THE Western Rebel; OR, THE True Whiggish Standard set up,  By the True-Blue Protestant PERKIN. 
To the Tune of, Packington's Pound.  

I.  
SEE the Vizor's pulled off, and the Zelots are Arming,  
For our old Egypt-Plagues the Whig Locusts all Swarming.  
The true Protestant Perkin, in Lightning has spoke,  
And gins in a Flash to vanish in Smoke:  
Little Jemmy's launched o'er  
From the old Holland Shore,  
Where Shaftsbury marched to the Devil before.  
The Old Game's a beginning; for High-Shoes & Clowns  
Are turning State-Tinkers for mending of Crowns.   

II.  
Let his Desperate Frenzy to ruin spur on;  
The Rebel too late, and the Madman too soon.  
But politic Noddles without Wit or Reason,  
When empty of Brains have the more room for Treason.  
Ambition bewitches,  
Through Bogs and through Ditches,  
Like a Will with a Wisp: For the Bastard Blood itches:  
And the Bully sets up, with his High-Shoes and Clowns,  
A True Protestant Tinker for mending of Crowns.   

III.  
Let him banter Religion, that old Stolen pretence,  
For Traitors to mount on the Neck of their Prince.  
But Clamour and Nonsense no longer shall fright us,  
Our Wits are restored by the flogging of Titus.  
Their Canting Delusion,  
And Bills of Exclusion,  
No longer shall shame the mad World to Confusion.  
The Old Cheat's too gross, & no more Boars & Clowns  
For perching on Thrones, and profaning of Crowns.   

iv  
So the Great Murdered Charles, our Church, Freedom and Laws,  
Were all Martyrs of old, to the Sanctified Cause.  
Whilst Gospel and Heaven were the popular Name,  
The Firebrands of Hell were all ligh't from that Flame.  
Reformation once tuned,  
Let Religion but sound,  
When that Kirk Bagpipe plays all the Devils Dance round.  
But the Whining Tub Cheat shall no longer go down:  
No more Kings on Scaffolds, and Slaves on a Throne.   

V  
Let his hot-brained Ambition, with his Renegade Loons,  
Mount the Son of the People, for Lord of Three Crowns;  
The Impostor on one hand, and Traitor on tother,  
Set up his false Title, as cracked as his Mother.  
But whilst Peacock-proud,  
He struts and talks loud,  
The Head of the Rabble, and Idol o'th' Crowd;  
From his false borrowed Plumes, & his hopes of a Crown,  
To his black Feet below, let th' Aspirer look down.   

VI  
Then let him march on with his Politic Poll,  
To perch up his Head by old Bradshaw and Noll:  
Whilst the Desperate Jehu is driving headlong,  
To visit the Relics of Tommy Armstrong.  
For there's Vengeance a working,  
To give him a Jerking,  
And humble the Pride of the poor little Perkin.  
Great JAMES his dread Thunder shall th' Idol pull down,  
Whilst our Hands, Hearts, and Swords are all true to the Crown.    

June 17. 1685.  
This may be Printed,  
R. L. S.