THE VICEROY, A BALLAD.

To the Tune of, Lady ISABELLA's Tragedy.

OF

F Nero, tyrant, petty king*,
Who heretofore did reign

In fam'd Hibernia, I will fing,
And in a ditty plain.

He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you fhall hear;
So ill he exercis'd his power,
That he himself did fear.

Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withal;

The guilty he would ftill fet free,
But guiltless men enthral.

He, with a haughty impious nod,
Would curfe and dogmatize;
Not fearing either man or God:
Gold he did idolize.

A patriot of high degree,

Who could no longer bear

This upftart Viceroy's tyranny,
Against him did declare.

And, arm'd with truth, impeach'd the Don

Of his enormous crimes,

Which I'll unfold to you anon,

In low, but faithful rhymes.

* Lord Coningsby, one of the lords juftices of Ireland. + The Earl of Bellamont impeached Coningsby.

The

The articles recorded ftand,

Against this peerless peer,

Search but the archives of the land *,
You'll find them written there.
Attend, and justly I'll recite
His treasons to you all,

The heads fet in their native light
(And figh poor Gaphny's fall).

That traiterously he did abufe
The power in him repos'd;
And wickedly the fame did ufe,
On all mankind impos'd.

That he, contrary to all law,
An oath did frame and make,
Compelling the militia

Th' illegal oath to take.

Free-quarters for the army too

He did exact and force

On Proteftants; his love to fhow,
Than Papist us'd them worse.

On all provifions deftin'd for

The camp at Limerick,

He laid a tax full hard and fore,
Though many men were fick.

The futlers too he did ordain

For licences fhould pay,

Which they refus'd with just difdain,

And fled the camp away.

Journal, Sabbati, 16 die Decembris, 1693.

By which provifions were so fcant,

That hundreds there did die,

The foldiers food and drink did want,
Nor famine could they fly.

He fo much lov'd his private gain,

He could not hear or fee;

They might, or die, or might complain,
Without relief, pardie.

That, above and against all right,
By word of mouth did he,
In council fitting, hellish spite,
The Farmer's fate decree:

That he, O ciel! without trial,
Straitway should hanged be;
Though then the courts were open all,
Yet Nero judge would be.

No fooner faid, but it was done,
The bourreau did his worst;
Gaphny, alas! is dead and gone,
And left his judge accurst.

In this concife defpotic way
Unhappy Gaphny fell,

Which did all honeft men affray,
As truly it might well.

Full two good hundred pounds a year,

This poor man's real estate,

He fettled on his favourite dear,

And Culliford can say 't.

Befides,

Befides, he gave five hundred pound

To Fielding his own fcribe,

Who was his bail; one friend he found,

He ow'd him to the bribe.

But for this horrid murder vile

None did him prosecute ;

His old friend help'd him o'er the ftile:
With Satan who dispute ?

With France, fair England's mortal foe,
A trade he carry'd on ;

Had any other done 't, I trow
To Tripos he had gone.

That he did likewise traiteroufly,
To bring his ends to bear,
Enrich himself most knavishly;
O thief without compare!

Vaft quantities of ftores did he
Embezzle and purloin;

Of the king's ftores he kept a key,
Converting them to coin.

The forfeited estates alfo,

Both real and perfonal,

Did with the ftores together go,

Fierce Cerberus fwallow'd all.

Mean while the foldiers figh'd and fobb'd,

For not one foufe had they;

His Excellence had each man fobb'd,

For he had funk their pay.

Nero,

Nero, without the least disguise,
The papifts at all times

Still favour'd, and their robberies

Look'd on as trivial crimes.

The Proteftants whom they did rob
During his government,

Were forc'd with patience, like good Job,

To reft themselves content.

For he did bafely them refuse

All legal remedy;

The Romans ftill he well did use,

Still fcreen'd their roguery.

Succinctly thus to you I 've told,

How this Viceroy did reign;
And other truths I fhall unfold,
For truth is always plain.

The Beft of Queens he hath revil'd,
Before and fince her death,
He, cruel and ungrateful, fmil'd
When the refign'd her breath.

Forgetful of the favours kind
She had on him beftow'd,
Like Lucifer his rancorous mind,
He lov'd nor her nor God.

But liften, Nero, lend thy ears,

As ftill thou haft them on;

Hear what Britannia fays with tears,

Of Anna dead and gone.

"Oh !