THE PROCESSION. A POEM.  
ON Tuesday last in Dame's Street,  
Such a Mob I chanced to meet;  
As you, perhaps sometimes have seen,  
Attending Thiefs to Stephens-Green.  
The ragged Guard that led the Van,  
With loud Huzzas uncovered ran;  
Not in respect to any there,  
But 'cause they had no Hats to wear.  
Such another Riff raff Crew,  
Hell, (if too full) could never Spew?  
Fellows whose Imprecating Throats,  
Were still accustomed to these Notes.  
Who vows a Light? Sir, Black your Shoes.  
L●yd's News Letter! New News, new News!  
Then filled the Air with other sounds,  
Some praised Squire T— r, others F—  
And others, D—m their Bl— d and W— s,  
The Church and King, one bawled aloud,  
And strait was followed by the Crowd:  
Down with the whigs! some others cried,  
The whigs be Damned, the rest replied;  
Then raising all their Voices higher,  
T— r and F—s ran through the Choir:  
Behind this Guard marched Two well dressed,  
Mounted on Brutes above the rest;  
Giving their Fellows some Advice,  
Which I believe was not o'er wise.  
The senseless Rout sucked in each Word,  
As greedy as a Sow a T— d.  
After these Dons (the Knight and Squire,  
Bespattered with much Mud and Mire)  
An Heterogeneous Multitude,  
Mobb-like Uncivilised and Rude;  
Who either Jacks or Papists were,  
Trotting along broed up the Rear.  
FINIS: