A Message from Toryland To the Whig-makers' in Albion.  
To the Tune of, Sawney and jockey. 11. July. 1682.  

[1]  
FRom Rome I am come, His Holiness sent me  
To you his fast Favourits, to compliment ye  
Saint Peter's Successor his friends doth impute ye  
Expecting you'll Firmly abide in your duty,  
And daily scribble, nibble, quibble,  
Your mother defend, you sucked at her nipple,  
She who did breed you, lead you, feed you,  
Claims your Assistance now she doth need you.   

[2]  
And with me I bring the Pope's Dispensations,  
To furnish you all on any Occasions,  
Then swear and forswear as occasion requires,  
And Cities inflame with your Catholic fires,  
If you can't turn 'em, scorn 'em, burn 'em,  
Else with your sanctified Daggers adorn 'em,  
Bring to Perfection Distraction, and Faction,  
The Pope will account it a glorious action.   

[3]  
I come to encourage Projectors and Actors,  
His Holiness implements, & the Church Factors  
Your Zeal for the Cause is put to a Trial,  
When you at the Gallows can die in denial,  
Thousands of Crosses, Masses, passes  
To mount your blessed Souls to Peter's embraces,  
You his Inditers, Biters, and Writers,  
Have done him more Service than Armies of Fighters   

[4]  
Poor Towzer returned when the Parliament ended  
His Politic wit our Cause still befriended  
For his flying Pen so swift is in Motion,  
More blest with the Craft of St. Giles' devotion  
Thy Observator's matter, scatter,  
In Rome he's a Saint that in Albian's a Traitor,  
Since these Dissenters ventures, enters,  
Toss the Plot back, we'll swear't at adventures.   

[5]  
The chief of our Foes are now out of favour,  
This, this is the time, there ne'er was a braver,  
Our Politics now hath an excellent face on't,  
Then down with these Whigs, not bate 'em an ace on't  
Those dull Romances, Prances, fancies,  
To Catholic not much credit advances,  
Let his Pen Rogue on, tug on, jog on,  
Were Albion our own, stand clear Hogan Mogan   

[6]  
Godfrey's Murder was rarely contrived,  
To kill himself, he walked abroad while he lived,  
Heraclitus, Nat and the brave Observator,  
Ingeniously each hath stated the matter,  
For if to fright us, Titus indite us,  
These valiant Heroe's stand up to right us,  
those who were stringed, swinged, hanged  
As innocent Babes were certainly wronged,   

[7]  
But dear Madam Celiers intrigue did miscarry,  
You see that 'tis dangerous to be unwary,  
these Heretics must by all means be destroyed,  
And all the Church Rights by us be enjoyed,  
Yet if we arm us, ram us, damn us  
these Heretic Dogs will find Ignoramus,  
Still it miscarries, it tarries, it varies,  
Yet never were days so blest as Queen Maries.   

[8]  
Cloud the Whigs Evidence with high Derision,  
And make it your Care to foment Division,  
Divide if you can the Prince from the people,  
And that will advance the Crown that is Triple.  
Now is the time boys, mine boys, thine boys,  
Eclipse but the Whigs, the Tories will shine boys,  
But if you'll root 'em, smoot 'em, blot 'em,  
Cut the Duke's Legs, and swear the Whigs cut 'em.   

[9]  
If mortal Assistance should happen to fail ye,  
As't did to St. Colemamn, St. Whitebread, St. Staley,  
St. Pickering, St. Grove, or such Holy Martyrs,  
stand fast to the Cause, ne'er value your Quarters.  
You shall be when dead, painted, sainted,  
With Purgatory you shall ne'er be acquainted,  
When you are Tortured, Quartered, Martyred,  
Y'are Cananized Saints all pardon is granted.   

[10]  
There ne'er was more hope since the Spanish Invasion  
to bring in subjection this Heretic Nation,  
And now should it fail and our Plot be defeated,  
'tis vain to expect 'twill e'er be completed,  
Win it and wear it, clear it, share it,  
Possession's the due reward of your merit,  
You shall have Guinnies, and it no sin is  
to build up with blood on the Protestants-Finis.   
R. S.   

Printed for J. Conyers at the Black Raven in Ducklane, MDCLXXXII.