I am the Ghost of him who was a true Son

Of the late Good Old Cause, ycleped Hewson,

Rous’d by strange Scandal from th’ eternal Flame

With noise of Plots, of wondrous Birth and Name,

Whilst the sly Jesuit robs us of our Fame.

Can all their Conclave, tho with Hell th’ agree,

Act Mischief equal to Presbytery?

Look back on our Success in Forty One,

Were ever braver Villanies carried on,

Or new ones now more hopefully begun?

And shall our Unsuccess our Merit lose,

And make us quit the Glory of our Cause?

No, hire new Villains, Rogues without Remorse,

And let no Law nor Conscience stop your Course;

Let Politicians order the Confusion,

And let the Saints pay pious Contribution.

Pay those that rail, and those that can delude

With scribling Nonsense the loose Multitude.

Pay well your Witnesses, they may not run

To the right Side, and tell who set ’em on.

Pay ’em so well, that they may ne’er recant,

And so turn honest merely out of want.

Pay Juries, that no formal Laws may harm us,

Let Treason be secur’d by Ignoramus.

Pay Bully Whig, who loyal Writers bang,

And honest Tories in Effigie hang:

Pay those that burn the Pope to please the Fools,

And daily pay Right Honourable Tools;

Pay all the Pulpit Knaves that Treason brew,

And let the zealous Sisters pay ’em too;

Justices, bound by Oath and Obligation,

Pay them the utmost Price of their Damnation,

Not to disturb our useful Congregation.

Nor let the Learned Rabble be forgot,

Those pious Hands that crown our hopeful Plot.

No, modern Statesmen cry, ’tis Lunacy

To barter Treason with such Rogues as we.

But subtiler Oliver did not disdain

His mightier Politicks with ours to join.

I for all Uses in a State was able,

Cou’d Mutiny, cou’d fight, hold forth, and cobble.

Your lazy Statesman may sometimes direct,

But your small busy Knaves the Treason act.