The Loyal Health: Occasioned by His Majesty's most Happy Deliverance from the late Horrid Fanatical Conspiracy, by the Fire at New-market.  

YE Monarchy haters,  
And Whigs of that Leven,  
With Associators,  
See the care of kind Heaven.  
Great CHARLES still obtaineth,  
Whose will ne'er was bounded,  
His Pleasure, and Reigneth,  
While you are Confounded.   

II.  
In Old time by Fire,  
Kind Heaven directed,  
And to their desire,  
His Chosen Protected.  
So CHARLES was defended,  
As Heaven appointed,  
And Angels descended  
To save its Anointed.   

III.  
I or which to kind Heaven in Praises let's sing,  
That saved our Liberties, Lives, and our King,  
And brought those Villains to Justice, who would  
Have Gloried in Treason, and Revealed in Blood.  
Then let every one stand  
With a Glass in each hand,  
So to Charles and to James let it freely go round,  
Praying Joy in full measure  
May wait on their Pleasure,  
While Heaven and Earth with our wishes resound.    

LOYALTY TRIUMPHANT: OR, Phanaticism Displayed,  
A SONG.  

JOY to th' bonny bold Britain's did merrily sing,  
In Oats his Reign,  
And stood up for their Senses, their Liberties, Lives, and their King,  
Who in Bumpers would boldly assert Charles' Right,  
And still maintain,  
That 'tis just the true Heir should Inherit, for whom they would Fight.   

While the Villainous whigs would be  
Bawling 'gainst Plotting and Popery,  
Bouncing for Oats and a Parli'ment,  
When see what 'twas they meant,   

To kill the King, and so undo us  
With True Protestant Blunderbuss,  
'Cause the Votes of their Commons House  
Proved not all worth a Louse:   

But kind Heaven that waited on Charles from the Womb,  
Assisted now,  
And broke their damned Plot, and Rewarded them with their just Doom.  
Now they find that to murmur ●gainst Kings is in vain,  
And all must bow,  
And submit to the Fate, with the mark of Cursed Murdering Cain,   

While the Tories may Glory still,  
And of Pleasure enjoy their fill,  
'Cause they in the Gap firmly stood,  
And stemmed the growing Flood,  
While the sneaking Whigs hang or hid,  
And nor can, nor dare th' Test abide.  
So may all be Cursed, I sing,  
That do not love their King.   By the Author of Ferguson's Remonstrance.  

Printed for Charles Corbet, at the Oxford Arms in Warwick-Lane. 1684.