THE Last WILL and TESTAMENT OF A JACOBITE.
TIR'D out with Hopes, with fruitless Wishes cloy'd
Of what's impossible to be enjoy'd;
Sickness my Body seizes; and each hour
Death waits my lingring Carcass to devour.
Greif is the Cause of all; it frets my Soul
To see our Plots so senceless and so dull,
To think, that Men, who take such mighty Pains,
Should have their Heads stuff'd with unthinking Brains,
That Fleets and Armies, which design'd to Come,
To root out Heresy, and bring in Rome;
Restore King James, and his Imperious Dame
With the Welch Prince, that Puny Son of Fame;
By Heavens Decree alone are Baffled, Crost,
And Tourville our best Ships and Men has lost,
While Russel rides, as Bulwark of our Coast.
Mourn, Mourn, Ye Jacobites, our lost Estate,
Each day, each hour, misfortunes do's Create;
The Name of Jacobite, now grows abhor'd,
And James despis'd, that once was so ador'd;
Whose Spouse repines, that she shall ne're Return,
To see in Smith-feild flames new Martyr's Burn.
But ah! my Ebbing Sand is almost spent,
'Tis time, that I should make my Settlement.
Imprimis, to my dear King James, I Give
My Loyalty, to whom till Death I Cleave,
To whose dear Interest firm, I always Stood
Plotted, Caball'd, as much as e're I Cou'd;
Yet, ne'r could reinstate him in his Throne,
The Willamites so powerful are Grown.
To his dear Son, I give my whole Estate,
And such a Gift, may never come to late;
For if he lives hee'l Jump (such are my fears)
To Croud into the Band of Pentioners.
To Lewis, who Combines with Turk and Divel,
To Plague all Christendom, I must be Civil;
His love must not be to my James forgot,
Besides, he was assisting in our Plot.
To him my honesty I do bequeath,
'Tis well if he'l but Prove so at his Death.
Tourville, shall have my Conduct and my Wit,
To manage, if he can, another Fleet;
But, oh! his darling Sun so deep is set,
No loss could be more fatal, and more Great.
To Numskul Peters, I resign my Brains,
Who to undoe his King, took so much Pains,
And Jehu like brought on so fast his Dance,
That in a Whirlwind hurried him to France.
Let the dispencing Judges take my Tongue,
To them alone that Talent does belong,
Who when they should do right, did always wrong.
Invert the Laws for Arbitrary Power,
And over-rule what was true Law before.
Suspended Ely, shall have my Religion,
Who from a Magpie turns a down righgt Wigeon,
For since that Prelate left us in the Lurch,
To tell the Truth, I ne're have been at Church.
Me thinks my Hands would Canting Penn become,
Who under mask of Quaker writes for Rome;
And strove to abolish Penal Laws and Test,
As if those things were nothing but a Jest.
To Pulton and the Jesuitick Crew,
To Kingdoms fatal, and their Precepts True,
Daily for Converts to their Chruch they strove;
But Baffled by the Almighty Power above:
All the Throats joyn'd together in the Nation,
Could never swallow Transubstantiation.
My knife their darling Weapon, I dispose
To end, that Race of Europe's Bloody foes.
The French may take my Legs, that they may run,
As the ingenious Teague-Landers have done.
But now Death summons, and I must away,
My Glass is run, and I can only say,
Forbear against King William to Rebel,
Ye'are all in the wrong Box, and so farewel.
Exit
EPITAPH.
UNder this Tombstone, lies a Jacobite,
A discontented, factious, railing Wight,
Listaken Zeal, led the fond Fool along,
Lo! Here he lies Interr'd, with Gabriel John.
LONDON, Printed for W. Penn, 1692.