Chapter I: MARVEL, Dick, that having been

So long abroad, and having seen
The world as thou hast done,
Thou should’st acquaint mee with a tale
As old as Nestor, and as stale
As that of Priest and Nunne. {100}

Are we to learn what is a Court?
A pageant made for fortune’s sport,
Where merits scarce appear;
For bashfull merit only dwells
In camps, in villages, and cells;
Alas! it dwells not there.

Desert is nice in its addresse,
And merit ofttimes doth oppresse
Beyond what guilt would do;
But they are sure of their demands
That come to Court with golden hands,
And brazen faces, too.

The King, they say, doth still professe
To give his party some redresse,
And cherish honestie;
But his good wishes prove in vain,
Whose service with his servants’ gain
Not alwayes doth agree.

All princes (be they ne’er so wise)
Are fain to see with others’ eyes,
But seldom hear at all;
And courtiers find their interest
In time to feather well their nest,
Providing for their fall.

Our comfort doth on time depend,
Things when they are at worst will mend;
And let us but reflect
On our condition th’ other day,
When none but tyrants bore the sway,
What did we then expect?

Meanwhile a calm retreat is best,
But discontent (if not supprest)
Will breed disloyaltie;
This is the constant note I sing,
I have been faithful to the King,
And so shall ever be.

London, printed for Robert Crofts, at the Crown, in Chancery Lane, 1661.

A RELATION.

Of Ten grand infamous Traytors, who, for their horrid murder and detestable villany against our late soveraigne Lord King Charles the First, that ever blessed martyr, were arraigned, tryed, and executed in the moneth of October, 1660, which in perpetuity will be had in remembrance unto the world’s end.

This is one of the Six Ballads of the Restoration found in a trunk, and sent by Sir W. C. Trevelyan to the British Museum. “No measure threw more disgrace on the Restoration,” says Mr Wright, “than the prosecution of the regicides; and the heartless and sanguinary manner in which it was conducted tended more than any other circumstance to open the eyes of the people to the real character of the government to which they had been betrayed.” Pepys observes on the 20th Oct., “A bloody week this and the last have been; there being ten hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

The tune is “Come let us drinke, the time invites.”

HEE that can impose a thing,
And shew forth a reason
For what was done against the King,
From the palace to the prison;
Let him here with me recite,
For my pen is bent to write
The horrid facts of treason.

Since there is no learned scribe
Nor arithmaticion
Ever able to decide
The usurp’d base ambition,
Which in truth I shall declare,
Traytors here which lately were,
Who wanted a phisitian.

For the grand disease that bred
Nature could not weane it;
From the foot unto the head,
Was putrefacted treason in it;
Doctors could no cure give,
Which made the squire then beleeve
That he must first begin it.

And the phisick did compose,
Within a pound of reason;
First to take away the cause,
Then to purge away the treason,
With a dosse of hemp made up,
Wrought as thickly as a rope,
And given them in due season.

The doctors did prescribe at last
To give ’um this potation,
A vomit or a single cast,
Well deserved, in purgation;
After that to lay them downe,
And bleed a veine in every one,
As traytors of the nation.

So when first the physicke wrought,
The thirteenth of October, {101}
The patient on a sledge was brought,
Like a rebell and a rover,
To the execution tree;
Where with much dexterity
Was gently turned over.

THE SECOND PART.

To the same tune.

MONDAY was the fifteenth day,
As Carew then did follow, {102}
Of whom all men I thinke might say
In tyranny did deeply wallow;
Traytor proved unto the King,
Which made him on the gallowes swing,
And all the people hallow.

Tuesday, after Peters, Cooke, {103}
Two notorious traytors,
That brought our soveraigne to the blocke,
For which were hang’d and cut in quarters;
’Twas Cooke which wrought the bloody thing
To draw the charge against our King,
That ever blessed martyr.

Next, on Wednesday, foure came,
For murthur all imputed,
There to answer for the same,
Which in judgement were confuted.
Gregorie Clement, Jones, and Scot,
And Scroop together, for a plot, {104}
Likewise were executed.

Thursday past, and Friday then,
To end the full conclusion,
And make the traytors just up ten,
That day were brought to execution,
Hacker and proud Axtell he, {105}
At Tyburne for their treachery
Received their absolution.

Being against the King and States,
The Commons all condemn’d ’um,
And their quarters on the gates
Hangeth for a memorandum
’Twixt the heavens and the earth;
Traytors are so little worth,
To dust and smoake wee’l send ’um.

