Classic Poem

To the Tune of " The Good Old Cause Revived "

Why now so melancholy, Ben?
What, stabbed to death by Blackall's pen?
Invoke old Hobbes and snarl again.

What, freezing nigh the Arctic Pole
Rouse, rouse thy sad dejected soul,
Here's Tom of Bedlam with a bowl.

Then wake, and clear the fatal cup,
'Twill cheer thy drooping spirits up;
'Tis Faction's bowl, leave not a cup.

Oh, bravely drink! For this I'll raise
Thy name aloft in Milton's lays,
And Tindal's rights shall sound thy praise.

Why howl the dogs? From whence this sound?
Why dance the golden tripods round?
And what is it moves the solid ground?

Chorus

Great Ben with sacred rage is blessed,
He foams, he swells, he is compressed,
The god sits heavy on his breast.

Hence, hence, ye mitred priests, away,
All ye who blind obedience pay
To royal monarchs' princely sway.

Thou, mob, our sovereign lord, appear,
With unpolluted feet draw near,
And sit in thy imperial chair.

Thou equal to the gods above,
And scarce inferior unto Jove,
Through thee we are, we live, and move.

Thou art the universal pole;
Round thee all other powers roll,
And thou dost actuate the whole.

From thee all magistracy springs;
Thou giv'st the sacred rule to kings,
And at thy nod they're useless things.

What though they style themselves divine,
And would succeed by right of line,
There is no law on earth but thine.

To whom thou list thou giv'st the crown,
To Charles or Nol, to prince or clown;
And who sets up, may tumble down.

Thou bid'st them act the people's good;
But if they rule not as they should,
With glory thou may'st let them blood,

Like thy bold sires in forty-eight,
Who necked their prince (a worthy fate!)
For tyrannizing o'er the state.

That prince, by title Charles the First,
Of all the race of kings the worst,
Nor pious, great, nor good, nor just.

Therefore thy sires could not him save,
But sent him headless to the grave;
Such honor all the saints shall have.

And if, like them, thou wilt fulfill
Our sovereign lord the people's will,
Thou must dethrone or stab the ill.

Then thus great Salters-Hall shall ring;
Thus, thus the Calf's-Head-Club shall sing,
Leviathan, our god and king.