Eucharisticon; OR, An Heroic POEM upon the late Thanksgiving-day, which was the Vigil or Fastof St. Simon and St. Judas.  

'TWas on the Evening of that Day,  
That very memorable Day,  
The Twenty Seventh of October,  
When none but Jacobites were sober,  
That we beheld the Blessed sight  
Of Glorious Eucharistick Light:  
But that the Morn we may not wrong,  
Which ushered in the Evening Song;  
Nor th'Infant Day which grew so great,  
After it was regenerate  
And rebaptised by Proclamation,  
And called Thanksgiving-day o'th' Nation,  
We shall relate all that was done  
In open Face of Moon and Sun.  
But, first, 'tis fit that we rehearse,  
In bold, but grave, Heroic Verse,  
Why a Thanksgiving-day was chose,  
What were the Reasons, what the Cause;  
And why it was resolved, at last,  
They'd not Proclaim this Day a Fast.  
First, To the First we should begin,  
And the Supports bring after in;  
But since Supporting's out of fashion,  
By the Wise, Warlike, Belgic Nation,  
The Rear shall take the Advance Post,  
And show you how the Fast was lost.   

In Council grave, our Senators were met,  
About th'important Business of the State;  
Business so weighty, that all Europe stood,  
Hoping from hence, the Stream of all their Good,  
Great Things were moved, and mighty Kingdoms flew,  
Like sporting Bubbles, round the Godlike Crew:  
They puffed those Cares away; but fell, at last,  
Upon the Business of the Monthly Fast:  
The great Debate was this, Whether 'twas fit  
They should for longer time continue it;  
Or else Adjourn; or else Prorogue the Day;  
Or throw their Prayers and Fast quite away.  
To this hard knotty Question, it was said,  
By a most Grave and Venerable Head,  
That the Descent was balked, and Numur won,  
And the Campaign in all appearance done;  
That Heaven could not be now besieged in Form,  
And 'twas too late o'th' year to take't by Storm;  
It would be fruitless too, and serve their turns,  
No more than Dixmuid does, or little Furnes:  
But (in his Judgement) if they'd cast their Prayer  
To Winter Quarters, till the Spring o'th' year,  
They might have need with all their strength to pray,  
And then Proclaim a Weekly Fasting Day.  
There was no answering to so plain a case,  
But (with low Bows) the Motion all embrace.  
Straight they gave Orders that a Proclamation  
Should strictly charge this Praying, Fasting Nation,  
That it no more should trouble Heavens quiet,  
Wit Prayers, or Guts croaking for want of Diet.  
So much Devotion in this Age we find,  
That were it not by public Laws consigned,  
Our Public Prayers and Fasts would strike us blind.  
But see how vain all Mortal Councils are,  
We Dream of Peace, but feel th'Effects of War;  
For scarce were these great Orders fully given,  
Scarce the blank Sheet died with the Stygian Leven,  
When Charleroy cried out, Oh help she cried,  
The French are plying hard my leaky side;  
Is this a time to give your Praying over,  
When we are weltering in confederate gore?  
When whizzing Bullets, and the roaring Bomb,  
Gall us from Stem to Stern, can you be dumb?  
What hath your Arms, what hath your Money done?  
Your Prayers are all that we depend upon.   