Let now October warning make
To bloody-minded traytors,
That never phisicke more they take,
For in this moneth they lost their quarters;
Being so against the King,
Which to murther they did bring,
The ever blessed martyr.

London, printed for Fr. Coles, T. Vere, M. Wright, and W. Gilbertson.

THE GLORY OF THESE NATIONS;

OR, KING AND PEOPLES HAPPINESSE. BEING A BRIEF RELATION OF KING CHARLES’S ROYALL PROGRESSE FROM DOVER TO LONDON, HOW THE LORD GENERALL AND THE LORD MAYOR, WITH ALL THE NOBILITY AND GENTRY OF THE LAND, BROUGHT HIM THOROW THE FAMOUS CITY OF LONDON TO HIS PALLACE AT WESTMINSTER, THE 29TH OF MAY LAST, BEING HIS MAJESTIES BIRTH-DAY, TO THE GREAT COMFORT OF HIS LOYALL SUBJECTS.

One of the six curious broadsides found by Sir W. C. Trevelyan in the lining of a trunk, and now in the British Museum.

The new Parliament met on the twenty-fifth of April, and on the first of May the King’s letter from Breda was read, and the Restoration determined by a vote of the House. The King immediately repaired to the coast, and, after meeting with some obstruction from the roughness of the weather, went on board the _Nazeby_ on the 23rd of May. On the 25th he landed at Dover. He made his entry into London on the 29th.

To the tune of “When the King enjoys his own again.”

WHERE’S those that did prognosticate,
And did envy fair England’s state,
And said King Charles no more should reign?
Their predictions were but in vain,
For the King is now return’d,
For whom fair England mourn’d;
His nobles royally him entertain.
Now blessed be the day!
Thus do his subjects say,
That God hath brought him home again.

The twenty-second of lovely May
At Dover arrived, fame doth say,
Where our most noble generall
Did on his knees before him fall,
Craving to kiss his hand,
So soon as he did land.
Royally they did him entertain,
With all their pow’r and might,
To bring him to his right,
And place him in his own again.

Then the King, I understand,
Did kindly take him by the hand
And lovingly did him embrace,
Rejoycing for to see his face.
Hee lift him from the ground
With joy that did abound,
And graciously did him entertain;
Rejoycing that once more
He was o’ th’ English shore,
To enjoy his own in peace again.

From Dover to Canterbury they past,
And so to Cobham-hall at last;
From thence to London march amain,
With a triumphant and glorious train,
Where he was received with joy,
His sorrow to destroy,
In England once more for to raign;
Now all men do sing,
God save Charles our King,
That now enjoyes his own again.

At Deptford the maidens they
Stood all in white by the high-way
Their loyalty to Charles to show,
They with sweet flowers his way to strew.
Each wore a ribbin blew,
They were of comely hue,
With joy they did him entertain,
With acclamations to the skye
As the King passed by,
For joy that he receives his own again.

In Wallworth-fields a gallant band
Of London ’prentices did stand,
All in white dublets very gay,
To entertain King Charles that day,
With muskets, swords, and pike;
I never saw the like,
Nor a more youthfull gallant train;
They up their hats did fling,
And cry, “God save the King!
Now he enjoys his own again.”

At Newington-Buts the Lord Mayor willed
A famous booth for to be builded,
Where King Charles did make a stand,
And received the sword into his hand;
Which his Majesty did take,
And then returned back
Unto the Mayor with love again.
A banquet they him make,
He doth thereof partake,
Then marcht his triumphant train.

The King with all his noblemen,
Through Southwark they marched then;
First marched Major Generall Brown, {106}
Then Norwich Earle of great renown, {107}
With many a valiant knight
And gallant men of might,
Richly attired, marching amain,
There Lords Mordin, Gerard, and
The good Earle of Cleavland, {108}
To bring the King to his own again.

Near sixty flags and streamers then
Was born before a thousand men,
In plush coats and chaines of gold,
These were most rich for to behold;
With every man his page,
The glory of his age;
With courage bold they marcht amain,
Then with gladnesse they
Brought the King on his way
For to enjoy his own again.

Then Lichfields and Darbyes Earles, {109}
Two of fair England’s royall pearles;
Major Generall Massey then
Commanded the life guard of men,
The King for to defend,
If any should contend,
Or seem his comming to restrain;
But also joyfull were
That no such durst appear,
Now the King enjoyes his own again.

