Chapter I: Thank You Twice;

OR

The city courting their own ruin,
Thank the Parliament twice for their treble undoing.

A street ballad. From a broadside, 1647.

THE hierarchy is out of date,
Our monarchy was sick of late,
But now ’tis grown an excellent state:
Oh, God a-mercy, Parliament!

The teachers knew not what to say,
The ’prentices have leave to play,
The people have all forgotten to pray;
Still, God a-mercy, Parliament!

The Roundhead and the Cavalier
Have fought it out almost seven year,
And yet, methinks, they are never the near:
Oh, God, etc.

The gentry are sequester’d all;
Our wives you find at Goldsmith Hall,
For there they meet with the devil and all;
Still, God, etc.

The Parliament are grown to that height
They care not a pin what his Majesty saith;
And they pay all their debts with the public faith.
Oh, God, etc.

Though all we have here is brought to nought,
In Ireland we have whole lordships bought,
There we shall one day be rich, ’tis thought:
Still, God, etc.

We must forsake our father and mother,
And for the State undo our own brother
And never leave murthering one another:
Oh, God, etc.

Now the King is caught and the devil is dead;
Fairfax must be disbanded,
Or else he may chance be Hotham-ed.
Still, God, etc.

They have made King Charles a glorious king,
He was told, long ago, of such a thing;
Now he and his subjects have reason to sing,
Oh, God, etc.

THE CITIES LOYALTIE TO THE KING.

(Aug. 13th, 1647.)

The city of London made several demonstrations this year to support the Presbyterian party in the Parliament against the Independents and the army. In the latter end of September, after the army had marched to London, and the Parliament acted under its influence, the lord mayor and a large part of the aldermen were committed to the Tower on the charge of high treason; and a new mayor for the rest of the year was appointed by the Parliament.

To the tune of “London is a fine town and a gallant city.”

WHY kept your train-bands such a stirre?
Why sent you them by clusters?
Then went into Saint James’s Parke?
Why took you then their musters?
Why rode my Lord up Fleet-street
With coaches at least twenty,
And fill’d they say with aldermen,
As good they had been empty?
London is a brave towne,
Yet I their cases pitty;
Their mayor and some few aldermen
Have cleane undone the city.

The ’prentices are gallant blades,
And to the king are clifty;
But the lord mayor and aldermen
Are scarce so wise as thrifty.
I’le pay for the apprentices,
They to the King were hearty;
For they have done all that they can
To advance their soveraignes party.
London, etc.

What’s now become of your brave Poyntz?
And of your Generall Massey? {29}
If you petition for a peace,
These gallants they will slash yee.
Where now are your reformadoes?
To Scotland gone together:
’Twere better they were fairly trusst
Then they should bring them thither.
London, etc.

But if your aldermen were false,
Or Glyn, that’s your recorder! {30}
Let them never betray you more,
But hang them up in order.
All these men may be coach’t as well
As any other sinner
Up Holborne, and ride forwarde still,
To Tyburne to their dinner.
London, &c.

God send the valiant General may
Restore the King to glory! {31}
Then that name I have honour’d so
Will famous be in story;
While if he doe not, I much feare
The ruine of the nation,
And (that I should be loth to see)
His house’s desolation.
London, etc.

THE LAWYERS’ LAMENTATION FOR THE LOSS OF CHARING-CROSS.

From a Collection of Loyal Songs, 1610 to 1660.

UNDONE! undone! the lawyers cry,
They ramble up and down;
We know not the way to _Westminster_
Now _Charing-Cross_ is down.
Now fare thee well, old Charing-Cross,
Then fare thee well, old stump;
It was a thing set up by a King,
And so pull’d down by the _Rump_.

And when they came to the bottom of the Strand
They were all at a loss:
This is not the way to _Westminster_,
We must go by _Charing-Cross_.
Then fare thee well, etc.

The Parliament did vote it down
As a thing they thought most fitting,
For fear it should fall, and so kill ’em all
In the House as they were sitting.
Then fare thee well, etc.

Some letters about this _Cross_ were found,
Or else it might been freed;
But I dare say, and safely swear,
It could neither write nor read.
Then fare thee well, etc.

The _Whigs_ they do affirm and say
To _Popery_ it was bent;
For what I know it might be so,
For to church it never went,
Then fare thee well, etc.

This cursed _Rump-Rebellious Crew_,
They were so damn’d hard-hearted;
They pass’d a vote that _Charing-Cross_
Should be taken down and carted:
Then fare thee well, etc.

