The Whig


" The King, " it seems, " no wrong can do; "
The maxim 's old, our comment's new,
For Whigs alone reserv'd.
Advising heads are pre-suppos'd,
By whom the King 's to be enclos'd,
And as their tool preserv'd.

But if, impertinently wise,
Against the heads that so advise,
He turns his Royal back;
" The wrong , " in throwing them adrift,
On him — when so disarm'd — they shift,
And goad the fierce attack.

The Senate then is to be told,
That Britain's King, no more controul'd,
Puts them upon the shelf:
That, changing men (like shoes and clothes),
He talks of Coronation oaths,
And reasons for himself!

That, by a conduct self-advis'd,
Indemnity is compromis'd,
And forfeit Crowns resign'd;
That Ministers dismiss'd by him
Should call the act a Tory whim,
Against the Whigs design'd.

In either House of Parliament
We'll ask him — what the deuce he meant
By negative old fashions?
We'll tell him — that since William's time
The Catholicks unblam'd should climb
To heights that suit their passions;

That nothing new but Priestcraft stirs
Against the new Philosophers
Who laugh at Rival Creeds;
That Catholick in Ireland
Has fairly got the upper hand,
And fights as well as feeds;

That if, in short, the Whigs are out,
The fate of Britain is a doubt,
And Buonaparte chuckles. —
To make him , therefore, sad again,
Of our good King let us complain,
And rap him on the knuckles.

For then, to make another change,
The loaves and fishes he 'll arrange,
Where all the Talents meet;
Will take us to his arms again,
And make us of his closet vain
The gossip to repeat.

But first, a gentle postern blow
From Parliament's imperial toe
Will make him know his distance;
By hints which Kings may understand,
Broad as the bottoms we command,
" That Whigs maintain resistance . "
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