A Birch Rod for the Presbytarians. A NEW SONG.

Good neighbours all, both great and small, Of high and low degree; Let's straight unite, ourselves to fight, Against this presbytree. If you'll but trace this hellish race, Thro' every stage of life; Where e'er they be you'll plainly see, Nought but discord and strife. If you'll history read your hearts will bleed, To hear of their transactions; For king and church have suffered much, By their damn hellish factions. Must we be opprest by this vile nest, Who strives us to enslave; Such is their spleen to sell Nun's Green, The town to light and pave. They do not care who the burden bear, Such is their tyranny; To enforce the tax on others' backs, Whilst they themselves go free. I wish all such Aldermen and folks like them, Was forc'd to change their situation; And that Greenland hulks for their vile bulks, Might for ever be their station. Proud oppulence with impudence, As he struts along the streets; Swears by his God with his iron rod, He'll beat down all he meets. There's shufling Charles both grins and snarles, And where he can he'll bite; For this last mishap he'll surely snap, Except he's musseld tight. There's Jemmy Twichit did both scrub and fidge it, His head he roll'd about; He stampt and swore he'd come there no more, When he found the bill thrown out. They blam'd old George that did not discharge, His duty as he ought; And his addle pate that cou'd not relate, What kind of a bill he'd brought. The wigs got a fall, I wish they ne'er may rise, But henceforth for the future, may learn to be more wise; And ne'er persume to sit in chairs, nor honoured be with Town affairs, But stay at home and say their prayers, & not over us tyrannize. Pray God above from this earth remove, This vile deceitful crew, And send them hence for their offence, Where they may receive their due. God bless Mundy and Cooke, on them we look, As two from heaven sent; To set us free from tyranny, And serve in Parliament.