Now, _Whigs_, I would advise you all,
’Tis what I’d have you do;
For fear the King should come again,
Pray pull down _Tyburn_ too.
Then fare thee well, etc.

THE DOWNFAL OF CHARING-CROSS.

Charing-Cross, as it stood before the civil wars, was one of those beautiful Gothic obelisks, erected to conjugal affection by Edward I., who built such a one wherever the hearse of his beloved Eleanor rested in its way from Lincolnshire to Westminster. But neither its ornamental situation, the beauty of its structure, nor the noble design of its erection (which did honour to humanity), could preserve it from the merciless zeal of the times; for in 1647 it was demolished by order of the House of Commons, as Popish and superstitious. This occasioned the following not unhumorous sarcasm, which has been often printed among the popular sonnets of those times.

The plot referred to in ver. 3 was that entered into by Mr Waller the poet, and others, with a view to reduce the city and Tower to the service of the King; for which two of them, Nath. Tomkins and Richard Chaloner, suffered death, July 5, 1643. Vid. Ath. Ox. 11. 24.—_Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_.

UNDONE! undone! the lawyers are,
They wander about the towne,
Nor can find the way to Westminster
Now Charing-Cross is downe:
At the end of the Strand they make a stand,
Swearing they are at a loss,
And chaffing say, that’s not the way,
They must go by Charing-Cross.

The Parliament to vote it down
Conceived it very fitting,
For fear it should fall, and kill them all
In the House as they were sitting.
They were told god-wot, it had a plot,
Which made them so hard-hearted,
To give command it should not stand,
But be taken down and carted.

Men talk of plots, this might have been worse,
For anything I know,
Than that _Tomkins_ and _Chaloner_
Were hang’d for long agoe.
Our Parliament did that prevent,
And wisely them defended,
For plots they will discover still
Before they were intended.

But neither man, woman, nor child
Will say, I’m confident,
They ever heard it speak one word
Against the Parliament.
An informer swore it letters bore,
Or else it had been freed;
In troth I’ll take my Bible oath
It could neither write nor read.

The Committee said that verify
To Popery it was bent:
For ought I know, it might be so,
For to church it never went.
What with excise, and such device,
The kingdom doth begin
To think you’ll leave them ne’er a cross
Without doors nor within.

Methinks the Common-council should
Of it have taken pity,
’Cause, good old cross, it always stood
So firmly to the city.
Since crosses you so much disdain,
Faith, if I were as you,
For fear the King should rule again
I’d pull down Tiburn too.

Whitlocke says, “May 3rd, 1643, Cheapside Cross and other crosses were voted down,” &c. When this vote was put in execution does not appear; probably not till many mouths after Tomkins and Chaloner had suffered.

We had a very curious account of the pulling down of Cheapside Cross lately published in one of the Numbers of the _Gentlemen’s Magazine_, 1766.—_Percy’s Reliques_.

THE LONG PARLIAMENT.

By John Cleveland.

MOST gracious and omnipotent,
And everlasting Parliament,
Whose power and majesty
Are greater than all kings by odds;
And to account you less than gods
Must needs be blasphemy.

Mosses and Aaron ne’er did do
More wonder than is wrought by you
For England’s Israel;
But though the Red Sea we have past,
If you to Canaan bring’s at last,
Is’t not a miracle—?

In six years’ space you have done more
Than all the parliaments before;
You have quite done the work.
The King, the Cavalier, and Pope,
You have o’erthrown, and next we hope
You will confound the Turk.

By you we have deliverance
From the design of Spain and France,
Ormond, Montrose, the Danes;
You, aided by our brethren Scots,
Defeated have malignant plots,
And brought your sword to Cain’s.

What wholesome laws you have ordain’d,
Whereby our property’s maintain’d,
’Gainst those would us undo;
So that our fortunes and our lives,
Nay, what is dearer, our own wives,
Are wholly kept by you.

Oh! what a flourishing Church and State
Have we enjoy’d e’er since you sate,
With a glorious King (God save him!):
Have you not made his Majesty,
Had he the grace but to comply,
And do as you would have him!

Your _Directory_ how to pray
By the spirit shows the perfect way;
In real you have abolisht
The Dagon of the _Common Prayer_,
And next we see you will take care
That churches be demolisht.

A multitude in every trade
Of painful preachers you have made,
Learned by revelation;
Cambridge and Oxford made poor preachers,
Each shop affordeth better teachers,—
O blessed reformation!

