A New collections of songs and poems by Thomas D'Urfey ...
D'Urfey, Thomas, 1653-1723.
A Scotch Sung, sung at the Artillery Feast.
WOONS, what noo is the
mat—ter! gud feth 'tis won—d'rous
strange; the Whiggs do keep sike a
clatter that nean can pass th' Exchange.
They cry bread it is pitty, their numbers
are no more, the Duke does dine in the
City, and muckle they fear his power.
They begin the awd trick agen, and
Cabal like awd Nick a-gen, Feast
three hundred pound thick agen, sike a
height they soar: Ah bonny London, thour't
undone if e're thou art in their power.
The wise Old E—with the Spiggot,
That never knew rest or ease,
Ods bread is grown sike a Bigot;
The Nation has his disease.
More I think I could name ye,
That make this raree show,
Bold George, and Politick Iemmy;
Converted by Doctor TO.
Both the Sheriffs there should ha bin,
Then how merry they would ha bin,
Met for National good agen,
As they were before,
Ah bonny London,
If long thou art in their power.
More to shew us what Ninnys
Are all Rebellious beasts,
The Cuckolds sent in their Guinnys,
To make up this Godly Feast.
Page 77 Never caring or thinking
What Insolence was done,
Or that their Plotting and Drinking;
Should e're be oppos'd so soon.
But when they knew they were barr'd agen,
They sent out the Black Guard agen,
All our Bonfires were marr'd agen;
Slaves did shout and roar:
Ah bonny London,
If e're thou art in their power.
Right and Royalty Governs,
Which Rebels would overthrow,
They once were fatal to Soveraigns;
Ah let 'em no more be so.
But to baffle Oppression,
Inspir'd by Fate divine,
Defend the Crown and Succession;
And keep it in the Right-Line.
Page 78 Every Soldier will fight for it,
Each bold Genius will write for it,
And the Whigs hang in spite for it,
Losing Regal power:
And bonny London,
That thought to usurp once more.