How all their shamming plots they would hide, Yet they are ignorant, they say, When as Old _Tony_ he was try’d And brought off with _Ignoramus_ sway: When Oates he was dumb And could not use his tongue, This is the shamming rogues in grain; For since it is so, They have wrought their overthrow, Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own again_.
Then let all true subjects sing, And damn the power of all those That won’t show loyalty to their King, And assist him against his Whiggish foes. Then in this our happy state, In spight of traytors’ hate, We will all loyal still remain; For since it is so, They have wrought their overthrow, Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own again_.
God preserve our gracious King, With the Royal Consort of his bed, And let all loyal subjects sing That the crown may remain on Charles’s head; For we will drink his health In spight of _Common-wealth_, And his lawful rights we will maintain; For since it is so, They have wrought their overthrow, Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own again_.
From a “Collection of One Hundred and Eighty Loyal Songs, all written since 1678,” and published London, 1694. [Fourth Edition.]
NOW the Bad Old Cause is tapt, And the vessel standeth stoop’d; The cooper may starve for want of work, For the cask shall never be hoop’d;— We will burn the Association, The Covenant and vow, The public cheat of the nation, Anthony, now, now, now
No fanatick shall bear the sway In court, city, or town, These good kingdoms to betray, And cry the right line down;— Let them cry they love the King, Yet if they hate his brother, Remember Charles they murdered, And so they would the other.
Weavers and such like fellows In pulpit daily prate, Like the Covenanters, Against the Church and State: Yet they cry they love the King, But their baseness will discover; Charles the First they murdered, And so they would the other.
When these fellows go to drink, In city or in town, They vilify the bishops And they cry the Stuarts down: Still they cry they love the King, But their baseness I’ll discover; Charles the First they murdered, And so they would the other.
When the King wanted money, Poor Tangier to relieve, They cry’d down his revenue, Not a penny they would give: Still they cry’d they loved the King, But their baseness I’ll discover; Charles the First they murdered, And so they would the other.