Your godly wisdom hath found out
The true religion, without doubt;
For sure among so many
We have five hundred at the least;
Is not the gospel much increast?
All must be pure, if any.

Could you have done more piously
Than sell church lands the King to buy,
And stop the city’s plaints?
Paying the Scots church-militant,
That the new gospel helpt to plant;
God knows they are poor saints!

Because th’ Apostles’ Creed is lame,
Th’ Assembly doth a better frame,
Which saves us all with ease;
Provided still we have the grace
To believe th’ House in the first place,
Our works be what they please.

’Tis strange your power and holiness
Can’t the Irish devils dispossess,
His end is very stout:
But tho’ you do so often pray,
And ev’ry month keep fasting-day,
You cannot cast them out.

THE PURITAN.

By John Cleveland.
To the tune of “An old Courtier of the Queen’s.”

WITH face and fashion to be known,
For one of sure election;
With eyes all white, and many a groan,
With neck aside to draw in tone,
With harp in’s nose, or he is none:
See a new teacher of the town,
Oh the town, oh the town’s new teacher!

With pate cut shorter than the brow,
With little ruff starch’d, you know how,
With cloak like Paul, no cape I trow,
With surplice none; but lately now
With hands to thump, no knees to bow:
See a new teacher, etc.

With coz’ning cough, and hollow cheek,
To get new gatherings every week,
With paltry change of _and_ to _eke_,
With some small Hebrew, and no Greek,
To find out words, when stuff’s to seek:
See a new teacher, etc.

With shop-board breeding and intrusion,
With some outlandish institution,
With Ursine’s catechism to muse on,
With system’s method for confusion,
With grounds strong laid of mere illusion:
See a new teacher, etc.

With rites indifferent all damned,
And made unlawful, if commanded;
Good works of Popery down banded,
And moral laws from him estranged,
Except the sabbath still unchanged:
See a new teacher, etc.

With speech unthought, quick revelation,
With boldness in predestination,
With threats of absolute damnation
Yet _yea_ and _nay_ hath some salvation
For his own tribe, not every nation:
See a new teacher, etc.

With after license cast a crown,
When Bishop new had put him down;
With tricks call’d repetition,
And doctrine newly brought to town
Of teaching men to hang and drown:
See a new teacher, etc.

With flesh-provision to keep Lent,
With shelves of sweetmeats often spent,
Which new maid bought, old lady sent,
Though, to be saved, a poor present,
Yet legacies assure to event:
See a new teacher, etc.

With troops expecting him at th’ door,
That would hear sermons, and no more;
With noting tools, and sighs great store,
With Bibles great to turn them o’er,
While he wrests places by the score:
See a new teacher, etc.

With running text, the named forsaken,
With _for_ and _but_, both by sense shaken,
Cheap doctrines forced, wild uses taken,
Both sometimes one by mark mistaken;
With anything to any shapen:
See a new teacher, etc.

With new-wrought caps, against the canon,
For taking cold, tho’ sure he have none;
A sermon’s end, where he began one,
A new hour long, when’s glass had run one,
New use, new points, new notes to stand on:
See a new teacher, etc.

THE ROUNDHEAD.

From Samuel Butler’s Posthumous Works.

WHAT creature’s that, with his short hairs,
His little band, and huge long ears,
That this new faith hath founded?
The saints themselves were never such,
The prelates ne’er ruled half so much;
Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that doth the bishops hate,
And counts their calling reprobate,
’Cause by the Pope propounded;
And thinks a zealous cobbler better
Than learned Usher in ev’ry letter?
Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that doth _high treason_ say,
As often as his _yea_ and _nay_,
And wish the King confounded;
And dares maintain that Mr Pim
Is fitter for a crown than him?
Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that if he chance to hear
A little piece of _Common Prayer_,
Doth think his conscience wounded;
Will go five miles to preach and pray,
And meet a sister by the way?
Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that met a holy sister
And in a haycock gently kiss’d her?
Oh! then his zeal abounded:
’Twas underneath a shady willow,
Her Bible served her for a pillow,
And there he got a Roundhead.

PRATTLE YOUR PLEASURE UNDER THE ROSE.

From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.

THERE is an old proverb which all the world knows,
Anything may be spoke, if ’t be under the rose:
Then now let us speak, whilst we are in the hint,
Of the state of the land, and th’ enormities in’t.

Under the rose be it spoke, there is a number of knaves,
More than ever were known in a State before;
But I hope that their mischiefs have digg’d their own graves,
And we’ll never trust knaves for their sakes any more.

