A satyr upon Tyrconnels coming over to Ireland, to be Lord Deputy of that kingdom / by an English Protestant there.

A Satyr upon Tyrconnels coming over to Ireland , to be Lord Deputy of that Kingdom . By an English Protestant there . A Rise old Neptune , shake thy forked Spear , Make all the Fi●h i' th' Sea , now Quake for fear : Make Wind and Weather , now their fury show , And Raise up Tempests , from the Shades below : Cover the face of heaven , with mourning Clouds : Let Storms & Thunder , break down Sails & Shrowds . Now Neptune , look about thee , hold him fast : Send him to 'th' bottom , by some furious blast : Now thou hast got him , so far from the Shore : Sink him , that he may plague the Land no more : Tyrconnel , Oh Tyrconnel ! that is he : Make him thy Prisoner , never set him free : For if thou dost , thou never more maist find So fit a time , to pleasure all mankind : O mighty Neptune some Count thee a God ; For shame then , let this Rebel feel thy Rod : Command thy Instruments , raise all thy power : Let fish , or something , now this prey devour : Let vengeance fright him , let not plagues forsake him : If he Scape Drowning , let the Gallows take him : Let him not find the least degree of hope : But what may straight be chang'd into a Rope : If he should scape , both Sea and Gallows too , The Devil himself will scarce know what to do : This Cursed , Popish , Hectoring , Rome-bred Elf , Will think he 's grown , great Belzebub himself , And so displace , even all the Devils in Hell , Lest they in mischief should himself excel : Which to prevent , he 'll get a conjuring wand , And list them all under his own Command : He 'l purge his Army , with a Popish Pill , And make the Devils subject to his will : Out goes a man , and in his Vacant place , In steps a Devil , with a Romish face ; A Bonny-Clabber-Rogue , whose lice would fill An Empty Bag , left by his Fathers will : That 's good for nothing , but to steal a sheep , Or cut an English throat , when fast asleep . These are the Blades , the Trusty hearts of Oak : That must give hereticks their fatal stroak : And now without the help of Jew or Turk , Our Pope can thus accomplish his own work : Ha boys ! Rejoyce , what power can now withstand The Popes designs led by this mighty hand ? Where Pope and Devil , and great Tyrconnels force , Are thus Combin'd , to Rout both Foot and Horse : Now Protestants look to 't , we 'l pay you off ; We 'l now Remember every little scoff ; How you sometimes , reproach our pretty Nuns , And Friers too , our Churches Bawdy Sons : They can't agree , to make a Brat together , But straight your Tongues must run , we know not whither . Come Tories , come , Let 's Rant , and Drink and Roar , And Sacrifice unto the Romish Whore : Drink the Popes health , with Draughts of English blood ; For Popish Stomachs , nothing is so good : The Day 's our own , let 's Tap our Romish Wine ; Let 's make our hay , now whilst our Sun doth Shine . Our time 's but short , our zeal must be the more , To fill the Cup , of our Blood-thirsty Whore , Whose hungry paunch , has long time kept a fast ; For pitty sake , let 's feast her now at last : In doing so , his Holiness will bless us , And with our fellow-Devils of hell possess us : He keeps the Keys , of Purgatory and Hell , And will Reward such faithful service well : Those that can Laugh to hear a heretick groan , Shall sit with Pluto , on his smoaky Throne : But those that can't in murder Sing and Glory , Shall only be advanc'd to Purgatory . Let this incourage all , both High and Low , Whilst we have time , to strike one hearty blow : A Blow that may secure the Tripple Crown , And bring Reformist , with a vengeance , down : A Blow that may our Catholick cause Advance , And make it 's Brats about a May-pole Dance : A blow that may , for ever split the hopes Of Hereticks that Rant against our Popes . March on , Trysanor , whilst we sing thy praise , For these long look 't for gallant Popish days : For tho' we know thou art a Tory-Cur , Yet thou hast given the Whigs a Devillish slur : Tho' we are Dogs , yet we 're of thy own breed ; A Tory Crew , better to hang than feed : Thy worthy praises we can loudly yelp ; Hail ! then , Trysanor , oh thou hopeful Whelp , Thy very name declares thy nature true , We 'l burn the Gallows , lest they claim their due : So may we march , without controul or fear , Cerb'rus i' t'h Van , and Talbot in the Rear ; We 'l set our Bagpipes , to the briskest Notes , And in thy praise we 'l rend our very Throats : We 'l tune those strings , which were for ages sad : And with brave Catholick Songs , We 'l now grow mad : The mighty Patron of thy Countrys wo , Devillishly lov'd , and ever will be so : For why old Nick , does never use to fail Such Tools as feed , upon the Dragons Tail : With Caps cast up , we 'l tear the very ground , And make the Infernals Leap , to hear the sound : The Prince of Darkness , sure will join with us , To see us rais'd to Hellish honour thus : Phlegon , let 's see thy face , to make us sport : Who Crown'd with Worm-wood , came from Pluto's Court , And fraught with praise , for deeds of Darkness done , Deserves the stile of Belzebubs own Son : Thy face , thy face , O that rich face of thine , A rusty Bullet scarce so much doth shine : Nature has cram'd thy Pockets too , with store Of good Potatoes , that they 'l hold no more : By Sea and Land , thy valour has been known , In Field , or Bog , each Girl , was still thy own : And at this day thy strange prevailing hand Procures all Curses to this groaning Land : For like a Basilisk , fill'd with Venom store , Thou 'rt come to Poison all the Irish shore : The Toads and Frogs St. Patrick banisht hence , Are all return'd , to stand in thy defence : Our gallant Popish King , has sent thee hither , To teach us all to Dance , we know not whither ; We with we ben't at last , all hang'd together . Hail ! Hail ! Antitheus , Frost and Snow , and Hail , Thunders and Earthquakes , wait upon thy Tail : Hail Scab of Courts ! Hail ! Pet of Popish rage ! Hail shining Serpent , of this present age ! Hail Cerberus Peer , by God and Man abhor'd ! Hail Monster , such as Africk can't afford ! Hail Hydra's Heart ! Hail , nothing can be worse ! Grim Plutos Darling , and the Peoples Curse : Let Hail like Milstones , fall upon thy Head , And never cease till Hail has struck thee Dead . The States of Greece could not with greater Joy : Receive their Dukes returning home from Troy : Nor Pope rejoice more in his power and places , Than we to see thee hang'd before our faces : Dye then , Trysanor Dye , and go no further , For God will surely Judge , for Blood and Murder : And that 's the Gospel , that thou dost defend , May Haman's portion quickly be thy end : May all true Church-men , now themselves prepare To break thy Neck , with this new Common prayer : Thy days are evil , may they be but few , Lord make that part of Jacobs Lot thy due : May good St. Coleman never quiet be ; Till thou hast thy reward , as well as he : May Plunkets Ghost , for ever thee affright , And drive thee soon , into eternal night : And may St. Stafford never let thee rest , Till of Infernal mansions thou 'rt possest : And may St Grove and Pickering hither clamber , And drag thee hence into thy Brimstone Chamber : May Belzebub thy Carkass all ingross : From all such Popish Nimrods , Libera Nos : In fine , may Pluto , and his hellish Crew , Combine to fetch thee , as their present due : And may this Nation , fill'd with honest flames , Ne're want a Curse to fling upon such names .