A tyrant, who is ne’er at rest In power, or when he’s dispossess’d; A knave, who foolishly has lost What so much blood and treasure cost. A lying, bouncing desperado, A bomb, a stink-pot, a granado; That’s ready primed, and charged to break, And mischief do for mischief’s sake: A comet, whose portending phiz Appears more dreadful than it is; But now propitious stars repel Those ills it lastly did fortel. ’Twill burst with unregarded spight, And, since the Parliament proves right, Will turn to smoke, which shone of late So bright and flaming in the State. THE DESPONDING WHIG. From Ned Ward’s Works, vol. iv. 1709. WHEN owles are strip’d of their disguise, And wolves of shepherd’s cloathing, Those birds and beasts that please our eyes Will then beget our loathing; When foxes tremble in their holes At dangers that they see, And those we think so wise prove fools, Then low, boys, down go we. If those designs abortive prove We’ve been so long in hatching, And cunning knaves are forced to move From home for fear of catching; The rabble soon will change their tone When our intrigues they see, And cry God save the Church and Throne, Then low, boys, down go we. The weaver then no more must leave His loom and turn a preacher, Nor with his cant poor fools deceive To make himself the richer. Our leaders soon would disappear If such a change should be, Our scriblers too would stink for fear, Then low, boys, down go we. No canvisars would dare to shew Their postures and grimaces, Or proph’sy what they never knew, By dint of ugly faces. But shove the tumbler through the town, And quickly banish’d be, For none must teach without a gown, Then low, boys, down go we. If such unhappy days should come, Our virtue, moderation, Would surely be repaid us home With double compensation; For as we never could forgive, I fear we then should see That what we lent we must receive, Then low, boys, down go we. Should honest brethren once discern Our knaveries, they’d disown us, And bubbl’d fools more wit should learn, The Lord have mercy on us; Let’s guard against that evil day, Least such a time should be, And tackers should come into play, Then low, boys, down go we. Tho’ hitherto we’ve play’d our parts Like wary cunning foxes, And gain’d the common people’s hearts By broaching het’rodoxes,— But they’re as fickle as the winds, With nothing long agree, And when they change their wav’ring minds, Then low, boys, down go we.