Under the rose be it spoken, the city’s an ass
So long to the public to let their gold run,
To keep the King out; but ’tis now come to pass,
I am sure they will lose, whosoever has won.

Under the rose be it spoken, there’s a company of men,
Trainbands they are called—a plague confound ’em:—
And when they are waiting at Westminster Hall,
May their wives be beguiled and begat with child all!

Under the rose be it spoken, there’s a damn’d committee
Sits in hell (Goldsmiths’ Hall), in the midst of the city,
Only to sequester the poor Cavaliers—
The devil take their souls, and the hangman their ears.

Under the rose be it spoken, if you do not repent
Of that horrible sin, your pure Parliament,
Pray stay till Sir Thomas doth bring in the King,
Then Derrick {32} may chance have ’em all in a string.

Under the rose be it spoken, let the synod now leave
To wrest the whole Scripture, how souls to deceive;
For all they have spoken or taught will ne’er save ’em,
Unless they will leave that fault, hell’s sure to have ’em!

THE DOMINION OF THE SWORD.

A song made in the Rebellion.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686.
To the tune of “Love lies a bleeding.”

LAY by your pleading,
Law lies a bleeding;
Burn all your studies down, and
Throw away your reading.

Small pow’r the word has,
And can afford us
Not half so much privilege as
The sword does.

It fosters your masters,
It plaisters disasters,
It makes the servants quickly greater
Than their masters.

It venters, it enters,
It seeks and it centers,
It makes a’prentice free in spite
Of his indentures.

It talks of small things,
But it sets up all things;
This masters money, though money
Masters all things.

It is not season
To talk of reason,
Nor call it loyalty, when the sword
Will have it treason.

It conquers the crown, too,
The grave and the gown, too,
First it sets up a presbyter, and
Then it pulls him down too.

This subtle disaster
Turns bonnet to beaver;
Down goes a bishop, sirs, and up
Starts a weaver.

This makes a layman
To preach and to pray, man;
And makes a lord of him that
Was but a drayman.

Far from the gulpit
Of Saxby’s pulpit,
This brought an Hebrew ironmonger
To the pulpit.

Such pitiful things be
More happy than kings be;
They get the upper hand of Thimblebee
And Slingsbee.

No gospel can guide it,
No law can decide it,
In Church or State, till the sword
Has sanctified it.

Down goes your law-tricks,
Far from the matricks,
Sprung up holy Hewson’s power,
And pull’d down St Patrick’s.

This sword it prevails, too,
So highly in Wales, too,
Shenkin ap Powel swears
“Cots-splutterer nails, too.”

In Scotland this faster
Did make such disaster,
That they sent their money back
For which they sold their master.

It batter’d their Gunkirk,
And so it did their Spainkirk,
That he is fled, and swears the devil
Is in Dunkirk.

He that can tower,
Or he that is lower,
Would be judged a fool to put
Away his power.

Take books and rent ’em,
Who can invent ’em,
When that the sword replies,
_Negatur argumentum_.

Your brave college-butlers
Must stoop to the sutlers;
There’s ne’er a library
Like to the cutlers’.

The blood that was spilt, sir,
Hath gain’d all the gilt, sir;
Thus have you seen me run my
Sword up to the hilt, sir.

THE STATE’S NEW COIN.

The coinage issued during the Protectorate of Cromwell, consisted of pieces having on the obverse side a shield with St George’s cross, encircled by a laurel and palm branch, and the words, “The Commonwealth of England.” On the reverse side was the legend, “God with us,” and two shields, bearing the arms of England and Ireland.

SAW you the State’s money new come from the Mint?
Some people do say it is wonderous fine;
And that you may read a great mystery in’t,
Of mighty King Nol, the lord of the coin.

They have quite omitted his politic head,
His worshipful face, and his excellent nose;
But the better to show the life he had led,
They have fix’d upon it the print of his hose.

For, if they had set up his picture there,
They needs must ha’ crown’d him in Charles’s stead;
But ’twas cunningly done, that they did forbear,
And rather would set up aught else than his head.

’Tis monstrous strange, and yet it is true,
In this reformation we should have such luck;
That crosses were always disdain’d by you,
Who before pull’d them down, should now set them up.

On this side they have circumscribed “God with us,”
And in this stamp and coin they confide;
_Common-Wealth_ on the other, by which we may guess
That God and the States were not both of a side.

On this side they have cross and harp,
And only a cross on the other set forth;
By which we may learn, it falls to our part
Two crosses to have for one fit of mirth!

THE ANARCHIE, OR THE BLEST REFORMATION SINCE 1640.