She spoke; and the amazed Council heard her Tale,  
They hung their Heads, and looked with envy pale:  
Ah cursed French, they cried, cannot one Town  
Escape your lasting fury? What renown  
Can you obtain, what Honour get you by't?  
'Tis well our Mighty Monarch's out of sight;  
Had he been nigh! But 'tis no time to talk,  
Post to the Printer, tell him we revoke  
Our late deliberate Orders; we will Fast  
Whilst  Bullets fly, and Pray as fast;  
But 'twas to late, for hasty Time had set  
His Iron Teeth upon the fatal Sheet:  
But Fame (as Goddesses have done before)  
Came in the nick, and brought a Story over,  
That our most vigilant King was gone to fight,  
And vowed t'should not be lost, out of his sight:  
This News restored us, and with swifter speed  
Fresh Posts were sent, to tell there was no need  
To stop the Press. But, O ye Gods! how short  
Are Mortal Joys, how are we made your sport?  
Like Tennis-Balls you toss us to and fro,  
Or Shittlecocks, driven from Foe to Foe.  
Scarce was this Post dispatched, when an Alarm  
Put all the Council in a new Vacarme;  
For it was said, our Conqueror was retired,  
And the unlucky Town again was fired.  
Fast, Fast, the Council cried, let's Pray amain,  
Fly to the Press and bid it stop again.  
So on the top of Horeb, Moses stood,  
Out of whose flinty side he lashed a Flood;  
Aaron and Hur with him beheld the fight,  
Between brave Joshua and th' Amalakite,  
When he held up his Finger, they prevail;  
But when he let it down, the Jews turn tail.  
During this time, Posts hurried through the Town,  
And in their course felled one another down;  
Flux, and reflux, of differing Councils dashed,  
And, in rebounding Air, their Orders clashed.  
So risen the Atoms from their Bed of Night,  
And in confusion choked the newborn Light.  
What heart could hold to see the sad Distractions,  
Which had well-nigh o'er-whelmed three potent Nations?  
The French themselves took pity of our Fear,  
And vowed they'd spare the Town till the next Year.  
But now proclaim a Calm; for once more Fame  
Post on a Gale of blust'ring Wether came;  
And 'midst this hurly, burly, loudly sings  
A rest to us, and to the best of Kings.  
In short, the King (with all his Victories)  
Had safely past the dangerous Northern Seas.  
What would ye have more? 've got our King at last,  
And all must grant 'tis now no time to fast.   

Sing then my Muse a Halleluja Song,  
Raise up thy Lute, which was to Fasting strung:  
Thanksgiving is thy Theme, and lofty Ode,  
And Eucharisticon thy charming Mode.  
Great in the Field, and subtle in Debate,  
The King convened his Ministers of State;  
Flanders was not named there, nor the Descent,  
Whether it was, or was not truly meant:  
Nor did they speak of the great Siege of Dunkirk,  
Nor of their Victory obtained at Steinkirk.  
But not to spend our Oil and Time, in dwelling  
On Negatives, as I was now a telling;  
We do affirm, in short, that the sole Cause  
Of this August and Grave Assembly, was  
How to resolve on this Thanksgiving-Day:  
For some still thought we had more Cause to pray.  
These urged besides, the Saints might think it rude  
To make a Feast upon the Fast of Judas;  
But the Arch- Haman, whose Advice they took  
In all such Matters, first his Noddle shook;  
Then cried, Great Sir, Saints neither eat nor drink,  
Nor do they care, or know what Mortals think,  
To fast before, or else behind a Saint,  
Or not at all, we for Convenience grant,  
But at the worst, when three Fasts come together,  
We may post-pone, or else commute at pleasure.  
Our gracious Queen (God bless her) when she spied  
How well this Man of God could thus divide,  
Distinguish, prove, lay open, and decide;  
Well spoke, she said, my Vote concurs with yours:  
Let sick Men fast for Four and twenty hours  
Because they cannot eat: What's that to those  
Whose Health and Strength requirea triple dose?  
Besides, the King's returned, let that suffice  
For you, and Us, to dry Our Royal Eyes;  
His mighty self, all over with Trophies graced,  
As sometime Men wore Ribbons round the Waste;  
Or like an Orange stuck with Cloves, so thick  
Between the Spice, a Pin can hardly stick:  
'Tis he's returned again, and with him brought  
Blessings in store, for which he stoutly fought.  
But that's your Care; I have another Cause,  
And am obliged to feast by Nature's Laws:  
Born for Delight, to eat, drink, sleep and play,  
I cannot force myself to fast or pray,  
I wish that every one were a Thanksgiving-day.   

