You're welcome, Whigs, from Bothwell Brigs, Your malice is but zeal, boys; Most holy sprites, the hypocrites, 'Tis sack ye drink, not ale, boys; I must aver, ye cannot err, In breaking God's commands, boys; If ye infringe bishops or kings, You've heaven in your hands, boys. Suppose ye cheat, disturb the state, And steep the land with blood, boys; If secretly your treachery Be acted, it is good, boys. The fiend himsel', in midst of hell, The pope, with his intrigues, boys, You'll equalize in forgeries; Fair fa' you, pious Whigs, boys. You'll God beseech, in homely speech, To his coat-tail you'll claim, boys; Seek lippies of grace frae his gawcie face, And bless and not blaspheme, boys. Your teachers they can kiss and pray, In zealous ladies' closets; Your wits convert by Venus' art; Your kirk has holy roset. Which death will tie promiscuously, Her members on the vail, boys, For horned beasts the truth attest, That live in Annadale, boys. But if one drink, or shrewdly think A bishop ere was saved, No charity from presbytrye, For that need once be craved. You lie, you lust, you break your trust, And act all kinds of evil, Your covenant makes you a saint, Although you live a devil. From murders, too, as soldiers true, You are advanced well, boys; You fought like devils, your only rivals, When you were at Dunkeld, boys. Your wondrous things great slaughter brings, You kill'd more than you saw, boys; At Pentland hills ye got your fills, And now you seem to craw, boys. Let Websters preach, and laddies teach The art of cuckoldry, boys, When cruel zeal comes in their tail, Then welcome presbytrye, boys. King William's hands, with lovely bands, You're decking with good speed, boys; If you get leave, you'll reach his sleeve, And then have at his head, boys. You're welcome, Jack, we'll join a plack, To drink your last confusion, That grace and truth we may possess Once more without delusion.
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