Being a new song, wherein the people expresse their thankes and pray for the reformers.

To be said or sung of all the well-affected of the kingdome of England, and dominion of Wales, before the breaking up of this unhappy Parliament.

[From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum. It is printed but incorrectly in the “Rump Songs,” ed. 1665, under the title of “The Rebellion.”]

To a rare new Tune.
(Oct. 24, 1648.)

NOW that, thankes to the powers below!
We have e’ne done out our doe,
The mitre is downe, and so is the crowne,
And with them the coronet too;
Come clownes, and come boyes, come hober-de-hoyes,
Come females of each degree;
Stretch your throats, bring in your votes,
And make good the anarchy.
And “thus it shall goe,” sayes Alice;
“Nay, thus it shall goe,” sayes Amy;
“Nay, thus it shall goe,” sayes Taffie, “I trow;”
“Nay, thus it shall goe,” sayes Jamy.

Ah! but the truth, good people all,
The truth is such a thing;
For it wou’d undoe both Church and State too,
And cut the throat of our King.
Yet not the spirit, nor the new light,
Can make this point so cleare,
But thou must bring out, thou deified rout,
What thing this truth is, and where.
Speak Abraham, speak Kester, speak Judith, speak Hester,
Speak tag and rag, short coat and long;
Truth’s the spell made us rebell,
And murther and plunder, ding-dong.
“Sure I have the truth,” sayes Numph;
“Nay, I ha’ the truth,” sayes Clemme;
“Nay, I ha’ the truth,” sayes Reverend Ruth;
“Nay, I ha’ the truth,” sayes Nem.

Well, let the truth be where it will,
We’re sure all else is ours;
Yet these divisions in our religions
May chance abate our powers.
Then let’s agree on some one way,
It skills not much how true;
Take Pryn and his clubs; or Say and his tubs, {33}
Or any sect old or new;
The devil’s i’ th’ pack, if choyce you can lack,
We’re fourscore religions strong;
Take your choyce, the major voyce
Shall carry it, right or wrong.
“Then wee’le be of this,” sayes Megg;
“Nay, wee’le be of that,” sayes Tibb;
“Nay, wee’le be of all,” sayes pitifull Paul;
“Nay, wee’le be of none,” sayes Gibb.

Neighbours and friends, pray one word more,
There’s something yet behinde;
And wise though you be, you doe not well see
In which doore sits the winde.
As for religion to speake right,
And in the Houses sence,
The matter’s all one to have any or none,
If ’twere not for the pretence.
But herein doth lurke the key of the worke,
Even to dispose of the crowne,
Dexteriously, and as may be,
For your behoofe and your owne.
“Then let’s ha’ King Charles,” sayes George;
“Nay, let’s have his son,” sayes Hugh;
“Nay, let’s have none,” sayes Jabbering Jone;
“Nay, let’s be all kings,” sayes Prue.

Oh we shall have (if we go on
In plunder, excise, and blood)
But few folke and poore to domineere ore,
And that will not be so good;
Then let’s resolve on some new way,
Some new and happy course,
The country’s growne sad, the city horne-mad,
And both the Houses are worse.
The synod hath writ, the generall hath spit,
And both to like purposes too;
Religion, lawes, the truth, the cause,
Are talk’t of, but nothing we doe.
“Come, come, shal’s ha’ peace?” sayes Nell;
“No, no, but we won’t,” sayes Madge;
“But I say we will,” sayes firy-faced Phill;
“We will and we won’t,” sayes Hodge.

Thus from the rout who can expect
Ought but division?
Since unity doth with monarchy
Begin and end in one.
If then when all is thought their owne,
And lyes at their behest,
These popular pates reap nought but debates,
From that many round-headed beast;
Come, Royalists, then, doe you play the men,
And Cavaliers give the word;
Now let us see at what you would be,
And whether you can accord.
“A health to King Charles!” sayes Tom;
“Up with it,” sayes Ralph, like a man;
“God blesse him,” sayes Doll; “and raise him,” sayes Moll;
“And send him his owne!” sayes Nan.

Now for these prudent things that sit
Without end and to none,
And their committees, that townes and cities
Fill with confusion;
For the bold troopes of sectaries,
The Scots and their partakers,
Our new British states, Col. Burges and his mates,
The covenant and its makers;
For all these wee’le pray, and in such a way,
As if it might granted be,
Jack and Gill, Mat and Will,
And all the world would agree.
“A plague take them all!” sayes Besse;
“And a pestilence too!” sayes Margery,
“The devill!” sayes Dick; “And his dam, {34} too!” sayes Nick;
“Amen! and Amen!” say I.

