THE PROCESSION. A POEM.
ON Tuesday last in Dame's Street,
Such a Mob I chanc't to meet;
As you, perhaps sometimes have seen,
Attending Thieves to Stephens-Green.
The ragged Guard that led the Van,
With loud Huzzas uncovered ran;
Not in respect to any there,
But 'cause they had no Hats to wear.
Such another Riff raff Crew,
Hell, (if too full) could never Spue?
Fellows whose Imprecating Throats,
Were still accustom'd to these Notes.
Who want's a Light? Sir, Black your Shoos.
L [...]yd's New's Letter! New News, new News!
Then fill'd the Air with other sounds,
Some praised Squire T—r, others F—
And others, D—m their Bl—d and W—s,
The Church and King, one bawl'd aloud,
And straight was follow'd by the Crowd:
Down with the Whiggs! some others cry'd,
The Whiggs be Damn'd, the rest reply'd;
Then raising all their Voices higher,
T—r and F—s ran thro' the Quire:
Behind this Guard march't Two well drest,
Mounted on Brutes above the rest;
Giving their Fellows some Advice,
Which I believe was not o'er wise.
The senceless Rout suckt in each Word,
As greedy as a Sow a T—d.
After these Dons (the Knight and Squire,
Bespattered with much Mud and Mire)
An Heterogeneous Multitude,
Mobb-like Unciviliz'd and Rude;
Who either Jacks or Papists were,
Trotting along bro't up the Rear.
FINIS: