Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Boston Pope Day Ballad
From:
NightWing
Date: 01 Dec 00 - 05:01 PM
Highly confused here. Why would Bostoners be cheering the "King and Parliament" in 1768? Anyway, here it is with the line breaks.
(Say, does the <TABLE> tag work in here?)
BB,
NightWing
HUZZA! brave Boys, behold the Pope,
Pretender and Old-Nick,
How they together lay their Heads,
To plot a poison Trick?
To blow up KING and PARLIAMENT
To Flitters, rent and torn:
--Oh! blund'ring Poet, Since the Plot,
Was this Pretender born.--
Yet, sure upon this famous Stage,
He's got together now;
And had he then, he'd been a Rogue
As bad as t'other two.
Come on, brave Youths, drag on your Pope
Let's see his frightful Phiz:
Let's view his Features rough and fierce,
That Map of Ugliness!
Distorted Joints, so huge and broad!
So horribly drest up!
'Twould puzzle Newton's Self to tell,
The D--l from the Pope.
See I how He Shakes his tot'ring Head
And knocks his palsy Knees;
A Proof He is the Scarlet Whore,
And got the soul Disease.
Most terrible for to behold,
He Stinks much worse then Rum:
Here, you behold the Pope, and here
Old Harry in his Rome.
D'ye ask why Satan Stands behind?
Before he durst not go,
Because his Pride won't let him Stoop,
To kiss the Pope's great Toe.
Old Boys, and young, be Sure observe
The Fifth Day of November;
What tho' it is a Day apast?
You still can it remember.
The little Popes, they go out First,
With little teney Boys:
In Frolicks they are full of Gale
And laughing make a Noise.
The Girls run out to fee the Sight,
The Boys eke ev'ry one;
Along they are a dragging them,
With Granadier's Caps on.
The great Ones next go out, and meet
With many a Smart Rebuf:
They're hall'd along from Street to Street
And call hard Names enough.
"A Pagan, Jew, Mahometan,
Turk, Strumpet, Wizzard, Witch;"
In short the Number of his Name's,
Six Hundred Sixty six.
"How dreadful do his Features show?
"How fearful is his Grin?
"Made up of ev'ry Thing that's bad;
He is the Man of Sin.
If that his deeden Self could see
Himself so turn'd to Fun:
In Rage He'd tear out His Pope's Eyes,
And scratch his Rev'rend Bum.
He'd kick his tripple Crown about,
And weary of his Life,
He'd curse the Rabble, and away
He'd run to tell his Wife.
Some Wits begin to cavil here
And laughing seem to query,
"How Pope should have a Wife, and yet,
The Clergy never marry."
Laugh if you please, yet still I'm sure
If false I'm not alone;
Pray Critic, did you never hear
Not read of fair Pope-Joan.
"Help Joan! see how I'm drag'd and bounc'd,
"Pursu'd, surrounded, -- Wife!
"And when I'm bang'd to Death, I shall
"Be barbacu'd alive."
Joan cry's, "Why in this Passion, Sir?
"And why so raving mad?
"You surely must mistake the Case,
"It cannot be so bad."
"You Fool! I saw it with my Eyes,
"I cannot be deceiv'd."
"Yes, but You told me t'other Day,
"Sight! must not be believ'd."
A sham'd, inrag'd, and mad, and vex'd,
He mutters ten Times more.
"I'll make a Bull, and my He-Cow
"Shall bellow, grunt and rear."
Oh! Pope, we pity thy sad Case,
So dismal and forlorn!
We know that thou a Cuckold art,
For thou hast many an Horn.
And eke sev'n Heads he has also.
Tho' but one on him flicks:
Ten Horns he in his Pocket puts,
And Heads no less than six.
His Pockets full of Heads and Horns,
In's Hand he holds his Keys;
So down He bends beneath their Weight,
With Age, Shame and Disease.
His End so near, each Cardinal
Quite old himself would feign:
He tries to stoop and cough that he
Might his Successor reign.
And now, their Frolick to compleat,
They to the Mill-Dam go,
Burn Him to Nothing first, and then
Plunge Him the Waves into.
But to conclude, from what we've heard,
With Pleasure serve that King:
Be not Pretenders, Papishes,
Nor Pope, nor t'other Thing.
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