A PSALME SUNG By the PEOPLE, before the BONE-FIRES, Made in and about the City of LONDON, On the 11th. of February.

To the Tune of Ʋp tayles all.
COme lets take the Rump
And wash it at the Pump,
For tis now in a shitten case:
Nay if it hang an Arse
Weel pluck it down the stares,
And roast it at Hell for its grease.
Let the Divell be the Cook
And the roast overlook,
And lick his own fingers apace;
For that may be borne,
(If he take it not in scorne
To lick such a privy place.)
Though we are bereft
Of our Armes, Spits are left,
Whereon the Rump we will roast;
Wee'l prick it in the Tayl
And bast it with a flayl
Till it stink like a Cole-burnt Toast.
It hath laine long in brine,
Made by the peoples eyne,
So tis salt though unsavory meat;
Wee'l draw it round about
With Welsh Parsley, and no doubt
It will choak Pluto's great Dog to eat.
We will not be mockt
This Rump hath been dock't,
And if our skill doth not fail;
To feare it is good,
Or else all the blood
In the body, lean out at the Tayl.
Then downe in your Ire
With this Rump to the fire,
Get Harrington's Rota to turne it;
If paper be lack't
The Assessment Act
You may stick upon't least ye burn it.
But see there my Masters
It rises in blisters
And lookes very big on the matter;
Like a roasting Pigs eare
It sings, doe yee heare
'Tis enough come quickly the Platter.
Lay Trenchers and Cloth
And away bring the broth,
Did the Divell o'th Fag end make none;
But hold by your leave
Napkins we must have
To wipe our mouthes when we have done.
Come Ladyes pray where?
Will you none of our cheare?
Are yee of such a squeamish nature?
Pray what is your reason,
Are Rumps out of season?
But tis an abuse to the Creature.
Come wee'l fall on
Pray cut me a bone
The Meat may be healthfull and sound;
Fogh! come let us bury't
To th'hole we must carry't
This Rump it stinks above ground.
This fire wee'l stile
The Funerall pile,
The Grave shall be under the Gallowes;
The Vane shall be th'scull,
Of some Trayterous Fool,
And the Epitaph shall be as followes.
Ʋnderneath these Stones
A Rump-Corporates bones
Are laid full low in a sink,
And we doe implore yee
Let them rest, for the more yee
Doe stir them, the more they will stink.
THE RUMP END.

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