THE rump ULULANT, OR PENITENCE per FORCE; BEING. The Recantation of the old rust-roguy-rebellious-rampant, And now ruinous rotten-rosted RUMP.  
To the Tune of Gerrard's Mistress.  


FArewell  
False Honours, and usurped Power Farewell,  
For the great Bell  
Of Justice rings in our affrighted Ears.   

The Gripes,  
Of wounded Conscience far exceed all Stripes,  
Yet are small Types,  
Of those sharp pains Rebellion justly fears,   

See how,  
Th' unmasked People hiss us out of Doors,  
And call us Knaves,  
Because though We, Their Servants be,  
We made them but our Slaves.   

For since  
We laid the Country wast like ravenenous boars,  
They seek our bloods,  
Because we prize, their Liberties,  
But to devour their Goods.    


Our Hands  
We dipped in Royal blood, to have his Lands  
At our Commands,  
And made three Kingdoms headless at one Blow,   

The Strife  
We caused was chiefly to cut off his Life,  
With cursed Knife;  
He that was virtue's Friend, must be our Foe.   

We made  
Religion do our Drudgery to base Ends,  
But now we find,  
They that do sow Pretences, mow  
A Harvest of the Wind.   

And now  
When clamorous Vengeance Calling for Amends  
Begins our Grief,  
Our Friend the Devil, with his Evil,  
Can give us no Relief.    


Go search  
All Lands beneath the sun's Star-spangled Perch,  
You'll find no Church  
Like Ours, whilst reverend BISHOPS held the chair.   

But those  
We knew with our Designs would never close;  
And therefore chose  
In their steads to set up Extempore Prayer.   

Poached Eyes  
And words twanged through a whining Lecturers Nose,  
Did fill our Purses,  
That many have Rings, and better Things,  
Which now give only Curses.   

And thus  
Hell was our Text, though heaven were our Gloze,  
And Will our Reason,  
Religion we made free of Hocus trade,  
And voted Loyalty Treason.    


Since We  
With wicked Arms have made the Crosier flee,  
Error is free,  
To lay her Nets, to make weak Minds her Prize.   

All Sects,  
Schisms, cursed Heresies with stubborn Necks,  
Corrupt our Texts,  
And Crane up Scripture to maintain their lies.   

You see  
The crop-eared Anabaptist sowing Tares  
In every Ground,  
Though the Plagues of war, wherever they Are  
The Church and State Confound.   

So do  
The Roman Noses vend their Popish Wares,  
By twilight still;  
And the Quaker halfmad, though he looks so sad,  
Grinds in the Jesuits Mill.    


Our Drums  
Did drown your process, and your Writes; our Plums,  
Bid kiss our Bums,  
We sent your Laws and Persons to the Tower:   

From whence  
To be delivered, 'Twas in vain to Fence  
By talking sense;  
No Habeas Corpus in the Court of Power.   

The Gown  
Did stoop his reverend Velvet to a Crew  
In short red Coats,  
Who many a Day, Have made you pay,  
For cutting your own Throats.   

We robbed  
The Whole of Food to pamper up the Few,  
Excised your Wares,  
And taxed you round, Six pence the Pound,  
And massacred your Bears.    


But now  
Dispayrs black clouds do hang upon our Brow,  
For All do Bow,  
Their Hearts, to their true shepherd, Charles their King.   

And We  
Their Wolfish Rulers now must Subjects be  
To Destiny,  
And end our Juncto in a fatal String.   

Then learn  
All future traitors by our tragic Doom,  
Ere 'tis too late;  
Lest when you make, Kingdoms to shake,  
You Copy out our Fate.   

We know  
Our High Affronts to Church and State make Room  
For Us in Hell;  
But yet We'll Hope, till the sad Rope  
Says, Bid the World Farewell.    Facit Indignatio Versum. 
FINIS.