It is desired that the knights and burgesses would take especial care to send down full numbers hereof to their respective counties and burroughs, for which they have served apprenticeship, that all the people may rejoyce as one man for their freedom.

A COFFIN FOR KING CHARLES, A CROWN FOR CROMWELL, AND A PIT FOR THE PEOPLE.

From a broadside in the King’s Pamphlets, vol. viii. in the British Museum, with the direction, “You may sing this to the tune of ‘Faine I would.’” The tune sometimes called “Parthenia,” and “The King’s Complaint,” is to be found in Mr Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time. The King was beheaded in January, 1649. This Ballad is dated the 23rd of April in the same year.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

SO, so, the deed is done,
The royal head is sever’d,
As I meant when I first begun,
And strongly have endeavour’d.
Now Charles the First is tumbled down,
The Second I do not fear;
I grasp the sceptre, wear the crown,
Nor for Jehovah care.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Think’st thou, base slave, though in my grave
Like other men I lie,
My sparkling fame and royal name
Can (as thou wishest) die?
Know, caitif, in my son I live
(The Black Prince call’d by some),
And he shall ample vengeance give
To those that did my doom.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Supprest, deprest, involved in woes,
Great Charles, thy people be
Basely deceived with specious shows
By those that murther’d thee.
We are enslaved to tyrants’ hests,
Who have our freedom won:
Our fainting hope now only rests
On thy succeeding son.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Base vulgar! know, the more you stir,
The more your woes increase,
Your rashness will your hopes deter,
’Tis we must give you peace.
Black Charles a traitor is proclaim’d
Unto our dignity;
He dies (if e’er by us he’s gain’d)
Without all remedy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou
And thy degenerate train,
By mankind’s Saviour’s body vow
To me thy sovereign,
To make me the most glorious king
That e’er o’er England reign’d;
That me and mine in everything
By you should be maintain’d?

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave
Of thy beloved shade;
’Tis we that brought thee to the grave,
Thou wert by us betray’d.
We did believe ’twas reformation
These monsters did desire;
Not knowing that thy degradation
And death should be our hire.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Ye sick-brain’d fools! whose wit does lie
In your small guts; could you
Imagine our conspiracy
Did claim no other due,
But for to spend our dearest bloods
To make rascallions flee?
No, we sought for your lives and goods,
And for a monarchy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

But there’s a Thunderer above,
Who, though he winks awhile,
Is not with your black deeds in love,
He hates your damned guile.
And though a time you perch upon
The top of Fortune’s wheel,
You shortly unto Acharon
(Drunk with your crimes) shall reel.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth)
We languishing do die:
_Excise_ doth give free-quarters birth,
While soldiers multiply.
Our lives we forfeit every day,
Our money cuts our throats;
The laws are taken clean away,
Or shrunk to traitor’s votes.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Like patient mules resolve to bear
Whate’er we shall impose;
Your lives and goods you need not fear,
We’ll prove your friends, not foes.
We (the _elected_ ones) must guide
A thousand years this land;
You must be props unto our pride,
And slaves to our command.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

But you may fail of your fair hopes,
If fates propitious be;
And yield your loathed lives in ropes
To vengeance and to me.
When as the Swedes and Irish join,
The Cumbrian and the Scot
Do with the Danes and French combine,
Then look unto your lot.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Our wrongs have arm’d us with such strength,
So sad is our condition,
That could we hope that now at length
We might find intermission,
And had but half we had before,
Ere these mechanics sway’d;
To our revenge, knee-deep in gore,
We would not fear to wade.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

In vain (fond people) do you grutch
And tacitly repine.
For why? my skill and strength are such
Both poles of heaven are mine.
Your hands and purses both cohered
To raise us to this height:
You must protect those you have rear’d,
Or sink beneath their weight.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Singing with angels near the throne
Of the Almighty Three
I sit, and know perdition
(Base Cromwell) waits on thee,
And on thy vile associates:
Twelve months {35} shall full conclude
Your power—thus speak the powerful fates,
Then _vades_ your interlude.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Yea, powerful fates, haste, haste the time,
The most auspicious day,
On which these monsters of our time
To hell must post away.
Meanwhile, so pare their sharpen’d claws,
And so impair their stings,
We may no more fight for the Cause
Or other _novel_ things!

A SHORT LITANY FOR THE YEAR 1649.

