THE Convert SCOT, AND Apostate English.

CLeveland; thy Ashes (sure) will Rise:
The Scots, are Proselites become,
Here were those Rebels in Disguise;
And now thou wouldst reverse their Doom.
'Twas our Fanatick Presbyter,
The Devils Factors made the Plot,
By them misled, the Scots did Erre;
Which then thou call'dst, Apostrate Scot.
The Proverb; From the North no Good,
Is now turn'd South, where Perjur'd Slaves
Swear us to Gaols; and in a Flood
of Butchery, scarce give us Graves.
The Damned Crew of Angels Fall,
Whose Pride first mov'd them to Rebel,
But You Incarnate, worst of all,
Through Malice, God and Man would Sell.
Devil to Devils all were True,
But Man to Man, no Thought can reach,
Nature, would cease to be, if You
Might cut off all you would Impeach.
The Laws constructiondoth lye
In Judges Breasts; the Letter Kills;
Justice, such Evidence throws by,
Whose Lives are Infamous for Ills.
There's seven of them, and seven more,
Have Covenanted all with Hell,
To make seven Deadly Sins their Whore;
None ever knew her half so well.
These Villains charge themselves with Crimes
They have not done; Damn'd Policy!
That what they Swear at other Times
May be Believ'd, though Perjury!
To which a Pardon being had,
Then Hang who e're they will Accuse;
And make the Raging Rabble mad,
When any man for Justice Sues.
Reason is Witchcraft; or else why
Can any man of Sense believe
Such Basket-Crew, e're came so nigh
To Courts and Councils to deceive.
Commissions, Armies, Fleets, and France,
All this Intrigue discover'd by
O—, B—, D—, D— and P—,
Who can believe so strange a Lye?
Did ever men Sell their belief
To Gaols and Pillories? who yet
Gives Credit to a Common Thief,
Or Branded Rogue on mischief set?
Plague of the Innocent, the Nations Curse,
The hand of Heaven will cut down;
Since God made Man, none ever worse,
Pretended yet to save a Crown.
But these the Vulgar Hireling Slaves,
The Bashaws use, to storm their Works,
And raise themselves upon their Graves,
Such are our English (Nobles) Turks.
Justice awake, Scroggs sit thou fast,
Thou wert o'r-rul'd by Perjuries:
But Langhorn's Case urges thy hast,
To cleer Fair Truth from Forgeries.
Now Undeceived, be Just and Bold,
You dare enough, do then as well,
And growing Good, as you grow Old,
Ages to come your Justice tell.
Our Laws are founded, or should be,
On Laws of God, Who never Kill
When they can Save; and yet you see
How Blood of Innocents we Spill.
The Law Condemns a Priest to Die,
But Supream Law commands them so,
That for their Lives they must not Flie;
One of the two they must forego.
Our Faith in many points agree,
Our Birth-rights we may claim of old;
What is it then to any he
If Ancient Verity I hold.
Likely, You Erre, for upward look,
What Ages past believed as I,
And nearer to the Spring; the Brook
Far distant, doth in Puddles die:
If at the Fount, I Drink or Wash,
The Christal Spring hath us'd no dash.
Hath Charity deserv'd to Die,
Our Saviour Suffered for that;
We sometimes Kill an Enemy,
Not Murther Friends for none knows what.
Our Laws receive their force from Power,
And the Offenders Forfeit Life;
Here 'tis, where Law doth Law devour,
And why, such Law, would end the Strife?
Men long in Peace, deserving well
From King and Country, now surpriz'd,
And Charg'd with Crimes, no Age can tell,
But those who have this Plot devis'd.
Now worthy Scroggs, your Brethren too;
Unbyass'd, let your Judgments fall;
We dare the World, what they can do,
May we have Justice, when we call.
O! Cleavland, hadst thou lived this Age,
Thou couldst not Write, unless to Lie;
For none but Devils Tredd our Stage:
Where speaking Truth, you surely Die
For publick Good or Popery.
A King to Govern, or else none,
A Linsey-woolsey Government;
'Tis Rabble-property they owne,
And say 'tis Law, or so 'tis mean [...].
They stalk with one, Ambitions Fool,
Affecting Popularity;
Make use of Him as a Close-stool,
First fill Him up, then throw Him by.
The Monster Mobile, then Roars,
Prepar'd by 'th Mountebank of State,
Wee'l have no Fools, nor Sons of Whores,
A Commonwealth shall end their Date.
Nor King, nor Parliament, nor Laws,
Kill all Pretenders to the Crown;
Nor Lords, nor Bishops; those py'd Daws,
With all Adherents shall go down.
Then up go we, wee'l share the Land;
Too long they have usurp'd our Right:
And now by turns, wee'l all Command,
And show the World our last New-light.
Are we not good as Fisher-men?
Our Hogon-Mogon Neighbours now,
They were call'd Traytors; and what then?
Their King that was, now them allow.
They did Reform, it thriv'd, So good,
God did intend what they should be;
They were inforc'd to let some Blood
(As We) to purge Idolatry.
Your Elders Laws, have that vast scope,
Preliminary to all Power;
Each in his Parish would be Pope,
Like Baal's Priests all things Devour.
These are your Saintships Rules of State,
And Lucifer hath Lectur'd you;
All above you, ye Deadly hate,
And would not God should have his due.
Must still the Van, Religion,
Led on by Lies, and false pretence,
Bring up the Rear, Rebellion;
And blind our Reason without Sense.
Set up an Idol-Parliament,
Which with False Worship men adore,
As if Religion were meant,
The House of Commons, Common-whore.
The slights of Hocus not so plain,
Though Cheat our sight, yet none believe,
But Hocus still he doth remain,
Through fine Conveyance in his Sleeve.
Thus Captain Sathan leads you on;
Your Pride and Malice makes you Swell,
Then Captain leaves ye all alone,
You'l find the way your selves to Hell.
Damn'd Hypocrites, Rebellious Race,
In Power Impudent and Bold;
Pale Whining Cowards, Face to Face
Your God and Hopes lyes in your Gold.
Short-sighted Fools, can your base Coin
Corrupt that God who Kings protects,
Or suffer you to break that Line,
Which he hath made, and still directs.
'Tis not to cast down Popery.
But by your Counterfeited Zeal;
To raise New-Englands Anarchy,
Devolving to a Commonweal.
Too long on Caterpillers, I
Digression make; but now to Men
Whose Honour, in Antiquity
Deserves to be reviv'd again.
Religion early there Imbrac'd
By Race of Kings, Christians bold,
Brave men at Arms, and not debas'd;
And now this Age revives the Old.
How Sweet blows the Northern Air,
Dispelling Mists, and no Clouds there;
The Rebel Covenant washed Fair,
No thoughts against Apparent Heir.
Brave Scots go on, a Braver man
Ne're wanted yet Protection
Then our Great Duke of York; what can
But this, Merit Oblivion?
All that is past of Guilty fact,
Lies buried here, in this one Act.
None live Unblemish'd, or who not deceiv'd,
Who ever Trusts unhappily,
May erre; If none must be believ'd,
We must forsake Society.
Frailties to all men are allow'd;
We Plume not here on Angels Wings;
The weak or fearful in a Cloud,
Cannot distinguish best of Things.
Repentance wipes out Blackest Spots,
If ye relapse, y'are sick to death,
Be henceforth call'd the Convert-Scots,
This Covenant sign now with your Breath.
A Glorious occasion now
Courts ye, with opportunity:
Let after-ages say of you,
When all men fail'd us, you stood by.
Your King, your Country, all their Friends
now need your Duty, and your Love,
Bravely appear, and make amends;
Let's Hand in Hand together move.
Down with your Kirk-Roost, Curb them so
They cannot hurt; take Sword in Hand,
Defend your King from Inbred Foe.
And York Conduct you in Command.
The Law of Nature binds Mankind,
And that Religion is true,
To give and take, with equal mind,
To God and Caesar what is due.
Rouse then Brave men, let the World see,
What you dare do for Royal Blood;
Your Lives and Country are not free;
'Less you maintain Monarchy Good.
But if ye fail, all Good mens Curse
On you and your Posterity:
May ye be Slaves, and what is worse.
Beg Bread of your Presbytery.

