Her Royal Highneſs,
Birth of her Daughter.
BY all our Thunder-thumping Lies, by Jove,
By all the Gods, that Rule the S ears above ;
We are all Loſt ; kind Heaven ave Mercy on us ,
Your Lying down has quite and clean ndone us.
Who e'er did think the Angry Planets w u'd
Turn Bonny Blue-Cap to a Silken, Hoood ?
Alas ! alas ! to what an Ebb wee're bro ght ?
Are all our Vows and Prayers come to rought ?
How baſely falſe is Thompſons Prophecy
Now he believes his Father De'el can Lit.
While all the Grinning Whiggs do burſt with Laughter
To ſee the Monarch Son ſhould prove a Daughter.
We had deſign'd in Racy Goſſips Bowls
And Chriſtning Caudles to refreſh our Souls ,
When the Majeſtick Boy ſhould once appear
We'd Swim in Wine, and would Carouze in Beer,
And Feaſt our Bellys with the Richeſt Chear.
Proving a Girl, alas it proves our Woe !
Our Feaſt is ſoil'd, and all our Cakes are Dough.
We did deſign to Revel in the Street,
And higheſt Skies with Fire-works to Greet ;
With Shouts your Labouring Self to Entertain ,
As Neighbour Heathens do the Moon in Pain ;
Each Loyal Tory with his Gloating Mate
The Lads Nativity would Celebrate.
Tantivy Boys to Dance, their Clerks to Sing ,
Had all deſign'd within a Holy Ring,
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