Jack presbyter.  
To the Tune of, Some said the Papist had a Plot, &c.  

licenced and entered according to Order.  

JAck Presbyter pricks up his Ears,  
And flourishes now his Flail;  
The Beast has now laid by his Fears,  
And curls his wanton Tail:  
O for the Church, and Crown, he cries,  
The Day is all our own;  
The Scottish Clans begin to rise,  
And Bishops they must down.   

But hold, good Sir, be not too hot,  
Nor count before your Host,  
Least you at last should pay the Shot,  
For all your mighty Boast:  
We han't forgot your former Feats,  
Nor sanctified Trapans,  
Religions Tricks, and Holy Cheats,  
With all your Canting Shams.   

Remember how the Game begun,  
In Forty One of old,  
When you with th' Hare did seem to run,  
But with that Hound did hold;  
You swore to fight for, and defend  
The Person of the King;  
But perjured Praytors, in the end,  
Him to the Block did bring.   

That blessed Martyr's Royal Blood,  
Does still for Vengeance call,  
And on the damned Geneva Brood,  
The Curse in time will fall.  
Give them but Rope they'll hang themselves,  
So hasty is their Fate;  
Or catch will catch those snevelling Elves,  
In Mouse trap of the State.   

A scurvy, sow'r, ill-natured Race,  
These Presbyterians are;  
You may red Faction in their Face,  
If you can them out-state;  
For with Predestinating Eyes,  
Like Bazalisks they ●ill,  
There's poison in their Glances lies,  
By which they wound at will.   

Beware of them, all you that prise,  
The King, the Church, and Laws,  
For they'll tell you ten thousand Lies,  
to prop the good Old Cause:  
They'll promise much, but none perform,  
When Sword is in their Hand;  
We must expect a poppering Storm,  
if er'e they get Command.   

T'th' Works of Grace, the Brethren then,  
With Heart and Hand will fall;  
Each hedgehog Saint, will sneak in's Den,  
But his Brissels turn to all;  
Plund'ring and Sequestration too  
will then seem very meet;  
Titles to Bishops Lands they'll show;  
Church-bread is wondrous sweet.   

These things, and more we must expect,  
Of our unkinder Fate,  
should ever mount presbyter Jack  
In Saddle of the State;  
No King would er'e be safe in's Throne:  
Then mark well what I Sing,  
The mitre only props the Crown,  
No Bishop, then no King.     

Printed in the Year, 1690.