Broadside ballad entitled 'The Last Speech, Confession and Dying Words of the Bogs: A Farce'

Transcription

The last SPEECH, Confession, and dying Words, of
the Bogs, who were burnt in the Pleasance. on Monday
the 25th of May, 1767. For the horrid Crime of
Blood-sucking A FARCE.

HOW do you think your works will after thrive?
What cruelly to burn us all alive ?
Had we been Porcupines, I mean Hedge-hogs,
Our stobs might hurt you ; but we're only Bogs;
We little room took from you, we are sure,
In corner of your drawers slept secure :
The sucking of your blood was all our crime;
No tales we told, nor spoke one word in time.
The king himself cannot drive us from him,
For in St James's we are very common;
Because, as Snakes, we still creep out at night;
And oft destroyed by the candle light.
You know we are not capable of treason,            

Destroy us ! that's void of sense and reason.
Our honest land-lord, whose house we possest,
Laments us not, 'cause we disturb'd his rest.

Tho' we were innocent of all the strife,
Occasion'd by the landlord and his wife;
No advocates we had our cause to plead :
Seek no revenge for us, since we are dead.
Unhappy was the day this man was born,
The rich despise him, now the public scorn.

But why was we destroy'd on his account,                                  '
our crimes to his could never sure amount;
Had he been mild, and in his nature calm,
We ne'er had been committed to this flame.
But oh! alas! we can get no redress,
We here must suffer, tho' our crimes Be left.
This multitude on as would have no pity,
So here we leave our blood upon the city;
But we exist not; this ends all our pain,
And greater punishment he must sustain.
The wicked crowd, who saw us thus destroy'd,
Look'd careless on and not the least annoy'd.
Altho' our house was burn'd about our ears,
None to assist us in the least appears:
O cruel land-lord, by the crowd thus scorn'd,
The costly furniture your house adorn'd,

No more in your apartment now appears,
Tho' all Was new within these seven years.
These is not one your quarrel will excuse,
Although the whole is in the public news
It sure Was shocking to behold the splutter;
Think on the fate of the well tasted butter,
Which an honest man there thought to've preserv'd
But by the mob redic'lously was serv'd ;
They took it from him, thrust it in the flame,
Happy for him his fate was not the same;
The butter in a moment took the blaze,
The man elcap'd, because he had more days.
Think. O thou cruel landlord of our fate,
We hope you ne'er will go so gray a-gate.

previous