A NEW SONG Between Whig and Tory.
To the Tune, Some say the Papists had a Plot.
Tory.
I.
WHat Chear poor foul mouth'd Whig what Chear?
Come rouse thy Snivelling Cant,
What quite Crest faln within this Year,
Are Sham-plots grown so Scant,
Thy whining fleers foretells thy Fate,
Thy Splaymouth'd Chaps Devine,
Jack Catch has Squared out thy Date
And
Tyborne for thy Shrine.
Whig.
II.
Undone, Condem'd and Dam'd, and all,
Too late now to Rebel,
The Sport's all spoil'd since
Dagon's Fall,
His Tap's consum'd in Hell.
Our new Cabals, and
Polish Kings
Of Select Knaves and Fools,
Our Intrigues to Destruction brings
With our Fanatick Souls.
Whig.
III.
Aresting the Kings Magistrates,
Expos'd our Great Designs,
The Nation knows the Rabble waits
On Rebels at such times.
The City Charter void of Cure
We're stript of all our hopes,
Of making Kings by Broom-staff Power,
And every Year New Popes.
Tory.
IV.
Faith
Whig joyn all the Knights o'th Post,
And to your Martyrs Pray,
That they'l bring Hell and all its Host
For to regain the Day.
Judg
Bradshaw, Hewson, Colledge bold,
Fitz-Harris and such Saints,
Since you with such Infernals hold,
They may repair your wants.
Whig.
V.
Let Fiends and Furies take their course,
By
Hobbs I dare not pray,
For when I think on God by force
More Sacred Souls than they.
Blood Spangled Ghosts of Innocents
Which fright me from their Sight,
And leaves me guilty in a Trance
Of the Eternal Night.
Tory.
VI.
Then please thy self with what is past,
When none durst call thee Knave,
That short Arst-Rump at
Oxford last,
What Power to Rogues they gave.
The Sociations great Success
'Gainst
York, what Whelps appear'd,
The glorious drift of your Address
from Cripl'd
Tony's Beard.
Whig.
VII.
Confound all thoughts of Glories past,
We'll still New Plots contrive,
Though
M—fields Letter flew too fast
To let that Sham-Plot thrive.
In Mischeif we will still delight
To plague the Peace and Crown,
Imbracing all things but the Right,
Till Vengeance press us down.
LONDON, Printed for J. Dean, 1683.