All bowed around, and with submissive Voice  
Agreed we had great Reason to rejoice;  
But a Debate arose, where they should fix  
The main great Cause; for to be too prolix  
In Proclamations, 'twould anticipate  
Those Rhimes and Pamphlets which on Conquest wait.  
Some then proposed to put the stress o'th'matter  
On his Return: But those who could not flatter  
owned 'twas a Cause; but all they stood upon,  
Was, that 'twas not a Cause sine quâ non:  
For had he ne'er returned, no Man will say  
There was no Cause for a Thanksgiving-day.  
King's may be lost, but Kings can never die;  
For still successive Kings their place supply:  
But if a battle's lost, or Town be ta'en,  
The Devil's in't, how shall we take't again?  
High Words had like t'arose; but the wise King  
Who was best able to decide the thing,  
Thus spoke— My Lords, said he, I would believe  
(How e'er you differ now) you all receive  
My Person as a Blessing to the Nation;  
'Twas I brought Riches in with Reformation;  
'Twas I restored you to your Liberties;  
'Twas I secured your Lives and Properties;  
'Twas I kept out the Foreigners you seared,  
Since that you little French or Irish heard:  
'Twas I made Ireland happy, entered France,  
Where Schonberg, by my Order, did advance  
The Protestant Religion, vowed in Print  
That near a Monk or Papist should live in't.  
'Twas I turned Popery out from hence, and sent  
The English-Scottish Kirk to Banishment.  
'Twas I turned Sancr— out, and put one in  
Who will dispense, as fast as you can sin;  
Who will not tie you up to the strict Rules  
Of Oaths, or Orders, Snares for squeamish Fools:  
Unblessed, and Unbaptised, this Church's Son  
Hath all his Mother's Children half undone.  
My Countrymen I brought, without pretention  
(To serve you here) of either Pay or Pension.  
'Twas I that called, and kept your Parliament  
So Pure and Free, there's not one Member in't  
(God is my Witness if I tell you a Lie)  
That e'er took Bribe, Pension, or Salary:  
'Twas I that all your Grievances redressed,  
And did myself of my own Rights divest:  
'Twas I convoyed, and then increased your Trade:  
None but myself did e'er your Rights invade.  
'Twas I— But 'tis too much, I will not boast  
What I have done for you, to your own cost.  
Let it suffice, I'll not put such a stress  
On my own Merits, as to clog the Press.  
But since I find some of you seem to grudge,  
And think the Cause of my Returns too much;  
What think you of my Victory at Sea?  
Make that the Cause of your Thanksgiving-day.  
For my part, I'm indifferent, choose you whether;  
Or if you please, we'll twist them both together;  
There will enough be left t' expatiate,  
For all must grant that this Campaign was great.  
'Twas not in hugger, mugger, what I've done,  
Since all the World knows 'twas in th'open Sun.   

All with deep Admiration were struck dumb,  
The King admired too what at last would come.  
At length, after they'd gazed and gaped a while,  
A Lord stood up, and with a Courtier's Smile,  
Great Sir, said he, 'tis now well understood,  
What e'er your Actions are, your Memory's good:  
We now perceive how great's the Obligation,  
Which justly's owing to you by the Nation.  
We'er loath to break with you upon that score,  
And to our broken Merchants add still more.  
But if you'll trust us still (for all that's past)  
We may perhaps be even with you at last.  
In the mean while,  
We will proclaim a Feast in your own way,  
And to so joyful a Thanksgiving-day,  
Whole Tuns of Grease and Kitchen-stuff we'll pay:  
'Twas said, and it was done, and straight each Lord  
Made his low Exit from the Council-board.   

