Classic Poem

On the Unparalleled Proceedings of the Incomparable Couple of Whiggish Walloons.

Go on, brave heroes, you whose merits claim
Eternal plaudit from the trump of Fame,
Beyond the daring hector that aspired
To leave a name, when he the temple fired,
For after ages; and let nothing pall
Your well-fixed resolutions; not though all
The seas were heaped on seas, and hills on hills:
Small are secured by doing greater ills.
Go on, and may your tow'ring deeds outshine
The high achievements of blessed Catiline.
And let the echoes of your acts by all
Be heard as loud as those were at Guildhall.
What! Shall a puny patriot balk your flight,
And formal fops your dawning days benight?
Shall laws confine, or lawyers you withstand,
That have both law and lawyers in your hand?
Shall gilded chains beshackle you with fears?
Tear, tear their gowns and chains from off their ears,
And hang their worships in them; let the curs
Be swinged in scarlet and go rot in furs.
Damn 'em for dogs to put such worthies by,
Just i'th' nick of our tranquillity;
Just as the saints with forty thousand men
Were furnished for a holy war again.
Rally once more, and cry them in the crowd,
The mobile's your own; give out aloud
For Reformation, and the town's your own,
Else liberty and property are gone.
Caesar's abroad; go seize the Senate, do;
And if he comes, faith, seize brave Caesar too!
Let nothing be too sacred for your arms
(Love and revenge are never filled by charms);
By greatest acts your greatest glory gather,
And he's no more immortal than his father.
Serve him as Brutus did, and in his room
Put up young Perkin, now the time is come
That ten may chase a thousand; now or never:
Lose but this time and you are lost for ever.
A deed more bold than Blood's, more brave than them
That slyly sneaked to steal a diadem:
For sure that soul deserves much more renown
That kills a king than he that takes his crown.
The Ides of March are past, and Gadbury
Proclaims a downfall of our monarchy;
Who saw the last conjunction did portend
That crowns and kingdoms tumble to their end.
A commonwealth shall rise and splendid grow,
As now predicted by the wise T.O.
Who can foretell, forestall, forswear, foresee,
Through an inch-board, or through an oaken tree;
Whose optics o'er the mighty main have gone,
And brought destruction on the great Don John.
Titus, whose skill in swearing doth excel
The monstrous monarch Rhadamanth of Hell,
And sent more souls to their untimely grave
Than the destroying angels lately have:
A walking plague, a breathing pestilence,
A cockatrice that kills a mile from thence.
Go on, brave sirs, the gaping crowds attend;
They watch the word, the saints their thimbles send.
The cushion's cuffed, the trumpet sounds to war,
Our dying hopes in you revived are;
The people's choice, with you they'll live and die,
The guardian angels of their sanctuary.
The groans are grievous, and the hawks and hums,
And pulpits rattle too like kettle drums.
The sisters snivel, and their bodkins melt;
They're groped in darkness, and in pleasure felt.
More than in Pharaoh's time, the souls are sick,
And cry for light. Alas, the candlestick
Is quite removed. Oh! they're lost, they're gone,
They see that whore, the bawd of Babylon,
Is just approaching. Oh! the popish jade
Will tear away their teachers, and their trade!
Call a Cabal for resolution hearty,
The blessed brethren of the sober party.
Let Sulla's ghost inform you in the fact;
Rouse him to earth; and in this glorious act
Consult with Pluto, let Old Noll ascend.
And if't be possible the new-made friend.
Our much missed oracle, let Owen know
The devil's here as well as those below.
And speed for Bethel; bid him not defer;
Tell him we want an executioner:
For royal blood's in chase, and none but he
To act the villain in a tragedy.
The rogue will leap for joy, such news admire;
The son's as sweet as was his sacred sire;
For he's a raving Nimrod will not start
To bathe his hands in such a royal heart.