THE Bare-faced Tories: A NEW SONG.
To the TUNE of
Robbin-Goodfellow.
1.
WHAT a Pox care we for Law,
Or for Religion, Church, or State;
We'll not be kept like slaves in awe,
At any thought of future Fate:
We'll damn and sink, and sing,
and make the Nation ring,
For the day's our own, we plainly see;
Both Day and Night we'll roar
in a Tavern witha Whore,
Till we go from thence to the tripple Tree.
2.
A Curse confound the dull-ey'd
Whiggs,
That go to Church to Preach and pray;
They groan like Hoggs, and they grunt like Pigs,
And sigh and grieve for sin they say;
But we will laugh and play,
and spend our time away,
With Cards and Dice, and Whores and Wine,
And when we come to dye,
to the Popish Priest we flye,
And we'll say that we are of St.
Peter's Line.
3.
The damn'd confounded
Whiggs we hear,
Are so precise they will not lye,
They will not Whore, nor they will not Swear,
But all debauching Games they'l slye:
A Pox upon their Zeal,
they can no comfort feel,
They walk demurely, and are precise,
They say they do not swear,
there's one above they fear,
Unto whom they turn up the white of their Eyes.
4.
But damn their stingy sneaking ways,
Let's follow our brave modish Blades,
The Devil will Crown our Heads with Bayes,
A TORY's Honour never fades;
We'll make a God of Gold,
as in the days of old,
And we'll worship that both Night and Day,
A Golden God is kind,
and every thing will find,
Unto such a God as this we'll pray.
5.
Some with Conscieence would affright us,
But they'l find its past their skill:
We have no more than
Heraclitus,
All our study's to do ill;
Our Consciences we fear
lest any one should fear,
And we boldly dare out-face the Law.
A Pox on future hopes,
our Religion is the Popes,
And our Consciences shall not be kept in awe.
6.
Come, let's Plot and Plot again,
Until this City we destroy;
We shall have help from
France and
Spain,
From every famous TORY Boy:
The Devil and we've agreed,
that still in time of need,
He shall lend us his helping hand:
By all that's good above,
in time we will remove,
All but the
Papists from the Land.
7.
Come lets learn to kill and slay,
And put our bloody Hands in use;
This is a pretty Popish Play,
This before the rest we'll chuse,
Least
Protestants should thrive,
we'll not leave a man alive,
Their Throats in pieces we will tear,
We'll stab them to the Heart,
and when they do depart,
We shall all bid a farewel unto fear.
8.
Come lets tear 'em Limb from Limb,
And make brave Candles of their Greese,
When we on their streams of blood can swim,
Then surely we shall rest in peace;
Let's cut out Ears and Eyes,
and be deaf unto their cries,
Let's lay 'em sprawling at our Feet;
Let's tear their Bowels out,
for the good old Pope no doubt,
And the rest of his Tribe will be glad to see
[...]
LONDON: Printed for H. Jones, 1682.