Now good Miss Muse once more bring in your Aid,  
And show yourself a well-bred, civil Maid;  
For I'm obliged to squeeze more Reasons out,  
How this damned Proclamation came about.  
Imprimis, then (for Method must be chose  
Whether we writ in Verse, or write in Prose)  
We'll take these Matters fairly as they lie,  
Not all at once) but each successively:  
First then (if I may say't without Offence)  
'Twere fit to thank the King for going hence;  
For had he stayed, God knows what had been done,  
Namur itself perhaps had not been won:  
But more of that hereafter. Next let's tell  
The sad Disasters which the French befell  
At Sea, I mean; for 'tis well known at Land,  
They had both Wind and Wether at Command:  
Their Fleet came struggling 'gainst the Eastern Wind,  
And full six Weeks they tacked about, to find  
Our Navy out, which not a hundred were,  
And they full four and forty Men of War.  
With Insolence upon our Lane they bore,  
And whole Broadsides with wondrous Fury roar:  
The Fight was sharp, and Fortune doubtful stood  
To which she'd give the Empire of the Flood;  
When mighty Mars descended in a Mist,  
The fierce equal Combatants dismissed:  
We neither took, nor lost a Ship of ours;  
Nor were we conquered, or Conquerors.  
But Neptune, who of late a Neuter stood  
Between the British and the Mogan Blood,  
Finding both running in our King; cried out,  
Return you Tide, and bring the French about:  
Since England, and my Dutch are joined, what Foe  
Shall dare t'attack them, and unpunished go?  
I'll beat the French myself, and for their sake  
So strong a Tide in Alderney, I'll make  
Their Cables all shall drag, and Anchors break.  
'Twas said, and it was done; and the poor French.  
Fired sixteen Ships his dreadful Ire to quench.  
Thanks to the King then for this Victory won;  
For if this will not pass, egad I've done.  
Item, the Siege of Namur next comes on,  
At last 'twas weak, at first damnably strong:  
So Mons at first was held impregnable;  
But when 'twas ta'en, Faith, 'twas scarce tenable.  
But howsoever it was, the King was there,  
And ne'er expressed a single Mark of Fear:  
He heard the Cannons roar, saw the Bombs fly;  
And that's a Demonstration he was nigh.  
'Tis true the Town was lost; who can help that?  
The French stood in his way; so ' twa'nt his Fault.  
The King of France our Monarch came to meet,  
And in the Trenches kiss his conquering Feet:  
But our good King thought fit to forbear;  
And, out of Modesty, would not come there:  
But Thanks are due, that he was pleased to own,  
And then depose to'th'taking of the Town.  
For our Gazettes such strange Relations bring,  
A hundred thousand Men might doubt the thing  
Without the Attestation of a King.  
Item—  
Two hundred thousand Pound to Savoy sent,  
I will be sworn that Money was well spent:  
For with this Aid, That Duke (like that Great Man,  
The King of France) with forty thousand Men  
Went down the Hill, and so came up again.  
'Tis true Duke Schonberg then declared in Print,  
That to recover our Rights he there was sent;  
And promised if he took all Dauphiny,  
He firmly would establish Popery:  
Thanks t'him for that, or we had never known  
Who fought for Interest, who Religion.  
Next, Our Descent at Sea appears, which ran  
(So much 'twas noised) from hence to Ispahan:  
Four hundred thousand Pounds (so great a Sum  
Into a measured Verse 'twill hardly come)  
Yet this, and more, and much in Debt was spent  
To furnish our this well-contrived Descent.  
Louis, they say, was almost dead with Fear;  
And 'cause he thought Versailes might be too near,  
He soon retired still further from the Foe,  
And went to hunt and dance at Fontainbleau:  
Some say he did not fear; but if 'twere true,  
I'm sure our Thanks, at least, for that are due.  
Next bloody Steinkirk comes full in our way,  
Pox on't, we fought upon the Sabbath-day;  
And that's been ever held a Profanation  
By our True, Protestant, Reform Nation:  
That's the true Reason why we bore the brunt,  
We see the Godly  would ne'er have done't:  
They stood their ground, and prayed whilst we Fools fought;  
But we, forsooth, were better fed than taught:  
The French retired, and ran away to Mass;  
Our Lion's Paw was headed by an Ass.  
Well, we were floged, and peppered too, 'tis true;  
But yet to give the Devil and Dutch their due,  
Had not they brought us off, we might have lain  
Till we had been washed away with Winter's Rain:  
This than deserves a long Thanksgiving-day;  
For though we lost our Men, we saved their Pay.  
And now our hand is in, let's not forget  
To thank Count S— s, That we were sound beat:  
Go on, brave Men, cried he, Conquer or die,  
The Truth shall not be wronged, whilst I stand by;  
And stand he did, as firm as any Post,  
Till he saw all his hated English lost.  
Ah, Countrymen, had I but time to prove  
How well the Dutch our poor three Kingdoms love,  
There's not a Man but would forsake his Farms,  
And our dear Dutch embrace with open Arms.  
Now little Furnes, thou shalt be called great,  
And future Ages shall thy Fame repeat:  
We little thought that our high-slown Descent;  
(And now the Riddle's out) for she was meant,  
Some Politicians laid, 'twould land at Bolen;  
Others as wisely judged 'twould sail to Colen:  
Some were for Breast, St. Malo's, or the Haure,  
And laid great odds the French would never save her;  
Some for la Hogue; but others with less Malice,  
Only pretended to recover Calais:  
Some were for Bilboa; but none thought of Thee,  
This was Design, this was Sheer- Policy;  
The rest was given out for a pretence,  
First to surprise, and then to nabb the French.  
And who in War or Poetry would rise,  
Take it from me, must do it by surprise.  
Thrice little Furnes, and great Dixmuid thy Brother,  
For whom ten thousand Men made such a pother:  
You are the Twins which our Descent brought forth,  
The World must grant it was a mighty Birth:  
Dunkirk and Ghent were Gossips, and some think  
The first may dearly pay the Groaning Drink;  
Then Thanks, Great Monarch, for whate'er they cost,  
These Forts declare our Money was not lost.  
Lastly, and Chief (for 'tis fit at last  
The biggest Plumb should keep our Mouth in Taste)  
What Thanks are due for the King's Preservation  
From the Grandvallian Assassination;  
It was a strange Escape as e'er was heard;  
And yet 'twas strange the King too should be scared  
With One Gun, who so many Guns had heard;  
Nor would we fail to thank that happy Spirit,  
Whose Vigilance did such Encomiums merit;  
But that he looked so stern, one scarce could tell  
Whether he came from Heaven or from Hell.  
If from the last, we ought to thank the Devil  
That to our Monarch was so wondrous civil.  
Thank Grandvall's Powder, which mistook its Aim,  
And made it  invisible, not him.  
Thank Parker that he left St. German's Court  
Three days before the cautious Witness swore't:  
Thanks to the King too, that he took such Care  
T'escape these private Dangers of the War.  
Poor Gentleman, he was much pitied here;  
And these Esoapes have cost us many a Tear,  
Heaven send him better luck for the next Year.  
But hold my Muse, for should our Thanks run on,  
They would amaze the all-beholding Sun,  
And strike a blush upon the pale-faced Moon;  
Then modestly take up, and loudly tell  
How we set forth our Joys by Candl ' and Bell.   

