THE Salamanca Doctor's Farewell: OR, Titus' Exaltation to the Pillory, upon his Conviction of PERJURY. A BALLAD.  
To the Tune of, Packintons' Pound.  

I.  
Come listen, ye Whigs, to my pitiful Moan,  
All you that have Ears, when the Doctor has none;  
In Sackcloth and Ashes let's sadly be jogging,  
To behold our dear Saviour o'th' Nation a flogging.  
The Tories to spite us,  
As a Goblin to fright us,  
With a damned wooden Ruff will bedeck our Friend Titus:  
Then mourn all to see this ungrateful Behaviour,  
From these lewd Popish Tories to the dear Nation-Saviour.   

II.  
From three prostrate Kingdoms at once to adore me,  
And no less than three Parliaments kneeling before me;  
From hanging of Lords with a Word and a Frown,  
And no more than an Oath to the shaking a Crown:  
For all these brave Pranks,  
Now to have no more thanks,  
Than to look through a Hole, through two damned oaken Planks.  
Oh! mourn ye poor Whigs with sad Lamentation,  
To see the hard Fate of the Saviour o'th' Nation.   

III.  
For ever farewell the true Protestant Famous  
Old days of th' Illustrious great Ignoramus;  
Had the great Headsman Bethel, that honest Catch Royal,  
But sat at the Helm still, the Rogues I'd defy all;  
The kind Teckelite Crew,  
To the Alcoran true,  
Spite of Law, Oaths or Gospel, would save poor true Blue:  
But the Tories are up, and no Quarter nor Favour,  
To trusty old Titus, the great Nation-Saviour.   

IV.  
There once was a Time, Boys, when to the World's wonder,  
I could kill with a Breath more than Jove with his Thunder;  
But, oh! my great Narrative's made but a Fable,  
My Pilgrims and Armies confounded like Babel:  
Oh they've struck me quite dumb,  
And to tickle my Bum,  
Have my Oracles turned all to a Tale of Tom Thumb.  
Oh! weep all to see this ungrateful Behaviour,  
In thus ridiculing the great Nation-Saviour.   

V.  
From Honour and Favour, and Joys, my full swing;  
From 12 pound a week, and the World in a string;  
Ah poor falling Titus! 'tis a cursed Debasement,  
To be pelted with Eggs through a lewd wooden Casement!  
And oh muckle Tony,  
To see thy old Crony,  
With a Face all benointed with wild Locust Honey:  
'Twould make thy old TAPP weep with sad Lamentation,  
For trusty old Titus, thy Saviour o'th' Nation.   

VI  
See the Rabble all round me in Battle array,  
Against my wood Castle their Batteries play;  
With Turnep-Granadoes the Storm is begun,  
All weapons more mortal than Pickering's screwed Gun:  
Oh! my Torture begins  
To punish my Sins,  
For peeping through Keyholes, to spy Dukes and Queens!  
Which makes me to roar out with sad Lamentation,  
For this tragical Blow to the Saviour o'th' Nation.   

VII.  
A curse on the day, when the Papists to run down,  
I left buggering at Omers, to swear Plots at London;  
And oh my dear Friends! 'tis a damnable hard case,  
To think how they'll pepper my sanctify'd Carcase;  
Were my Skin but as tough,  
As my Conscience of Buff,  
Let 'em pelt their Heart-bloods, I'd hold out well enough:  
But oh these sad Buffets of Mortification,  
To maul the poor Hide of the Saviour o'th' Nation.   

VIII.  
Had the Parliament sat till they'd once more but put  
Three Kingdoms into the Geneva old Cut,  
With what Homage and Duty to Titus in Glory,  
Had the worshipping Saints turned their Bums up before me:  
But oh the poor Stallion,  
Alamode de Italian,  
To be futred at last like an English Rascallion.  
Oh mourn all ye Brethren of th' Association,  
To see this sad Fate of the Saviour o'th' Nation.   

IX.  
Could I once but get loose from these troublesome Tackles,  
A pocky stone Doublet, and plaguy steel Shackles,  
I'd leave the damned Tories, and to do myself justice,  
I'd e'en go a mumping with my honest Friend Eustace.  
Little Commyns and Oats,  
In two Pilgrim Coats,  
We'd truss our black Bills up, and all our old Plots;  
We'd leave the base World all for their damned rude Behaviours.  
To two such heroic true Protestant Saviour's.   

X.  
But alack and a day! the worst is behind still,  
Which makes me fetch Groans that would e'en turn a Windmill:  
Were the Pillory all, I should never be vexed,  
But oh to my sorrow the Gallows comes next;  
To my doleful sad Fate,  
I find tho' too late,  
To this Collar of Wood comes a hempen Crevat;  
Which makes me thus roar out with sad Lamentation,  
To think how they'll truss up the Saviour o'th' Nation.    

Printed for G. C. and sold by Randal Tailor near Stationers-Hall, 1685.