The Court LUNATICKS, or Reflections on the late Changes. The Words made to the Tune of a pretty Country Dance, call'd Hedg Lane.
NUG of late, the Barons sate
With Northern Brittons bonny,
Commons they, were every Day,
On Ways and Means for Mony:
But there's now, the Devil to do,
The high built Tory rory;
Plots maintain 'gainst Moderate Men,
But have faln down a story:
Greg's harangu'd, but yet unhang'd,
They want some more discovery ;
H- -ly's out, there's none can doubt,
And Stns past recovery:
M-hams Plot is piping hot,
And all to change the Ministry;
They only mean, t' abuse the Q—n,
With Loyal sham pretences,
Fie, Tories fie, you soar so high,
Y' have all quite lost your Senses.
Who would put the General out,
That is not strangely Frantick?
Who'd defame Godolphins name,
That is not simply antick?
Who'd displace the Purse and Mace,
That value Law or Reason?
-ns best Guard,
That is not fond of Treason?
Yet the Muse, can some produce,
Who 'tis believ'd are much to blame;
Some who hope, to climb the top,
And are too Great for me to name:
Who pretend, the Church to mend,
Yet only do confound the same:
And meerly mean, to abuse the Q-
With Loyal sham pretences;
Fie, Tories fie, &c.
H's Gown, is now laid down,
The Court for't is in Mourning;
Yet the Cross, gives little loss,
His Coat so well bears turning:
In all Reigns, his working Brains,
Both sides have oft been trying;
Passive fear, he well could bear,
But never self denying :
M- -sell too, who all Men knew
Of late, so wise and Politick;
Swears to joyn the Grand design,
In spite of his Comptroling stick :
Several more were late brought o'er,
But all were routed in the nick;
The Snake was seen the Flow'rs between,
For all their Grave pretences;
Fie, Tories fie, &c.
Then in short 'tis well the Court,
Can great Preferments vary;
Since they've chose, all now suppose,
An honest Secretary :
One too Just a Knave to trust,
Tho' Language he pronounces, Or to make his Judgment weak, Employing Factious Dunces: Let this Year our Ships of War,
Be worth an able Penmans care; Let the Plots of raving Sot,
Ne'er draw our Party to a snare;
Nor the kind indulgent Q-n,
Afflict with Heart disturbing care:
By doubts that rise, and Tales and Lies,
And Loyal sham pretences;
Fie, Tories fie, you Soar so high,
Y'have all quite lost your Senses.
A SONG for Sancho in the Fourth Act of Don Quxiot. Set by Mr. John Eccles.
"Was early one Morning, the Cock had just crow'd;
TW Sing hey ding, hoe ding, langtridown derry;
My Holiday Cloaths on, and face newly Mow'd,
with a hey ding, hoe ding, drink your brown Berry;
The Sky was all Painted, no Scarlet so Red,
For the Sun was just then getting out of his Bed,
When Teresa and I went to Church to be sped ;
With a hey ding, hoe ding, shall I come to Wooe thee,
Hey ding, hoe ding, will ye buckle to me;
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding derry, derry,
Derry ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, hey lantridown derry.
Her Face was as fair, as if't had been in Print,
Sing hey ding, &c.
And her small Ferret Eyes, did lovingly Squint;
With a hey down, &c.
Yet her mouth had been damag'd with Comfits & plumbs,
And her Teeth that were useless, for biting her Thumbs, Had late, like ill Tennants, forsaken her Gums s;
With a hey ding, hoe ding, &c.
But when Night came on, and we both were a Bed, Sing hey ding, &c.
Such strange things were done, there's no more to be said.
Next Morning her head ran of mending her Gown, And mine was plagu'd how to pay Piper a Crown, And so we rose up the same Fools we lay down, With a hey ding, hoe ding, &c.
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