Ballad

A WONDERFUL age

    Is now on the stage:

I'll sing you a song, if I can,

    How modern Whigs,

    Dance forty-one jigs,

But God bless our gracious Queen Anne.

    The kirk with applause

    Is established by laws

As the orthodox church of the nation.

    The bishops do own

    It's as good as their own.

And this, Sir, is call'd moderation.

    It's no riddle now

    To let you see how

A church by oppression may speed;

    Nor is't banter or jest,

    That the kirk faith is best

On the other side of the Tweed.

    For no soil can suit

    With every fruit,

Even so, Sir, it is with religion;

    The best church by far

    Is what grows where you are,

Were it Mahomet's ass or his pigeon.

    Another strange story

    That vexes the Tory,

But sure there's no mystery in it,

    That a pension and place

    Give communicants grace,

Who design to turn tail the next minute.

    For if it be not strange,

    That religion should change,

As often as climates and fashions;

    Then sure there's no harm,

    That one should conform.

To serve their own private occasions.

    Another new dance,

    Which of late they advance,

Is to cry up the birth of Pretender,

    And those that dare own

    The queen heir to the crown,

Are traitors, not fit to defend her.

    The subject's most loyal

    That hates the blood royal,

And they for employments have merit,

    Who swear queen and steeple

    Were made by the people,

And neither have right to inherit.

    The monarchy's fixt,

    By making on't mixt,

And by non-resistance o'erthrown;

    And preaching obedience

    Destroys our allegiance,

And thus the Whigs prop up the throne.

    That viceroy  is best,

    That would take off the test,

And made a sham speech to attempt it;

    But being true blue,

    When he found 'twould not do,

Swore, damn him, if ever he meant it.

    'Tis no news that Tom Double

    The nation should bubble,

Nor is't any wonder or riddle,

    That a parliament rump

    Should play hop, step, and jump,

And dance any jig to his fiddle.

    But now, sir, they tell,

    How Sacheverell,

By bringing old doctrines in fashion,

    Hath, like a damn'd rogue,

    Brought religion in vogue,

And so open'd the eyes of the nation.

    Then let's pray without spleen,

    May God bless the queen,

And her fellow-monarchs the people;

    May they prosper and thrive,

    Whilst I am alive,

And so may the church with the steeple.