Four rich maces before them went,
And many heralds well content;
The Lord Mayor and the generall
Did march before the King withall.
His brothers on each side
Along by him did ride;
The Southwark-waits did play amain,
Which made them all to smile
And to stand still awhile,
And then they marched on again.

Then with drawn swords all men did side,
And flourishing the same, then cryed,
“Charles the Second now God save,
That he his lawfull right may have!
And we all on him attend,
From dangers him to defend,
And all that with him doth remain.
Blessed be God that we
Did live these days to see,
That the King enjoyes his own again!”

The bells likewise did loudly ring,
Bonefires did burn and people sing;
London conduits did run with wine,
And all men do to Charles incline;
Hoping now that all
Unto their trades may fall,
Their famylies for to maintain,
And from wrong be free,
’Cause we have liv’d to see
The King enjoy his own again.

London, printed for Charles Tyns, on London Bridge.

THE NOBLE PROGRESS, OR, A TRUE RELATION OF THE LORD GENERAL MONK’S POLITICAL PROCEEDINGS.

The Noble Progresse, or a True Relation of the Lord General Monk’s Political Proceedings with the Rump, the calling in the secluded Members, their transcendant vote for his sacred Majesty, with his reception at Dover, and royal conduct through the City of London to his famous Palace at Whitehall. One of the broadsides in the British Museum, found in the lining of an old trunk by Sir W. C. Trevelyan.

Tune—“When first the Scottish wars began.”

GOOD people, hearken to my call,
I’le tell you all what did befall
And hapned of late;
Our noble valiant General Monk
Came to the Rump, who lately stunk
With their council of state.
Admiring what this man would doe,
His secret mind there’s none could know,
They div’d into him as much as they could,—
George would not be won with their silver nor gold:
The sectarian saints at this lookt blew,
With all the rest of the factious crew,
They vapour’d awhile, and were in good hope,
But now they have nothing left but the rope.

Another invention then they sought,
Which long they wrought for to be brought
To claspe him with they;
Quoth Vane and Scot, I’le tell you what,
Wee’l have a plot and he shall not,
Wee’l carry the sway:
Let’s vote him a thousand pound a yeare,
And Hampton Court for him and his Heire.
Indeed, quoth George, ye’re Free Parliament men
To cut a thong out of another man’s skin.
The sectarian, etc.

They sent him then with all his hosts
To break our posts and raise our ghosts,
Which was their intent;
To cut our gates and chain all downe
Unto the ground—this trick they found
To make him be shent:
This plot the Rump did so accord
To cast an odium on my lord,
But in the task he was hard put untoo’t,
’Twas enough to infect both his horse and his foot,
The sectarian, etc.

But when my lord perceived that night
What was their spight, he brought to light
Their knaveries all;
This Parliament of forty-eight,
Which long did wait, came to him straight,
To give them a fall,
And some phanatical people knew
That George would give them their fatall due;
Indeed he did requite them agen,
For he pul’d the Monster out of his den.
The sectarian, etc.

To the House our worthy Parliament
With good intent they boldly went
To vote home the King,
And many hundred people more
Stood at the doore, and waited for
Good tidings to bring;
Yet some in the House had their hands much in blood,
And in great opposition like traytors they stood;
But yet I believe it is very well known
That those that were for him were twenty to one.
But the sectarian, etc.

They call’d the League and Covenant in
To read again to every man;
But what comes next?
All sequestrations null be void,
The people said none should be paid,
For this was the text.
For, as I heard all the people say,
They voted King Charles the first of May;
Bonfires burning, bells did ring,
And our streets did echo with God bless ye King.
At this the sectarian, etc.

Our general then to Dover goes,
In spite of foes or deadly blowes,
Saying Vive le Roy;
And all the glories of the land,
At his command they there did stand
In triumph and joy.
Good Lord, what a sumptuous sight ’twas to see
Our good Lord General fall on his knee
To welcome home his Majestie,
And own his sacred sovereignty.
But the sectarian, etc.

When all the worthy noble train
Came back again with Charlemain,
Our sovereign great:
The Lord Mayor in his scarlet gown,
His chain so long, went through the town
In pompe and state.
The livery-men each line the way
Upon this great triumphant day;
Five rich maces carried before,
And my Lord himselfe the sword he bore.
Then Vive le Roy the gentry did sing,
For General Monk rode next to the King;
With acclamations, shouts, and cryes,
I thought they would have rent the skyes.

