charing-Cross, or Fire the Milky Hall.
Cooks Shops hatch close Designs upon the State
'Gainst Calves, and Capons to ASSOCIATE;
Which if the Traitors freely won't confess,
Our Jury's them shall all-to-be-Address.
Those that were never marked by the Beast,
Shall neither Buy, nor Sell, nor Fast, nor Feast.
Whilst this Indulgence we to Friends afford,
Change rusty Cassocks for a glittring Sword.
But if they have nor Coat nor Gown to sell,
Godfrey's Cravat will do the Job as well.