Dr. Oats Last Farewell to England

by anon

Dr. Oats last Farewell to
England

He went on Ship-board upon Sunday last, with fourscore Buros to Attend his Sir-Reverence to Stom-Bola; where he’s a going to be Mufty to the Grand Turk.

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A Song To the Tune of the Loyal Conquest or Law lies a bleeding,

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Farewell to London,
To Trenchard, and Hamdan,
I have swore my Plotting Jump away
Poor Lying Oats is undon.
My Bums now do slight me,
That used to delight me;
For when I come full charg’d, at them,
Like squalling Cats they fight me:
 For Peaching, and Teaching,
 For Blasphemy, and Preaching
 I like a Rogue must Run away,
 And Damn’d for over Reaching.

 Oh! how things are alter’d,
Since Jesuits I Halter’d,
Since Tap, and I did foil the Crown,
How all our Plots have faulter’d;
My Clyster-pipe is Lowering,
And stinks for want of Scowering;
I must for Turky steer my Course,
And preach up, down-right Whoring:
 For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.

 Bedlow now is Rotten,
And Dugdal is forgotten,
My Plotting-Trade is at an end,
All our Cabals are broken;
Our Credit still is smaller,
Like Brasen Prance the Bauler;
There’s near a Turk in all the Town,
Dares cry out for a Waller:
 For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.

 Tom and Gray in Trenches
For Treason small offences,
I squeake about, to find ’em out,
In holes amongst the Wenches;
His Grace, did I but fear him,
I’d pawn my Jump to clear him,
He’s claspt so close in Venus Arms,
No Mortal can come near him,
 For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.

 My God Mahomet tells me,
Their still in Town, and will be,
Like cursed Cain I must turn out,
If here I stay, they’l hang me;
Was ever poor Imposter,
Expos’d to more Disaster,
I often think to hang my self,
To please Old-Nick, my Master:
 For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.

 I Thousands have jayled,
And scorn’d they should be Bayled,
Swore men to Death, I never saw,
That Magick now has failed.
The Lords in the Tower,
I had ’em once secure,
Last Parliament loosing the heat,
My Oath has lost its power:
 For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.

 Since first, I did discover,
My Prayers I near said over,
I took my leave of Jesus Christ
E’re I came from St. Omer;
Nought but Ghosts and Quarters,
Of mangled Priests and Martyrs,
Appears before my eyes at nights
And men Ty’d up in Halters,
 For Peaching, and Teaching, &c.

 Farewell to White-Hall,
Where Guards did me Attend all;
And when they did not please me well,
I wisht ’em hang’d and damn’d all,
My Ten Pounds a Week too,
’Zsounds now tis all Due,
Fiends and Furies help me Too’t
Or for the Plot i'll hang you:
 For Peaching, and Teaching,
 For Blasphemy, and Preaching
 I like a Rogue must Run away,
 And Damn’d for over Reaching.

 

Finis.

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London, Printed for J. Dean, Bookseller in Cranburn-street, in Leicester-Fields, near Newport-House.