The Protestant Court of England:
OR, THE
Joyful Coronation of K. William III. and Q. Mary II.
Setting Forth
The English, Welsh, Scots, and Dutch-Man's Defiance of the Common Enemy, and
Disturber of this Protestant Kingdom, the JESUITE; with the Irish-Man's and Monsieur's
[Ro]mish Vindication of Him. The Tune of, The Pudding.
| English-man.
| COme Gallants, let's tender
| Those Hearts we surrender
| At the blest Coronation of our Faiths great Defender,
| Now Glory shall Rule:
| No more Popish Edge-tool;
| Thank Heav'n, of a knave we've at last made a Fool,
| of a Jesuit.
| Who but they and their Crew
| Poor James could undo,
| And lose him his Honour and Diadem too;
| By Petres false measure,
| Th' unfortunate Caesar,
| Turn'd (alas) out a grazing, like Nebuchadnezzar,
| by the Jesuit.
| With you Chancellor false Steward,
| Romes Scholar so toward,
| Your Castlemain Nuncio & your Cardinal Howard,
| You have out-done the shot
| Of your Gunpowder Plot,
| And blown up the credulous James; have ye not?
| ye false Jesuit.
| Our Freedoms and Charters
| Were the first of your Martyrs,
| For Rome had begun to take up her head Quarters
| Her Vengeance to wreak,
| All Faith we must break,
| For Law, Oaths, & Gospel are all Bonds too weak
| for a Jesuit.
| Taffy.
| A Shesuit, that Sheater,
| Rogue, Villain, and Traytor:
| By the flesh of her pones, her Welsh plood rises at her;
| Very fine, Shemle folks,
| A Welsh Heir, with a pox,
| Was her get a Prince in a Shugglers Box?
| Cunning Shesuit.
| Has her forehead no blush on
| Such Prosbects to push on,
| As was raise her Welsh Heir to Three Crowns from a Cushion
| To who, splutternalls,
| Does her tell her sham Tales?
| Has her none to put trick on but her Nation of Wales,
| Roguy Shesuit?
| Oh! to pay her old score,
| Had her Son of a Whore
| On a Ladder as high her ow[n] Penmenmour
| Was her once but [tr]uss'd up,
| Till Her cut the Rope,
| Her might hang there till doomsday, her self & her Pope
| for a Shesuit.
| Sawny.
| THe Pope that saw Turk,
| So [sleely] at [wo]rk,
| With aw his faw [i]mps to pull down the [K]irk,
| Now the Mange, our Scotch plague,
| On that Scarlet Whore-Hag,
| And Deel split the wem, the luggs, and the crag
| of the Jesuit.
| For awd Jemmy's sad folly,
| With J[u]ggy and Dolly
| He dance a Scotch Jig for bonny WILLY and MOLLY;
| With Jockey and Sawny,
| Aw lads teugh and brawny,
| Weese drub the faw face, aw black, blew, & tawny,
| of the Jesuit.
| Monsieur.
| O De Rogue English trick!
| Dat de poor Catolick
| Shou'd be kick, knock, & tump, and run down to Old Nick.
| But Begar, de Vengeance
| Of my Ma'ter of France
| Sall lead English Heretick dog a French Dance,
| for de Jesuit.
| Sall Lewis sit still?
| Vat fool, tink he will,
| When old Jame and he so long piss in a Quill?
| No, Bourgre Garsoon,
| With Monsieur Dagroon,
| Begar we come o're, and fight blood and woon
| for de Jesuit.
| Dough Jemmy Monsier,
| (Pox taka Myn-heer)
| Has losta de Crewn of de damn Angletere;
| In Eerland, brave boy,
| With Vive le Roy
| We crewn him agin a new Monarch dear-joy,
| for de Jesuit.
| Teague.
| Bub a boo! Bub! oh hone!
| The Broder of the son,
| And de Shild of mee Moder de poor Teague undone!
| Pull down Mass-house and Altar,
| And burn Virgin Psalter,
| And make hang upon Priest, and no friend cut de Halter
| of poor Jesuit.
| When Teague first came o're
| To de Engeland shore,
| Wid 6, 7, 8 Tousand Irish Lads, all and more:
| Teague was promist good Fashion,
| Great Estate in de Nation,
| Wid all London in his pocket, upon mee shaul washion
| by de Jesuit.
| But when de Bore Dutch,
| Get Teague in his clutch,
| Stead of make great estate, & Chrees knows what much
| Damn'd Heretick Dogue
| Made Teague a poor Rogue,
| Turn'd him home to make starve widout shoe or broge;
| for de Jesuit.
| But I'le beg Captains Plaash
| Of de sweet Eyes and Faash
| Of mee De r-joy Tyrconnel his Majesties Graash;
| And fight like a Hero,
| By mee shoul a Mack-Nero,
| Cut Troat for Shaint Patrick, and sing Lilli burlero
| for de Jesuit.
| Hym-heer.
| HOld cut-weason Skellom,
| And let Myn-heer tell om,
| For Englond's great Hogan & Megan Lord Willom
| And the dear English-mons,
| Their Church, Laws, and Londs,
| Van Dutch-londers fight with all hoarts & honds,
| 'gainst the Jesuit,
| English-man.
| Say'st thou so, Friend Myn-heer?
| Then adieu to all fear,
| France, Ireland, Pope, Devil, come all if you dare,
| Come Lads, let's be jogging,
| The French Ears want lugging,
| And Teague, and Tyrconnel's false Hide must have floggin[g]
| Farewel Jesute
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