THE DOWN-FALL of the whigs: OR, THE Duke of MONMOUTHS' Journey INTO THE NORTH.  
To the Tune of Hey Boys up go we.  

1.  
A Popish Duke goes where he will  
And none dare ask him why?  
Sometimes by Sea sometimes by Land,  
Like Lightning he doth fly,  
Well guarded he can march about,  
This we too plainly see,  
And none dare say, he makes a Rout,  
Sing hay Boys up go we.   

2.  
But if young Jemmy once a year  
Goes out to take the Air,  
Then he's a Rioter we hear,  
(Oh! judge if this be fair)  
If he rides out to see a Friend,  
Such as the young Lord Grey,  
Then he's a Rioter, there's an end,  
Tho the clean contrary way.   

3.  
A Papist may ride cock a hoop,  
To any Town or City,  
And at his Arse may have a Troop,  
(Ah lass the more's the pity)  
Not one will bid him hold, or stand,  
A happy man is He,  
've almost now two K—s ' i'th' Land,  
Sing hay boys up go we.   

4.  
Let Monmouth ride to Lancashire,  
But with a sober Train,  
The Papists hearts are all on fire,  
Till he's brought back again,  
They Envy much his great Renown,  
And traps for him they lay,  
They'd have you think he seeks the Crown,  
Tho the clean contrary way.   

5.  
But Y. may through the Kingdom pass,  
And none will speak a Word,  
He may take up with Mass or Lass,  
No Tory cares a T— d,  
He may be rude, or may be quiet,  
No faults in him they'll see,  
For who dare say he makes a Riot,  
Sing hay Boys up go we.   

6.  
Ah lass poor whigs the times are hard,  
I cannot choose but grieve,  
You scarce can eat or drink I find,  
Unless you ask them leave,  
You are deprived of all the sport,  
Which Papists have they say,  
Pray thank the Tory-Raskals for't,  
But the clean contrary way.   

7.  
Newmarket was not built for you,  
've other Games to play,  
No sport becomes the Whiggish crew,  
Let them go preach and pray,  
For if their Prayers prevent it not,  
They all shall ruin be,  
For now we have outlived the Plot,  
Sing hay boys up go we.   

8.  
A Tory Boy may laugh and sing,  
For now the day's his own,  
The Popish Plot has taken wing,  
And to old Nick is flown,  
But Presbyters may hang their Ears,  
And sigh both night and day,  
For they'll be rid of all their fears,  
But the clean contrary way.   

9  
The Whigs are quite cast out of door,  
It matters not by who,  
●●me Indian or some Tawny Moor,  
Has proved their mortal Foe,  
And in short time the Tories hope,  
They'll gain the triple Tree,  
And that will please the good old Pope,  
Then hay boys up go we.   

10.  
Our Tory Number is but small,  
But what care we for that,  
With noise we mean to drown you all,  
With the help of Popish not,  
We'll print ten thousand lies an hour,  
And swear them every day,  
Thus we shall strut and Whigs devour,  
But the clean contrary way.    

LONDON, Printed for Tho. Johnson, 1682.