Classic Poem

As Ralph and Nick i'th'field were plowing,
One of the oxen fell a-lowing
With such a strange and uncouth voice,
As if the beast seemed to rejoice;
Which put the youths in consternation
To see the creature in that passion,
But, after they had gazed awhile,
The wonder turned into a smile.
Says Ralph to Nick, there's more in this
Than either thou or I can guess,
And was old Father Ant'ny here,
That does all dreams and riddles clear,
He could prognostic, being a scholar,
What put old Brindle in that choler;
For I have drove him fifteen year
And never yet so much did hear.
But, Nick, to pass the time along,
I prithee, sing the Irish song;
The tune I like, the story's base —
And so is all that cursed race;
Each bears the mark of Cain in's face.

Nick

Thou bidd'st me sing, I'd more need pray
To keep our enemies away,
Who now are landed in the west —
The thing's too true to make a jest.

Ralph

Our enemies, you simple lurdan!
They're come to ease us of our burden,
To free us from the popish brood
That never did to England good.
Why prithee, I have read my book,
On which poor Papists never look;
Thy ignorance does move my pity —
All are not destined to be witty;
Come, come, you fool, mind you your singing,
I hope ere long to see some swinging.

Nick

No, I will never sing again,
Unless the meaning you explain.

Ralph

Nay, if thou wilt not sing before
Thou hear'st my tale, thou'lt ne'er sing more,
For I shall tell thee such a story
Will make thee laugh, and yet be sorry.
Along the road the soldiers pass
Like herds of cattle going to grass
Or droves of sheep to Smithfield fair,
In the same pickle, too, they are,
And with like cheerfulness each goes.
Poor men, their hearts are in their hose!
Where one is silent, ten do curse;
None goes by choice, but all perforce;
When the road's dirty, or if't rain,
Aloud on popery they complain,
And all declare they'll never fight
'Gainst that church they believe the right —
Rome ne'er shall bring their conscience under,
(Conscience in soldiers made me wonder!)
Then railed on some whom I'll not name.
But, faith, I doubt they are to blame,
Yet I have nought to do with that,
Still let the mouse beware the cat.
But if you'd trust a London parson,
A popish priest's a very whoreson,
A wolf that's in sheep's clothing dressed,
A saint without, within a beast.
For when I thither went last week,
The people did not stick to speak
Such horrid stories of the Papists
That I believe 'em worse than atheists.
Nay, worse than devils, I'm afeard,
If all be true that I have heard;
They say the Jesuit priests have ordered
That all the Protestants must be murdered;
The faithless Irish with 'em join
As partners in their black design,
And though we now do plow and sow,
They are come o'er to reap and mow.

Nick

They reap and mow! They suck the sow!
Zoons, though I'm born to hold the plow
And never bred to read and write,
By the Lord Harry! I can fight;
And if the Irish are but men,
Why thou and I can master ten.
Ne'er fear 'em, Ralph, we country boys
Will piss on their beloved dear joys;
And if we're forced to make an head,
'Od's heart! we'll stave the vermin dead.
When once we're vexed they'll find us sour;
Rome and its rubbish soon will scour.

Ralph

Nay, boy, we don't the country fear,
I for poor London take such care;
There in each house they sculk and lurk,
But naturally do hate to work.
Though, as that parson did declare,
They've Jacob's voice and Esau's hair,
Their conscience base, religion worse;
Their conversation is a curse;
'Tis more than time they were removed.
They neither love nor are beloved,
Folk shun them like infected men;
There's not a grain of sense in ten;
Yet all the while good Catholics —
None closer to religion sticks —
Such as their church is, such are they.
Then never 'gainst preservers pray,
But let our bullocks bellow still,
And Pro. prince act Heaven's high will.
If this be still the year of wonder,
Or they or we must truckle under;
Therefore unyoke, let's home to dinner,
There'll be two losses for one winner.