A Postscript upon the D. of Y's. Re­turn to Scotland.

NOw York again Shines in your Sphere,
A Constant Day-light, true born Son;
Which doth forebode a Happy Year,
Now finish what you have begun.
If your wild Spiritists, possest
With Hellish Principles Rebel,
And against Legal Power protest,
Send them the shortest way to Hell.
For speedy Justice in a Storm,
And Mutiny more Souls doth Save,
Then slow Proceeding by Laws Form,
Lost time, a Master's made a Slave.
Examples made to terrifie,
Makes men consider what they do;
Where no Reprieve is, but must Die,
Men are unapt t'engage that Foe.
Let your Great Council make an Act,
And by that Act all Subjects Bind,
To take an Oath, or else be Rackt,
Till the Succession they have Sign'd.
Our Lofty Shrubbs rais'd by the King,
That on his Seat, Justice Out-face,
Must tumble down, that no such thing
Be ever named; but with Disgrace.
Ingrateful Brutes, baser then Slaves,
The fallen Angels is your sin,
Who for your Makers do dig Graves;
But in those Pits your selves fall in.
Foolish Achitophels; his Fate
Follows your Steps, and you must Die
For the same Cause, and at the Gate,
Where Treason's joyn'd with Perjury.
The Protestant Religion
Is the false cry, and common Cheat
Of all your Atheism; who have none,
Nor will, till brought to Judgment Seat.
There by Confession, purge your Guilt,
Mercy may meet you at the Stage,
Tell Godfrey's Death, and what Bloods Spilt
By your Designs, and peoples Rage.
Then, not till then, three Kingdoms may,
In Unity give Praise to God;
And all good men rejoyce, and say,
Charles's Scepter is like Aarons Rod.
Then all True Subjects will obey,
The wild Fanaticks will Conform;
Then all the World with us will say,
God Sav'd us in a mighty Storm.
If you deny, all thinking Men
Conclude an Arbitrary Power,
Design'd by You, to save you, when
Y'are no where Safe but in the Tower.

London, Printed for A. B. 1681.

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