Popery Routed: OR, Father Petres' Farewell to LONDON City.  
To the Tune of, Hark how the Thundering Cannons Roar.  

I.  
SEE how the Romish Whore goes down,  
Posting wholesale out of Town,  
'Cause her Fate does shrewdly Frown,  
And Cross her Inclination.  
Father Petres, and his Crew  
Of Jesuits, Monks, and Friars too,  
Must now Pack up, and bid adieu  
To London's Corporation.   

II.  
Pox on all their Perjured Oaths,  
Which a Zealous Churchman loathes,  
Are they not Wolves in Sheep's clothes,  
That Lurk in ev'ry Station,  
To Trepan the Innocent,  
And hatch a Hellish Discontent?  
Let us then with one Consent,  
Dismiss them from our Nation.   

III.  
When I saw them first grow bold,  
I thought the Proverb true of old,  
That they ran too fast to hold  
Their damned Insinuation.  
Now their Prime Dispensing Power  
Lies a-bleeding in the Tower,  
Cursing of the Fatal Hour  
Of His first Procreation.   

IV.  
Now that Wizard knows full well,  
Himself to be a Bird of Hell,  
Inhumanely thus to Rebel  
Against his Habitation.  
But e'er this Hypocrite shall pass,  
We'll bring his Crimes for Looking-Glass,  
To see himself the merest Ass  
Of all the World's Creation   

V.  
Welcome was Brave Orange here,  
As it plainly doth appear,  
Who Delivered us from Fear  
Of Popish Usurpation.  
Who when we were in great Surprise,  
Preserved us from our Enemies,  
And all the damned Conspiracies  
Of Rome's Assassination.   

VI  
Was there such a Trick e'er seen  
As hath Lately acted been,  
By their Fathers, and the Q— n,  
To gull our English Nation?  
But their Juggling up that Brat,  
From we know not who nor what,  
Will be proved; nay, worse than that  
Of Transubstantiation.   

VII.  
Mounsieur now had best take heed,  
For his Expeditious speed,  
In Helping us, e'er we had Need  
Of his Dissimulation;  
Lest in Requital of his Care,  
We send his Knives, and some to spare,  
And bring Le Bougra in for share  
Of's Cursed Assignation.   

VIII.  
Well, I'll say no more; but see  
(True Protestants where e'er you be)  
You come not near such Villainy,  
Nor grand Equivocation,  
E'er Long I hope our Parliament,  
Will rid that superstitious Scent  
From us; that we may rest Content,  
Each in his proper Station.    

LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1689.