Dr. Oats Last Farewell to England
Dr. Oats last Farewell to
England
He went on Ship-board upon Sunday last, with fourscore Buros to Attend his Sir-Reverence to Stom-Bola; where he’s a going to be Mufty to the Grand Turk.
A Song To the Tune of the Loyal Conquest or Law lies a bleeding,
Farewell to London,To Trenchard, and Hamdan,I have swore my Plotting Jump awayPoor Lying Oats is undon.My Bums now do slight me,That used to delight me;For when I come full charg’d, at them,Like squalling Cats they fight me: For Peaching, and Teaching, For Blasphemy, and Preaching I like a Rogue must Run away, And Damn’d for over Reaching.
Oh! how things are alter’d,Since Jesuits I Halter’d,Since Tap, and I did foil the Crown,How all our Plots have faulter’d;My Clyster-pipe is Lowering,And stinks for want of Scowering;I must for Turky steer my Course,And preach up, down-right Whoring: For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.
Bedlow now is Rotten,And Dugdal is forgotten,My Plotting-Trade is at an end,All our Cabals are broken;Our Credit still is smaller,Like Brasen Prance the Bauler;There’s near a Turk in all the Town,Dares cry out for a Waller: For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.
Tom and Gray in TrenchesFor Treason small offences,I squeake about, to find ’em out,In holes amongst the Wenches;His Grace, did I but fear him,I’d pawn my Jump to clear him,He’s claspt so close in Venus Arms,No Mortal can come near him, For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.
My God Mahomet tells me,Their still in Town, and will be,Like cursed Cain I must turn out,If here I stay, they’l hang me;Was ever poor Imposter,Expos’d to more Disaster,I often think to hang my self,To please Old-Nick, my Master: For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.
I Thousands have jayled,And scorn’d they should be Bayled,Swore men to Death, I never saw,That Magick now has failed.The Lords in the Tower,I had ’em once secure,Last Parliament loosing the heat,My Oath has lost its power: For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.
Since first, I did discover,My Prayers I near said over,I took my leave of Jesus ChristE’re I came from St. Omer;Nought but Ghosts and Quarters,Of mangled Priests and Martyrs,Appears before my eyes at nightsAnd men Ty’d up in Halters, For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.
Farewell to White-Hall,Where Guards did me Attend all;And when they did not please me well,I wisht ’em hang’d and damn’d all,My Ten Pounds a Week too,’Zsounds now tis all Due,Fiends and Furies help me Too’tOr for the Plot i'll hang you: For Peaching, and Teaching, For Blasphemy, and Preaching I like a Rogue must Run away, And Damn’d for over Reaching.
Finis.
London, Printed for J. Dean, Bookseller in Cranburn-street, in Leicester-Fields, near Newport-House.
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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