A Congratulatory POEM, on his Royal Highness James Duke of York.  

SCotland has long been happy by your stay,  
But blessed be God at last your come away,  
Now every Church doth echo with the Bells  
And mirth and Music in our City dwells.  
Let the dull Scots lament we shall not grieve,  
Unless your Highness doth sweet England leave.  
Your absence long as bred our discontent  
We owed our grief to an ill Parliament.  
But they are Seatterd to and fro we find,  
And now Your Foes do prove a little kind.  
York has no foes but those that lurk in holes,  
And undermined him Secretly like Moles,  
It's true indeed, some whigs look sour and dull,  
And do their hats over their eyebrows pull;  
Some hate your worth and others hate your Name.  
Some would Eclipse your virtues and your fame.  
And yet their actions do beget their shame.  
But these are but the Comrades of the Devil,  
Who call what's evil good, and what's good evil.  
Some such we have whose looks are very pale,  
Who at your Royal Actions always rail;  
And yet can hardly tell you what they ail,  
They pine, and fret, look dull, and sigh, and wrine,  
And hate you cause you are the Royal Line;  
They sigh and mourn, and vex, and wish the Thames,  
Might drown the most Illustrious Highborn James!  
They do despise you, yet can give no reason,  
Only they would be nibbling at high Treason.  
Fain would they see you fall before the Throne,  
And make new Noll fancy the Crown his own.  
They loathe good Natured Charles, and their sick,  
For want of Rump, old Oliver and Dick.  
What would these stubborn Rogues, these pious Ceaters  
Give for the sight of their old friends Hugh Peter's,  
Bradshaw and Ireton and such as those;  
That were the Martyr Charles his greatest foes.  
That they might here tread down our wholesome Laws,  
Under the shame pretence o'th' good old cause.  
They would pour all their goodness, and their Zeal,  
In hopes to gain another common weal.  
But hold, to keep us off from such like fears,  
Let's pluck them backwards by their Leather ears.  
Let's keep them low, for if they rise again,  
They'll mount Heaven to pull down Charles his wain,  
They will not leave a bird nor beast i'th' Park  
That can be found to have a Royal mark.  
No Royal bud nor blood shall thrive nor sprout,  
When they turn in, all these must soon turn out.  
Instead of our Good-naturd, King some Hector,  
They'll rebaptize and call him Lord Protector.  
Should but these Zealots this destruction see,  
Then would they sing Boys, hay Boys up go we.  
But their old Whiggish game they shall no● play,  
we'll wish their rise the clear contrary way.  
we'll give no Bodkins nor no silver spoons,  
To User in such heavy cropeared clowns.  
They'll get no Thimbles now from Sue and Doll,  
To pluck a King down for to set up Noll.  
No, no, the Presbyterians may go hoop,  
They'll see small hopes of a new maiden Troop.  
The  Child dreads the fire, they strive in vain,  
Our purses for their good old cause to drain  
When they beat down our Libertyes and Laws,  
And throw good Subjects to the Hangman's paws.  
All this was done still for the good old cause.  
When Charles the first was brought unto the Block,  
And when our peace they did in pieces Knock;  
Still the Tub Preachers these accursed Jack Dawes,  
Cried out, it was even for the good old Cause.  
Now let their good old Cause sink down to Hell,  
Where they that hatched it first (I fear) do dwell.  
Some good new Cause they would do well to show  
From whence our griefs and miseries do slow,  
For there's no doubt but every Whig doth know.  
The only Cause I doubt must come from those,  
Who were in love with Cromwel's mighty Nose.  
Our grief and sorrow only springs from Faction,  
So little wit doth cause too great distraction.  
Pride, and Ambition seeks to overwhelm,  
The very Pillars of this mighty Realm.  
A Discontented and ill natured Whig,  
Itches for something, he would fain look big.  
His very Actions for a change speak loud,  
Instead of Juno may he catch a cloud.   

May Royal James thrive more the more he's cursed,  
May the Whigs Poison in their bowels burst.  
Still when they Plot, then may they be betrayed,  
By some half-Brother, called to their Aid.  
May every Plot be flyblown in a Minit,  
That they may see the hand of Pluto in it.  
And may we sweetly sit beneath our Vine,  
Drinking Prosperity to the Royal Line.    

LONDON Printed for J. Johnson.