Golden days of good Queen Bess (1)/The Golden Days We Now Poſſeſs

The Golden Days We now Possess.

A Sequel to the favourite Song of good Q. Beſs.

IN the praiſe of Queen BESS,
losty ſongs have been ſung, Sir;
And her fame has been echo’d
by old and by young, Sir;
But from times that are paſs’d,
we’ll for once turn our eyes, Sir,
As the times we enjoy,
’tis but wiſdom to prize, Sir.

chorus

That whate’er were the days of good Q. Beſs,
Let us praiſe the golden days we now poſſeſs.

Without armies to combat, or
armadas to withſtand, Sir,
Our foes at our feet, and the
ſword in our hand, Sir;
Laſting peace we ſecure, while
we’re Lords of the ſeas, Sir,
And our ſtout wooden walls, are
our ſure guarantees, Sir.

chorus

Such are the golden days we now poſſeſs,
Whatever were the days of good Q. Beſs.

No Bigots rule the roaſt, now,
with perſecution dire, Sir,
Burning zeal now no more heaps
the faggot on the fire, Sir:
No Biſhop now can boil a
poor Jew like a Pigeon, Sir;
Nor barbacue a Pagan, like a
a Pig, for Religion, Sir. Such are, &c.

Now, no legendary ſaint, robs
the lab’rer of one day, Sir,
Except now and then, when
he celebrates St. Monday, Sir,
And good folks, ev’ry Sabbath,
keep church without a pother, Sir,
By walking in at one door,
and stealing out at t’other, Sir. Such, &c.

Then for dreſs—modern Belles bear,
the bell beyond compare, Sir,
Though farthingales and ruffs, are
got rather out of wear, Sir;
But when truſs’d up like pullets,
whether fat, lean, or plump, Sir,
’Tis no matter, ſo they have got, but
a merry thought and rump, Sir. Such &c.

Such promontaries, sure, may
be ſty’ld inacceſſibles,
As our ſmall clothes, by Prudes,
are pronounc’d inexpreſſibles;
And the taſte of our Beaux won’t
admit of diſpute, Sir, When they ride in their ſlippers,
and walk about in boots, Sir. Such, &c.

Our language is refin’d too,
from what ’twas of yore, Sir,
As a ſhoe ſtring’s the dandy,
and buckles quite a bore, Sir;
And if rais’d from the dead,
it wou’d ſure poze noddle, Sir,
Of a Shakeſpere, to tell what’s
the Tippy or the Twaddle, Sir. &c.

Then for props of the ſtate,
what can equal in ſtory, Sir?
Thoſe two ſtately pillars, call’d
a Whig and a Tory, Sir,
Though by ſhifting their ground,
they ſometimes get ſo wrong, Sir,
They forget to which ſide of
the houſe they belong, Sir. Such are, &c.

But as props of their ſtrength,
and uprightneſs may boaſt, Sir,
Whilſt the proudeſt of pillars
may be ſhook by a poſt, Sir;
May the firm friends of freedom
her bleſſings inherit, Sir,
And her foes he advance’d to
the poſt which their merit, Sir.
Then ſhall the golden days we now poſſeſs,
Far ſurpaſs the boaſted days of good Q. Beſs.

And the name Brunſwick,
claims duty, love and awe, Sir,
Far beyond a Plantagenet,
a Tudor, or Naſſau, Sir;
Let the ſceptre be ſway’d by
the ſon or the fire, Sir,
May their race rule this land
till the globe is on fire, Sir;
And may their future days, in glory & ſucceſs,
Far ſurpaſs the golden days we now poſſeſs.