Scarce did the Polish, Northern Star appear,  
Which some great Authors call the lesser Bear.  
Scarce had the Cock crow'n once or twice at most,  
And Phoebus within ken o'th' Eastern Coast.  
Or in plain English, fcarce had the Clock struck four;  
'Tis no great Matter, whether less or more,  
When a litigious jangling, illbred sound,  
Through all our Hills and Valleys did rebound;  
'Twas thought the Devil's Arse o'th'Peak had got  
Some rumblind Wind, or Colic in his Gut,  
And by successive Raptures did foretell  
Downfall of Church, as by the sound of Bell;  
Some thought the Body-Politick in a Fit,  
And the Soul-Bell knelling its last Exit.  
'Twas not ill Guest, for Church and State may find  
There are strange sounds in your Rebellious Wind;  
an't might be proved by easy Metaphor,  
Wind may be said to ring, and Bells to roar;  
Others scarce well awake, judged it the Groan  
Of drowsy Sackbut, or the Bagpipes Drone:  
Some swore (who lately had ta'en a larger Sup,  
The Glasses klinked round the Indented Cup.  
In short, they were the City- Choristers,  
Which thus untimely lugged us by the Ears;  
The Bells, I mean, that early thus were singing  
Their laud's and Matins, which some Men call ringing.   

Thus passed the chirping Morn. Now when the Sun  
Was driving up to our Meridian,  
Some went to Church to hear the New Prayers read;  
Others, who liked the Old, lay close in Bed.  
Some shut their Shops, which was a silent Token,  
That if those Days came off, they'd all be broken.  
The Canons from the Tower broke through the Wind,  
And roared their Thanks, that they were left behind.  
Lambeth returned the Compliment, and fired  
Volleys of Blessings as they'd been inspired.  
High Pr— of Mars sprung from Samaria's Race,  
Thou still dost love t'adore in the High Place:  
Thou thunderest out thy Gospel in our Ears,  
And those loud Organs tuned thy new-made Prayers,  
Thou worst and first of Canterbury's Race,  
That with a Wife divided Lambeth 's Grace.  
Mars and Bellona ne'er before had met,  
Roaring and singing on the High-Priest's Seat.  
Thou Man of Faith, could we believe like you,  
Who would not turn a Circumcised Jew?   

Lastly, for now my Muse is almost weary;  
And too much labour makes a Mare miscarry,  
I should say something of the blessed Night  
How 'twas set forth with artificial Light;  
'Twas mothy at the best, not of a piece,  
Some black, some white, chequered like Fox and Geese.  
The Lights were not of Virgin-Wax, 'tis true;  
For Hybla's Bee works not for such a Crew,  
Nor of your precious Aromatic Gums,  
Nor your sweet Oil which from Oneglia comes.  
In short, they were of greasy Kitchen-stuff,  
Most proper for th' Occasion; that's enough.  
May those who love them see no better Light;  
For my part I have done, and so good Night.   
FINIS.