A NEW SONG of the Misfortunes of an Old Whore and her Brats.  

[1]  
‛ THO' the Old Hag of Rome  
Has Bewitched us all Dumb,  
She can Tongue-tye our Muses no longer;  
We now spew out her Charms,  
And sing the brave Arms  
Of great Orange and Schomberg, dingdong Sir.   

[2]  
If we opened our Lips,  
Wooden Peep-holes and Whips  
Was of late the mild Penance enjoined us;  
Now Truth's no more Treason,  
We esteem it a season  
To be merry, and so you shall find us.   

[3]  
Life-and-Fortune Addresses  
Shall not wear out our Presses,  
To flatter and soothe a Just Nero:  
But loud Declarations,  
To secure the three Nations  
From the French and from Lilli-burlero.   

[4]  
See how each Popish Gull  
D●es look silly and dull  
O hone! O hone! all are Lamenting;  
They've no Catholic Banter,  
No wise Hind and Panther,  
Nor any thing else worth the Printing.   

[5]  
While we Heretics do write,  
Ay and Print too in spite  
Of the Devil, to revenge our late wrongs Sir;  
And the Hawkers hoarse Lungs  
With our Lampoons and Songs  
Make the Streets echo all the day long Sir.   

[6]  
Now brave Orange advances,  
What the famed League with France is,  
We shall know to poor Catholics sorrow:  
Stricken with Panic Fears,  
How the Whelps hang their Ears,  
Pack up Relics and bid us good Morrow!   

[7]  
Father Petre, and others  
Of his Politic Brothers,  
(Who one would think should have disdained it)  
Are on fire to be gone,  
Tho' they might every one,  
If they'd stay here a little, be Sainted.   

[8]  
Just like old Rars and Mice,  
These bold Vermin are wise,  
When they find a house ready to tumble,  
Away straight they advance,  
Bound for Flanders or France,  
Adieu, Votre Serviteur humble.   

[9]  
But pray what shall become  
O'th' young Kitlings of Rome,  
I mean those the Old Whore has Converted;  
When they're gripped by the Claws  
Of revived Penal Laws,  
And by all Ghostly Fathers deserted.   

[10]  
'Tis hard to leave the poor Elves  
Thus to shift for themselves,  
●or unless you'd confirmed the Babes better-a  
With your Cowardice tainted,  
They'll e'en grudge to be Sainted  
●ith St. Coleman, St. Whitebread, etc.   

[11]  
So when Witches are taken  
For enchanting Folks Bacon,  
●ows, Horses, or any such thing Sir;  
And the Hangman once takes 'em,  
Their Imps all forsake 'em,  
●●d bequeath 'em to a tied Hempen-string Sir.   

[12]  
Our great Statesmen and Judges,  
The Jesuits true Drudges  
〈◊〉 advance the Plots of Holy Church Sir,  
Do make wretched Grimaces,  
Losing Pensions and Places,  
To a Parliament left in the lurch Sir.   

[13]  
And the young Welch-man's Sire,  
Stuck like Dun in the Mire,  
With revengeful Despair looks around him,  
And then Curses the Crowd,  
That with Suffrages loud  
Shouted (Vive le Roy) when they Crowned him.   

[14]  
He thinks 'tis an hard Fate  
Now to Capitulate,  
And revoke his Indulged Dispensations;  
To his Sons Terms to buckle,  
To a Parliament truckle,  
And Eat up his kind Declarations.   

[15]  
'Tis hard that dull Heretics  
Still suspicious of Tricks,  
Can't believe the young Bantling's his Son Sir;  
As if Priests could ned Create,  
At least Transubstantiate  
Him a Boy for an Heir to his Crown Sir.   

[16]  
Nay renowned Lords and Ladies  
A long Beadrow have made us,  
With the Midwife and Learned Physicians;  
Cannot all this convince  
That it is a Welsh Prince,  
Though we publish the plain Depositions?   

[17]  
Well it seems (to be short)  
There's no Remedy for't,  
Both his Gods and his Friends are retiring;  
And his Army falls off,  
While his Enemy's scoff  
To see the Prince kerb his aspiring.   

[18]  
Have we not a wise King  
To resolve he would bring  
All to Rome's Lure, or else Sacrifice Sir,  
Three Kingdoms to his spleen,  
And to th' Will of his Queen?  
Did the World ever hear of a wiser?   

[19]  
Without one sturdy fight  
He's obliged to alight  
From the Throne which he envied his Brother,  
And may like a poor Biggot  
Go embark in a Friggot,  
To see if he can find such another.   

[20]  
Since these Swissers and Dutchmen  
Come to stand by our Churchmen,  
With hard grim Fellows from Fin-land,  
The old Politic Whore  
Now must never hope more  
To sit brooding o'er Plots against England.   

[21]  
Is't not Reason and Sense,  
If a King will Dispense  
With our Statutes and with his own Word Sir,  
To Decide the Just Cause  
Of Religion and Laws  
With a swinging great Protestant-sword Sir?   

[22]  
The French Tyrant dissembles,  
And huffs, though he trembles,  
We shall Visit that Son of a Whore Sir;  
If the weather hold fair,  
Weed fain take a Tour there,  
As our Fathers did in Days of Yore Sir.   

[23]  
While the Germans before  
Pay him off his old score  
For the Mischief they've felt and do fear Sir;  
With Pike, Sword and Pistol,  
We shall Probe his old Fistule,  
And Charge the Dog home in the rear Sir.   
FINIS.