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.
London, Printed for E. Smith, 1682.