I was fworn to the Church, Both to People and Porch, And I'm fond of the Name of High-Flyer ; I have fhewn my good Will For th' Occafional Bill, And to fet the whole Nation on Fire. If I get in the Chair, It will quickly appear, Who is for the Church, and who not, Sir: I'll wipe off the Paint Made me look like a Saint, And Moderation fhall die on the Spot, Sir I was chofen for the Nests My Learning t' advance, I travel'd to France, From Paris quite down to Touloon; Where they make People pray The Government's way, And convert them a mode de Dragoon. Before I came home, I travel'd to Rome, And receiv'd th' Infallible Bleffing; I ne'er fcrupled to bow To the Slipper or Toe, And bestow'd a true Proteftant Killing. I view'd the great Church, And I counted the Steps to the Altar Said my Prayers in Latin, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ And I fung to her Ladyfhip's Pfalter. I blefs'd the three Nations With wife That theylervations, might my Learning inherit But as foon as 'twas printed, I fincerely repented, 'Twas fo laugh'd at I never could bear it. Now from Popery and Rome, I'm to Coventry come, Where I'm quite overrun with Religion; The High Church and I Such Experiments try, You wou'd fwear we had Mahomet's Pigeon. The Occafional Bill Was fram'd in our Mill, Of true Catholick Preparation; The Warp and the Woof Look'd like Proteftant Stuff, But the Devil was in the Fashion. I huzza'd for the Tack, For I was always a Jack, And was fond of Jure Divino But with what Intent, Or what 'twas I meant, That's a thing neither you know nor I know! Το To High-Church I'm as true, As a Proteftant blue, And fain wou'd Diffenters be Mobbing; But we had fuch a Defeat In Coventry Street, That we're damnably 'fraid of their drubbing. I hate Moderation, It has ruin'd the Nation, Both the Bs and Q are infected; Do but fet me i'th' Chair, I'll the High-Church repair, And Religion fhall foon be diffected. We have made fuch Advances, You'd think them Romances, All the Churches on Earth to unite-a; That Mahomet and We May quickly agree, And Rome fhall no more men affright-a. Our true English Church Shall to Popery approach, And Popery to her fhall advance; The Sifters fhall kiss, Pafs by what's amifs, And we fhall fhake hands, Sir, with France. Thus the Tools of the Age Shall quickly grow Sage, When they cant of their Union and Peace, Sir-; This will Union convey The true Catholick way, And the World fhall be all of a Piece, Sir. If the Whigs and Diffenters And oppofe us with damn'd Moderation; We will cut all their Throats, And fo we'll unite the whole Nation. On the Duke of B's House. Sic fiti lætantur Lares. Appily hous'd thefe Lares are, To dine with Humphrey's Duke each day, The doleful Complaint of Sir H. M. on the Lofs of his Election at Oxford, 1705. 'E Freeholders most dear Look down from your Mountains with Pity, Of your Knight Out of Place, And attend to my forrowful Ditty. His Coat of Arms is the Wheat-Sheaf. I left you indeed, In hopes to fucceed At Oxford, the Seat of the Mufes; At lefs Coft than in Wales, And the Chofen adorn him that chooses. The Thing would be done I was told by Sachev'rell my Hector; Poor baffled Sir Mac, A Pinnacle Fine, I rais'd on the Top of High Church-a; They matter it not, And leave me and my Caufe in the Lurch-a. I sent to each Head, I drew my Goofe Quill For Occafional Bill, And wore it quite down to the Stump-a; I gave them my Pelf, Would ha' given 'em my felf, But they care not a Ft for Sir Numph-a. |