A Poem on the Prince, born on the 10th of June, 1688.
When James the Second took his second spouse,
The royal couple (as their Church allows)
T’ obtain a son and heir devoutly pray’d,
And call’d on many a popish saint for aid;
By costly gifts and vows they sued to gain
Th’ inestimable boon, nor sued in vain:
A son was given; and as the story ran,
Their saints convey’d the blessing in a warming-pan.
And now th’ expected babe, howe’er it came,
Was theirs; but living yet without a name.
Why to this Child of prayer, this boon of Heaven,
A name appropriate was not sooner given;
What moved the royal sire to make delay,
In such a case, ’tis difficult to say.
Dryden suggests—go, read him if you doubt it,
There was some brawl among the Saints about it.
Good gracious folks, they could not yet agree;
Each eager that the name his own should be:
He thinks some wanted—but I dare not, I,
Repeat what follows of the irreverend lie.
Yet since I have curtail’d that Flatterer’s fable,
I’ll piece it with another as I am able,
And tell you the result of this celestial squabble.
There stood an ancient One among the herd,
Who took no part, nor utter’d yet a word;
He seem’d not much acquainted with the rest;
His port was manly, simple was his vest,
And veil’d his head: but now he silence broke,
And thus in slow and sober tones he spoke.
“The Babe, your present care, shall have a name
That all his life will follow him with shame.
Both He, and whomsoe’er he shall engender,
Will be deem’d spurious, and be call’d Pretender.”
His words the saintly synod fill’d with rage,
Nor felt they reverence for his rank or age;
But with ungovernable fury big,
Call’d him Apostate, Protestant, and Whig.
Calm and composed, their cries awhile he bore,
Nor deign’d to make defence, nor utter’d more,
But, casting off his veil, naked he stood,
And TRUTH’s resplendent form abash’d they view’d.