[These are true Tories every Mothers Son,
Though Colemaniz’d, yet they no mischief shun;
Tory, said I, nay, yet a little more,
Tho’ that names bad, a worse there is in store,
True Sons of Rome that court the Scarlet Whore,
No honest Man who King and State does love,
Will of a name so odious approve;
Which from the worst of Irish Thieves at first
Had its beginning, and with blood was nurst:
Which shews it is of a right Popish Breed,
As in their own Confession you may read.]

A Pox of Whigs, we’l now grow wise,
let’s cry out pull them down,
By that we’l rout the Good old Cause,
and mount one of our own:
We’l make the Round-heads stoop to us,
for we their betters be
We’l pull down all their pride with speed,
such Tories now are we.

When once Jack Presbyter’s o’erthrown,
the Sisters shall obey.
We’l make them Nuns in spight of all
the whining Brethren say:
And though they sowre faces make,
and in their black Cloaks neigh;
We’l use their Females as we please,
such Tories &c.

We’l break the Tub wherein th[e]y teach,
and spoil their holding forth:
And never leave the Canting Crew,
till ought that they are worth:
Under the Masque of Loyalty,
all our pretence shall be:
Yet that is but an out-side show,
such Tories &c.

The sneaking Anabaptist too,
shall come in for a snack:
And Quaker with his turn’d up eyes,
they all are of a Pack:
The Sisters they call Sanctifi’d,
shall our diversion be,
Jack Presbyter unhors’d, we’l ride,
such Tories &c.

Now Forty-one we’l thunder forth,
to make the People mad,
And make Whigs monstrous appear,
for so our ends are had:
And when that once the Game is rouz’d,
the Chace chief ours shall be,
And then we’l follow at full cry,
such Tories &c.

So slyly we will work our art,
that few shall understand,
But that we loyal are in all,
that e’re we take in hand:
But yet beneath the flowers there shall
a lurking Serpent be,
That Non and Con may one day sting,
such Tories &c.

Jack Presbyter who spit his rage
against us even now,
And laught when we in Troops did flye,
on him our rage shall flow:
His little Band, and Ears short crop’d,
shall not his safeguard be:
Though us in wickedness they pass,
such Tories &c.

Yet must we now confess that they
in the Rebellious time
Assisted us, the Nations peace
and good to undermine:
The best of Kings they helpt us then
to bring to misery:
Yet now those Whigs we’l flouth and scorn
such Tories grown are we.

From Priest and Jesuit quite chang’d,
now Tories us they call,
And under that disguise we go,
secure from future fall:
The Pope dispences with the change,
and seeming Loyalty,
Because in Sheeps-cloaths Satan goes,
such Tories then are we.

But to conclude, Jack Presbyter,
at you’s our present aim:
And as for what we think beside,
we will not that proclaim:
But woe be to the Land, we say,
(though in disguise are we)
Where we our mischief can once vent,
or where such Tories be.