The conduits, ravished with joy,
As I may say, did run all day
Great plenty of wine;
And every gentleman of note
In’s velvet coat that could be got
In glory did shine.
There were all the peeres and barrons bold,
Richly clad in silver and gold,
Marched through the street so brave,
No greater pompe a king could have.
At this, the sacristan, etc.

And thus conducted all along
Throughout the throng, still he did come
Unto White Hall;
Attended by those noble-men,
Bold heroes’ kin that brought him in
With the geneall;
Who was the man that brought him home
And placed him on his royal throne;—
’Twas General Monk did doe the thing,
So God preserve our gracious King,
Now the sacristan, etc.

ON THE KING’S RETURN.

By Alex. Brome.

LONG have we waited for a happy end
Of all our miseries and strife;—
But still in vain;—the swordmen did intend
To make them hold for term of life:
That our distempers might be made
Their everlasting livelihood and trade.

They entail their swords and guns,
And pay, which wounded more,
Upon their daughters and their sons,
Thereby to keep us ever poor.

But when the Civil Wars were past,
They civil government invade,
To make our taxes and our slavery last,
Both to their titles and their trade.

But now we are redeem’d from all
By our indulgent King,
Whose coming does prevent our fall,
With loyal and with joyful hearts we’ll sing:

CHORUS,

Welcome, welcome, royal May,
Welcome, long-desired Spring.
Many Springs and Mays we’ve seen,
Have brought forth what’s gay and green;
But none is like this glorious day,
Which brings forth our gracious King.

THE BRAVE BARBARY.

A Ballad by Alex. Brome.

OLD England is now a brave Barbary made,
And every one has an ambition to ride her;
King Charles was a horseman that long used the trade,
But he rode in a snaffle, and that could not guide her.

Then the hungry Scot comes with spur and with switch,
And would teach her to run a Geneva career;
His grooms were all Puritan, Traytor, and Witch,
But she soon threw them down with their pedlary geer.

The Long Parliament next came all to the block,
And they this untameable palfrey would ride;
But she would not bear all that numerous flock,
At which they were fain themselves to divide.

Jack Presbyter first gets the steed by the head,
While the reverend Bishops had hold of the bridle;
Jack said through the nose they their flockes did not feed,
But sat still on the beast and grew aged and idle.

And then comes the Rout, with broom-sticks inspired,
And pull’d down their graces, their sleeves, and their train;
And sets up Sir Jack, who the beast quickly tyr’d
With a journey to Scotland and thence back again.

Jack rode in a doublet, with a yoke of prick-ears,
A cursed splay-mouth and a Covenant spur,
Rides switching and spurring with jealousies and fears,
Till the poor famish’d beast was not able to stir.

Next came th’ Independent—a dev’lish designer,
And got himself call’d by a holier name—
Makes Jack to unhorse, for he was diviner,
And would make her travel as far’s Amsterdam.

But Nol, a rank-rider, gets first in the saddle,
And made her show tricks, and curvate, and rebound;
She quickly perceived that he rode widdle waddle,
And like his coach-horses threw his Highness to ground.

Then Dick, being lame, rode holding by the pummel,
Not having the wit to get hold of the rein;
But the jade did so snort at the sight of a Cromwell,
That poor Dick and his kindred turn’d footmen again.

Next Fleetwood and Vane with their rascally pack,
Would every one put their feet in the stirrup;
But they pull’d the saddle quite off of her back,
And were all got under her before they were up.

At last the King mounts her, and then she stood still;
As his Bucephalus, proud of this rider,
She cheerfully yields to his power and skill
Who is careful to feed her, and skilful to guide her.

A CATCH.

By Alex. Brome. A.D. 1660.

LET’S leave off our labour, and now let’s go play,
For this is our time to be jolly;
Our plagues and our plaguers are both fled away,
To nourish our griefs is but folly:
He that won’t drink and sing
Is a traytor to’s King,
And so he that does not look twenty years younger;
We’ll look blythe and trim
With rejoicing at him
That is the restorer and will be the prolonger
Of all our felicity and health,
The joy of our hearts, and increase of our wealth.
’Tis he brings our trading, our trading brings riches,
Our riches brings honour, at which every mind itches,
And our riches bring sack, and our sack brings us joy,
And our joy makes us leap and sing,
Vive le Roy!

THE TURN-COAT.

By Samuel Butler. 1661.

Several lines in this song were incorporated in the better-known ballad of the Vicar of Bray, said by Nichols in his Select Poems to have been written by a soldier in Colonel Fuller’s troop of dragoons, in the reign of George I. Butler’s ballad, though unpublished, must therefore have been known at the time.

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