The Viceroy: A Ballad

OF Nero, tyrant, petty king.
Who hertofore did reign
In fam'd Hibernia, I will sing.
And in a ditty plain,

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

Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withal,
The guilty he would still set free,
But guiltless men enthral.

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

A patriot of high degree,
Who could no longer bear
This upstart 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 rimes.

The articles recorded stand,
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 set in their native light,
(And sigh poor Gaphny's fall.)

That trait'rously he did abuse
The pow'r in him repos'd.
And wickedly the same did use.
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 Protestants, his love to show.
Than Papists us'd them worse.

On all provisions destin'd for
The camp at Limerick,
He laid a tax full hard and sore,
Tho' many men were sick.

The suttlers too he did ordain
For licences should pay.
Which they refus'd with just disdain.
And fled the camp away.

By which provisions were so scant.
That hundreds there did die.
The soldiers food and drink did want.
Nor famine cou'd they fly.

He so much lov'd his private gain.
He could nor hear or see.
They might, or die, or might complain.
Without relief pardie.

That above and against all right,
By word of mouth did he.
In council sitting, hellish spite.
The farmer's fate decree.

That he, O ! Ciel, without trial,
Straitway shou'd hanged be,
Tho' then the courts were open all.
Yet Nero judge wou'd be.

No sooner said, but it was done,
The Borreau did his worst,
Gaphny alas ! is dead and gone,
And left his judge accurst.

In this concise, despotic way,
Unhappy Gaphny fell.
Which did all honest men affray,
As truly it might well.

Full two good hundred pounds a year.
This poor man's real estate.
He set'led on his fav'rite dear.
And Culliford can say't.

Besides, he gave five hundred pound
To Fielding his own scribe,
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 helpt him o'er the stile.
With Satan who'd dispute?

With France, fair England's mortal foe
A trade he carry'd on,
Had any other don't, I trow,
To Tripos he had gone.

That he did likewise trait'rously.
To bring his ends to bear.
Enrich himself most knavishly,
O thief without compare.

Vast quantities of stores did he
Embezzel and purloin,
Of the King's stores he kept a key,
Converting them to coin.

The forfeited estates also.
Both real and personal.
Did with the stores together go,
Fierce Cerb'rus swallow'd all.

Mean while the soldiers sigh'd and sobb'd,
For not one souse had they.
His Excellence' had each man fobb'd,
For He had sunk their pay.

Nero, without the least disguise,
The Papists at all times
Still favour'd, and their robberies
Look'd on as trivial crimes,

The Protestants whom they did rob.
During his government.
Were forc'd with patience, like good Job,
To rest themselves content.

For he did basely them refuse
All legal remedy.
The Romans he still well did use.
Still screen'd their roguery.

Succinctly thus to you I've told.
How this Viceroy did reign.
And other truths I shall unfold.
For truth is always plain.

The best of Queen's he hath revil'd,
Before, and since her death,
He, cruel and ungrateful, smil'd
When she resign'd her breath.

Forgetful of the favours kind,
She had on him bestow'd,
Like Lucifer, his ranc'rous mind.
He lov'd nor Her nor God.

But listen Nero, lend thy ears,
As still thou hast them on ;
Hear what Britannia says with tears,
Of Anna, dead and gone.

" O ! sacred be Her memory,
" For ever dear Her name,
"There never was, or e'er can be,
"A brighter, juster. Dame.

" Blest be My Sons, and eke all those,
"Who on Her praises dwell,
" She conquer'd Britains fiercest foes,
" She did all Queens excel.

"All Princes, Kings, and Potentates,
"Ambassadors did send,
"All nations, provinces, and states,
" Sought Anna for their friend.

"In Anna They did all confide,
"For Anna They could trust,
" Her royal faith they all had try'd,
"For Anna still was just.

"Truth, Mercy, Justice, did surround
"Her awful judgment-seat,
"In Her the Graces all were found,
"In Anna all compleat.

"She held the sword and ballance right,
"And sought Her people's good,
"In clemency she did delight;
" Her reign not stain'd with blood.

" Her gracious goodness, piety
"In all her deeds did shine,
"And bounteous was her charity,
"All attributes divine.

"Consummate wisdom, meekness all,
"Adorn'd the words she spoke,
"When they from Her fair lips did fall,
"And sweet her lovely look.

"Ten thousand glorious deeds to crown,
" She caus'd dire war to cease,
"A greater Empress ne'er was known,
"She fix'd the world in peace.

"This last and Godlike-act atchiev'd,
"To Heav'n She wing'd Her flight,
"Her loss with tears all Europe griev'd,
"Their strength, and dear delight.

"Leave we in bliss this heav'nly Saint,
" Revere ye just Her urn,
" Her virtues high and excellent,
"Astrea gone we mourn.

"Commemorate my Sons the day,
"Which gave great Anna birth,
" Keep it for ever, and for aye,
"And annual be your mirth."

Illustrious George now fills the throne,
Our wise, benign, good king.
Who can his wond'rous deeds make known ?
Or his bright actions sing ?

Thee, fav'rite Nero, he has deign'd.
To raise to high degree,
Well Thou thy honours hast sustain'd.
Well voucht Thy ancestry.

But pass — These honours on Thee laid.
Can they e'er make thee white.
Don't Gaphny's blood, which thou hast shed.
Thy guilty soul affright ?

O ! is there not, grim mortal tell,
Places of bliss and wo ?
O ! is there not a Heav'n, a Hell ?
But whither wilt Thou go ?

Can nought change thy obdurate mind ?
Wilt Thou for ever rail ?
The prophet on Thee well refin'd.
And set thy wit to sale.

How Thou art lost to sense and shame,
Three countries witness be.
Thy conduct all just men do blame,
Libera nos Domine,

Dame Justice waits Thee well I ween,
Her sword is brandish'd high,
Nought can thee from Her vengeance screen.
Nor can'st Thou from Her fly.

Heavy Her ire will fall on Thee,
The glitt'ring steel is sure.
Sooner or later, all agree.
She cuts off the impure.

To Her I leave Thee, gloomy Peer,
Think on Thy crimes committed.
Repent, and be for once sincere.
Thou ne'er wilt be De-Witted.