A View of the Religion of the Town, OR, A Sunday-Mornings-Ramble.  

I.  
ON Saturday Night we sat late at the Rose,  
Carousing a Glass to our Wive's Repose,  
After our usual Mode;  
Till we drank so long,  
That Religion came on,  
For we were full of the God.  
At Pro and Con  
We held till One,  
And then we agreed in the Close,  
To let Wording alone,  
And Ramble the Town,  
To see how Religion grows.   

II.  
We began at the Church of Saint Peter,  
Whose prebend's make many Mouths water,  
Religion did here  
Like Grave Matron appear,  
Neat, but not Gawdy, like Courtesan Rome,  
Plain, but no Slut like you Geneva Dame.  
She hath on an old Stuff,  
With a Primitive Ruff,  
And round the Seam of her Vest,  
In Music-notes scrawled all o'er  
Loyalty expressed she bore,  
By which at her Church we guessed.   

III.  
At the Tombs we did peep,  
Where the Kings were asleep,  
And the Choir melodiously Chanted,  
Without any concern,  
As we could discern  
Of being Be-Quo-warranted.  
And we fancy, at the last cast (Sir)  
When among the rest  
They come to the Test,  
Saint Peter will deny his Master.   

IV.  
Then shfting our Protestant-Dress,  
To the Royal Chapel we press,  
Where Religion was fine indeed,  
But with Face and Fringins,  
With Cross and Cringing,  
Entirely run up to Seed.  
Good God, what Distraction there reigned,  
Where Union in Worship was feigned!  
For I spied a poor Maid  
Just come to the Trade  
(For I fancy she was but a Learner)  
Who was but at most (Sir)  
Half through Paternoster,  
When the Priest was at Amen-Corner.   

V.  
Not an Irish-man's Breeches has half the Petitions  
We saw put up there for various Conditions,  
Sent to the blessed Maid  
With Care and with Speed,  
And she soon had a Fellow-feeling  
For she was not far off,  
But got up aloff.  
Mot curiously drawn on the Ceiling  
By the Royal Command,  
Where Verrio's great Hand  
(Such to the Saints is his Love)  
To the Virgin has given  
As glorious a Heaven,  
As that she enjoys and reigns in above.  
Whether like the Rogue drew her,  
They can tell best that knew her,  
Tho' most Men are apt to conjecture,  
When he drew the blessed Maid  
(Moral Fancy to aid)  
His Mistress sat for the Picture.   

VI  
Then, bidding Farewell to their Goddess and them,  
We put in at the Savoy, or New Amsterdam,  
Not to find our Religion, but to see some odd Sights  
To which Father Corker's Chapel invites:  
As in ours sometimes we placed Saints and Martyrs,  
So this Holy Room was surrounded with Traitors,  
In Halters there hung,  
Just so as they swung,  
Saint Coleman, and most of the Gang (Boy)  
And wasn't it for something  
That's just next to nothing,  
Perhaps there had hung our new Envoy.   
FINIS,