By Samuel Butler. (From his Posthumous Works.)

FROM all the mischiefs that I mention here,
Preserve us, Heaven, in this approaching year:
From civil wars and those uncivil things
That hate the race of all our queens and kings;
From those who for self-ends would all betray,
From saints that curse and flatter when they pray;
From those that hold it merit to rebel,
In treason, murthers, and in theft excel;
From those new teachers have destroy’d the old,
And those that turn the gospel into gold;
From a High-Court, and that rebellious crew
That did their hands in royal blood imbrue,—
Defend us, Heaven, and to the throne restore
The rightful heir, and we will ask no more.

THE SALE OF REBELLION’S HOUSE-HOLD STUFF.

Printed in “Percy’s Reliques,” from an old black-letter copy in Mr Pepys’ collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in a Choice Collection of 120 Loyal Songs—1684

To the tune of “Old Sir Simon the King.”

REBELLION hath broken up house,
And hath left me old lumber to sell;
Come hither and take your choice,
I’ll promise to use you well.
Will you buy the old Speaker’s chair?
Which was warm and easy to sit in,
And oft has been clean’d, I declare,
Whereas it was fouler than fitting.
Says old Simon the King,
Says old Simon the King,
With his ale-dropt hose, and his Malmsey nose,
Sing, hey ding, ding-a-ding, ding.

Will you buy any bacon flitches,
The fattest that ever were spent?
They’re the sides of the old committees
Fed up in the Long Parliament.
Here’s a pair of bellows and tongs,
And for a small matter I’ll sell ye ’um,
They are made of the presbyter’s lungs,
To blow up the coals of rebellion.
Says old Simon, etc.

I had thought to have given them once
To some blacksmith for his forge;
But now I have consider’d on’t,
They are consecrate to the Church:
So I’ll give them unto some quire,
They will make the big organs roar,
And the little pipes to squeak higher
Than ever they could before.
Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s a couple of stools for sale,
One’s square, and t’other is round;
Betwixt them both, the tail
Of the Rump fell down to the ground.
Will you buy the State’s council-table,
Which was made of the good wain-Scot?
The frame was a tottering Babel,
To uphold th’ Independent plot.
Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s the besom of Reformation,
Which should have made clean the floor;
But it swept the wealth out of the nation,
And left us dirt good store.
Will you buy the state’s spinning-wheel,
Which spun for the roper’s trade?
But better it had stood still,
For now it has spun a fair thread.
Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s a glyster-pipe well tried,
Which was made of a butcher’s stump,
And has been safely applied
To cure the colds of the Rump.
Here’s a lump of pilgrim’s-salve,
Which once was a justice of peace,
Who Noll and the devil did serve,
But now it is come to this,
Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s a roll of the State’s tobacco,
If any good fellow will take it;
No Virginia had e’er such a Smack-o,
And I’ll tell you how they did make it:
’Tis th’ Engagement and Covenant cook’t
Up with the abjuration oath,
And many of them that have took’t
Complain it was foul in the mouth.
Says old Simon, etc.

Yet the ashes may happily serve
To cure the scab of the nation,
Whene’er’t has an itch to swerve
To rebellion by innovation.
A lanthorn here is to be bought,
The like was scarce ever gotten,
For many plots it has found out
Before they ever were thought on.
Says old Simon, etc.

Will you buy the Rump’s great saddle,
With which it jockey’d the nation?
And here is the bit and the bridle,
And curb of dissimulation;
And here’s the trunk-hose of the Rump,
And their fair dissembling cloak;
And a Presbyterian jump,
With an Independent smock.
Says old Simon, etc.

Will you buy a conscience oft turn’d,
Which served the High-Court of justice,
And stretch’d until England it mourn’d,
But hell will buy that if the worst is.
Here’s Joan Cromwell’s kitchen-stuff tub,
Wherein is the fat of the Rumpers,
With which old Noll’s horns she did rub,
When he was got drunk with false bumbers.
Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s the purse of the public faith;
Here’s the model of the Sequestration,
When the old wives upon their good troth
Lent thimbles to ruin the nation.
Here’s Dick Cromwell’s Protectorship,
And here are Lambert’s commissions,
And here is Hugh Peters his scrip,
Cramm’d with tumultuous petitions.
Says old Simon, etc.

And here are old Noll’s brewing vessels,
And here are his dray and his flings;
Here are Hewson’s {36} awl and his bristles,
With diverse other odd things:
And what is the price doth belong
To all these matters before ye?
I’ll sell them all for an old song,
And so I do end my story.
Says old Simon, etc.

