%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> The Coat of Arms of N.T. J.F. & R.L[.] / An Answer to Thomson's Ballad call'd The Loyal Feast. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1682-1682 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 10/12/2018 36235

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

R7950 1 Sawny will ne're be my Love again Sawney Will Never Be My Love Again Sawney Will Ne're Be My Love Again A True Blue Protestant will never stain / His good profession, for the hopes of gain: Then Tory shall ne're be my Love again. [with variation] Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. : The Coat of Arms of N.T. J.F. & R.L[.] / An Answer to Thomson's Ballad call'd The Loyal Feast. The Coat of Arms of N.T. J.F. & R.L. An Answer to Thomson's Ballad called The Loyal Feast. 1682-1682 A. Banks.

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A True Blue Protestant will never stain His good profession, for the hopes of gain: Most Loyal thou dost call them, and sayst true, For they're no such dissembling Knaves as you. The Whigs from North to South, from West to East Did all contribute to a Loyal Feast, To shew their hatred to the Roman Beast. Eight Hundred Guineys were laid up in store, There would have been at least as many more, Such hatred we do bear the Roman Whore. This Feast was thrown aside, and nought but reason: Some did surmise a new Gun-Powder Treason, That cou'd not be suppos'd, for our good King, Doth hide his Parliaments beneath his wing: He will not let them meet in any place, For fear of mischief from the Roman Race. Let this be Sung to what tune Thomson pleases, but let therest be to his own Tune, Sawny will ne're be my Love again. Tory is small and of no good race, And is belov'd by very few; He broaches his Shams in e'ry place, And that in time I hope he'l rue. He sends to Yeoman, Lord and Knight, His Roguish tricks to entertain: But Tory'l be hang'd, if he has but his right, Then Tory shall ne're be my Love again. He sends to the Devil for Plots good store, And they too oft do come to Town: His Tap doth run for the Roman Whore; The True Blue Protestants to drown. He sends to Rome, and France, and Spain, To all the Papists in the Land, That they may bring in Plots amain. And Tory shall ne're be my Love again. At some great Houses in this Town, Tory did meet with a Jovial Crew, Of Traytrous Lords of high renown, Not one a Protestant True Blue. They threw in heeps of yellow boys, The dam'd Sham Plots for to maintain. Old Rowly their Treason now destroys, And Tory shall ne're be my Love again. They all ow'd duty to their Prince, And Loyal Subjects should have been:
But their duty was all worn out long since, By their Plots we have too plainly seen. From Church to Chappel they did go, Their Popish guests to entertain, They sought to kill us at one blow, Now Tory sholl ne're be my Love again. The D. They Love, but not the King, Can any tell a reson why, Can any tale or tydings bring, Why they should raise the D. so high? They'd Crown him if they might have leave, And our good King they would have slain: These things do make the Nation grieve: And Tory shall ne're be my Love again. The bloody Papists shall no more, Contrive against Great Charles his Reign; Though they have done it oft before, We will not let them do't again: Give them an inch they'le take an ell; To work his ruine they're in pain, Their bloody actions comes from Hell, And Tory shall ne're be my Love again. A True Blue Protestant will pray, That Heav'n would still protect the King: And I am sure they'l all give way, For a Popish ------ to take a Swing: But he that hopes Popes here shall sit, And Protestants shall all be slain: I hope his hopes will be besh------ And Tory shall ne're be my Love again. Fat Capons then shall fly about, With Frigacees of Ambergreece, When we the Popish Tribe do Rout, And do enjoy our happy Peace, That Council shall not have a bit, That did our Peace so long restrain. Nor Popish Nat shall not lick the spit, No nor Tory shall ne're be my Love again. Le'Strange that Monckish Scribling Fopp, That has abus'd the Kingdom so, Shall starve before he gets a Sop; For he's a Tory Curr we know. A Priest shall feed upon a Pope, Till all the Tory Tribe are slain, Then we shall have our Peace I hope, And Tory shall ne're be my Love again.
Dublin Printed for A. Banks.