Monmouth's Downfal; OR, THE ROYAL VICTORY.
To the Tune of,
Hark, I hear the Cannons Roar.
I.
HArk, I hear the Trumpets found,
The Loyal Joys and Shouts go round;
Whilst th' Echoing Hills and Dales rebound,
The Whiggs are all surrounded.
At
Jove's dread Thunder,
James's Frown,
Behold the Foes of Church and Crown;
Th'old Rebel Gyants tumbling down,
To Death and Hell Confounded.
II.
Argyle and
Rumbold's Loosing Chance
Began to lead the solemn Dance:
And
Monmouth's Fate does next advance,
To fill the fatal Chorus.
Their mounted Heads begin to make
Our baffled Hero's Courage quake,
And the Good Old Cause a tottering shake;
For
James's Sword's Victorious.
III.
Come ye great Phanatick Dons,
Welcome all my
Tyburn Sons;
Whilst the bending Gibbet groans
With loads of Whiggs all round her:
And th' Imperial
Tony's Ghost,
Lord of all the Stygian Coast,
Salutes the vast descending Host;
The mighty Whigland-Founder.
IV.
No more that little Crop-ear'd Saint,
Ferguson's Tub-Gospel Cant
Shall th' aspiring Fop Enchant,
And make dull fools adore him.
Great
James, in spight of
Scotch Kirk Loons,
The feeble
Rumbold Musquetoons,
And all the Zealous
Taunton Clowns,
Shall drive the World before him.
V.
Rampant Zeal's for ever tamed,
The
Tecklite Reformation shamm'd,
The Presbyter-
Turk, and Devil damn'd,
And the long charm all ended.
Quench'd are now th' Infernal brands,
Whilst safe from Impious Rebel Hands,
Great
James's Life and Empire stands,
By Angel Guards defended.
VI.
Then our Fears and Sorrows drown'd,
Let the Jocund Bowls go round,
With Royal
Caesar's Health all Crown'd,
And farewel all Delusion.
To the sanctified True-Blue,
That Hypocrite, false, pretending Crew;
To give the Rebel Devil his due,
Perdition and Confusion.