THE CAVALIER’S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS, BEING CALLED TO THE WARRS.

The following song was extracted from the MS. Diary of the Rev. John Adamson (afterwards Rector of Burton Coggles, Lincolnshire), commencing in 1658; by a correspondent of Notes and Queries, First Series, Jan. 18, 1851.

FAIR Fidelia, tempt no more,
I may no more thy deity adore
Nor offer to thy shrine,
I serve one more divine
And farr more great than you:
I must goe,
Lest the foe
Gaine the cause and win the day.
Let’s march bravely on,
Charge ym in the van,
Our cause God’s is,
Though their odds is
Ten to one.

Tempt no more, I may not yeeld
Altho’ thine eyes
A kingdome may surprize:
Leave off thy wanton toiles,
The high-borne Prince of Wales
Is mounted in the field,
Where the royall gentry flocke.
Though alone
Nobly borne
Of a ne’re decaying stocke.
Cavaliers, be bold,
Bravely keep your hold,
He that loyters
Is by traytors
Bought and sold.

One kisse more, and then farewell;
Oh no, no more,
I prithee give me o’er,—
Why cloudest thou thy beames?
I see by these extreames
A woman’s heaven or hell.
Pray the King may have his owne,
And the Queen
May be seen
With her babes on England’s throne.
Rally up your men,
One shall vanquish ten,
Victory, we
Come to try thee
Once agen.

THE LAST NEWS FROM FRANCE.

[From vol. iii. of the Roxburgh Ballads, in the British Museum.]

The last news from France, being a true relation of the escape of the King of Scots from Worcester to London and from London to France,—who was conveyed away by a young gentleman in woman’s apparel; the King of Scots attending on this supposed gentlewoman in manner of a serving-man.

Tune, “When the King enjoys his own again.”

ALL you that do desire to know
What is become of the King o’ Scots,
I unto you will truly show
After the fight of Northern Rats.
’Twas I did convey
His Highness away,
And from all dangers set him free;—
In woman attire,
As reason did require,
And the King himself did wait on me.

He of me a service did crave,
And oftentimes to me stood bare;
In woman’s apparel he was most brave,
And on his chin he had no hare;
Wherever I came
My speeches did frame
So well my waiting-man to free,
The like was never known
I think by any I one,
For the King himself did wait on me.

My waiting-man a jewel had,
Which I for want of money sold;
Because my fortune was so bad
We turn’d our jewel into gold.
A good shift indeed,
In time of our need,
Then glad was I and glad was he;
Our cause it did advance
Until we came to France,
And the King himself did wait on me.

We walked through Westminster Hall,
Where law and justice doth take place
Our grief was great, our comfort small,
We lookt grim death all in the face.
I lookt round about,
And made no other doubt
But I and my man should taken be;
The people little knew,
As I may tell to you,
The King himself did wait on me.

From thence we went to the fatal place
Where his father lost his life;
And then my man did weep apace,
And sorrow with him then was rife.
I bid him peace,
Let sorrow cease,
For fear that we should taken be.
The gallants in Whitehall
Did little know at all
That the King himself did wait on me.

The King he was my serving-man,
And thus the plot we did contrive:
I went by the name of Mistress Anne
When we took water at Queenhythe.
A boat there we took,
And London forsook,
And now in France arrived are we.
We got away by stealth,
And the King is in good health,
And he shall no longer wait on me.

The King of Denmark’s dead, they say,
Then Charles is like to rule the land;
In France he will no longer stay,
As I do rightly understand.
That land is his due,
If they be but true,
And he with them do well agree:
I heard a bird sing
If he once be their king,
My man will then my master be.

Now Heaven grant them better success
With their young king than England had;
Free from war and from distress,
Their fortune may not be so bad;
Since the case thus stands,
Let neighbouring lands
Lay down their arms and at quiet be;
But as for my part,
I am glad with all my heart
That my King must now my master be.

And thus I have declared to you
By what means we escaped away;
Now we bid our cares adieu,
Though the King did lose the day.
To him I was true,
And that he well knew;
’Tis God that must his comfort be,
Else all our policy
Had been but foolery,
For the King no longer waits on me.

SONG TO THE FIGURE TWO.

From vol. ii. of the Roxburgh Ballads, in the British Museum.

A merry new song wherein you may view
The drinking healths of a joviall crew,
To t’ happie return of the figure of TWO.

The figure of TWO is a palpable allusion to Charles II. Tune, “Ragged,
and torn, and true.”