A psalm SUNG By the PEOPLE, before the bonfires, Made in and about the City of LONDON, On the 11th. of February.  
To the Tune of up tails all.  

COme let's take the Rump  
And wash it at the Pump,  
For 'tis now in a shitten case:  
Nay if it hang an Arse  
we'll pluck it down the stairs,  
And roast it at Hell for its grease.   

Let the devil be the Cook  
And the roast overlook,  
And lick his own fingers apace;  
For that may be borne,  
(If he take it not in scorn  
To lick such a privy place.)   

Though we are bereft  
Of our arms, Spits are left,  
Whereon the Rump we will roast;  
we'll prick it in the tail  
And baste it with a flail  
Till it stink like a Cole-burnt Toast.   

It hath lain long in brine,  
Made by the people's eyen,  
So 'tis salt though unsavoury meat;  
we'll draw it round about  
With Welsh Parsley, and no doubt  
It will choke Pluto's great Dog to eat.   

We will not be mocked  
This Rump hath been docked,  
And if our skill doth not fail;  
To fear it is good,  
Or else all the blood  
In the body, lean out at the Tayl.   

Then down in your Ire  
With this Rump to the fire,  
Get Harrington's Rota to turn it;  
If paper be lacked  
The Assessment Act  
You may stick upon't lest ye burn it.   

But see there my Masters  
It rises in blisters  
And looks very big on the matter;  
Like a roasting Pigs ear  
It sings, do ye hear  
'Tis enough come quickly the Platter.   

Lay Trenchers and Cloth  
And away bring the broth,  
Did the devil o'th' Fag end make none;  
But hold by your leave  
Napkins we must have  
To wipe our mouths when we have done.   

Come Ladies pray where?  
Will you none of our cheer?  
Are ye of such a squeamish nature?  
Pray what is your reason,  
Are Rumps out of season?  
But 'tis an abuse to the Creature.   

Come we'll fall on  
Pray cut me a bone  
The Meat may be healthful and sound;  
Fogh! come let us buried  
To th'hole we must carry't  
This Rump it stinks above ground.   

This fire we'll style  
The funeral pile,  
The Grave shall be under the gallows;  
The Vane shall be th'scull,  
Of some traitorous Fool,  
And the Epitaph shall be as follows.   

underneath these Stones  
A Rump-Corporates bones  
Are laid full low in a sink,  
And we do implore ye  
Let them rest, for the more ye  
do stir them, the more they will stink.   
THE RUMP END.