Classic Poem

Great sir, our poor hearts were ready to burst
For the loss of your brother when we heard it at first.
But when we were told that you were to reign
We all fell a roaring out huzzas again.
With hearts full of joy, as our glasses of wine,
In this loyal address both professions do join.

May Jeffreys swagger on the bench
And James upon the throne,
Till we become slaves to the French
And Rome's dominion own;
May no man sit in Parliament
But by a false return,
Till Lords and Commons by consent
Their Magna Charta burn.
Though Smithfield now neglected lie,
Oh, may it once more shine
With Whigs in flaming heaps that fry
Of books they call divine;
From whence may such a blaze proceed,
So glorious and so bright,
That the next parish priest may read
His mass by Bible light.
Then holy water pots shall cheer
Our hearts like aqua vitae
Whilst singing monks in triumph bear
Their little God Almighty.
More blessings we could yet foretell
In this most happy reign,
But hark, the King's own chapel bell
Calls us to prayers again.
May trade and industry decay,
But may the plague increase,
Till it hath swept those Whigs away
That sign not this address.