He was a Man of Blood, Sirs;
And why the Butcherly Son (forsooth)
Shou'd now be Jury and Judge both
Cannot be understood, Sirs.

The good Old Man with Knife and Knocks
Made harmless Sheep and stubborn Ox
Stoop to him in his Fury;
But the brib'd Son, like greasie Oaph,
Kneels down and worships Golden Calf,
And so do's all the Jury.

Better thou'dst been at Father's Trade,
An honest Livelihood to have made,
In lamp'ring Bulls with Collars,
Than to thy Country prove unjust,
First sell, and then betray, thy Trust,
For so many hard Rix-Dollars.

Priest and Physician thou didst save
From Gallows, Fire, and from the Grave,
For which we can't endure thee;
The one can ne'er absolve thy Sins,
And th'other (tho' he now begins)
Of Knav'ry ne'er can cure thee.

But lest we all shou'd end his Life,
And with a keen-whet Chopping-Knife
In a Thousand pieces cleave him,
Let the Parliament first him undertake,