Chapter I: LOVED no King since forty-one, (1)

When Prelacy went down;
A cloak and band I then put on
And preach’d against the crown.
A turn-coat is a cunning man
That cants to admiration,
And prays for any king to gain
The people’s approbation.

I show’d the paths to heaven untrod,
From Popery to refine ’em,
And taught the people to serve God,
As if the Devil were in ’em.
A turn-coat, etc.

When Charles return’d into our land,
The English Church supporter,
I shifted off my cloak and band,
And so became a courtier.
A turn-coat, etc.

The King’s religion I profest,
And found there was no harm in ’t;
I cogg’d and flatter’d like the rest,
Till I had got preferment.
A turn-coat, etc.

I taught my conscience how to cope
With honesty or evil;
And when I rail’d against the Pope
I sided with the Devil.
A turn-coat, etc.

THE CLARET DRINKER’S SONG, OR THE GOOD FELLOW’S DESIGN.

Being a pleasant song of the times, written by a person of quality.—From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. iii.

Wine the most powerfull’st of all things on earth,
Which stifles cares and sorrows in their birth;
No treason in it harbours, nor can hate
Creep in when it bears away, to hurt the State.
Though storms grow high, so wine is to be got,
We are secure, their rage we value not;
The Muses cherish’d up such nectar, sing
Eternal joy to him that loves the King.

To the tune of “Let Cæsar live long.”

A POX of the fooling and plotting of late,
What a pudder and stir has it kept in the State!
Let the rabble run mad with suspicions and fears,
Let ’em scuffle and rail till they go by the ears,—
Their grievances never shall trouble my pate,
So I but enjoy my dear bottle at quiet.

What coxcombs were those that would ruin their case
And their necks for a toy, a thin wafer, and mass!
For at Tyburn they never had needed to swing
Had they been but true subjects to drink and their King:
A friend and a bottle is all my design,—
He’s no room for treason that’s top-full of wine.

I mind not the members and makers of laws,
Let them sit or prorogue as his Majesty please;
Let ’em damn us to Woolen, I’le never repine
At my usage when dead, so alive I have wine;
Yet oft in my drink I can hardly forbear
To blame them for making my claret so dear.

I mind not grave allies who idly debate
About rights and successions, the trifles of State;
We’ve a good King already, and he deserves laughter
That will trouble his head with who shall come after:
Come, here’s to his health! and I wish he may be
As free from all cares and all troubles as we.

SECOND PART.

WHAT care I how leagues with Hollanders go,
Or intrigues ’twist Mounsieurs or Dons for to?
What concerns it my drinking if cities be sold,
If the conqueror takes them by storming or gold?
From whence claret comes is the place that I mind,
And when the fleet’s coming I pray for a wind.

The bully of France that aspires to renown
By dull cutting of throats, and by venturing his own;
Let him fight till he’s ruined, make matches, and treat,
To afford us still news, the dull coffee-house cheat:
He’s but a brave wretch, whilst that I am more free,
More safe, and a thousand times happier than he.

In spite of him, or the Pope, or the Devil,
Or faggot, or fire, or the worst of hell’s evil,
I still will drink healths to the lovers of wine,
Those jovial, brisk blades that do never repine;
I’ll drink in defiance of napkin or halter,
Tho’ religion turn round still, yet mine shall ne’er alter.

But a health to good fellows shall still be my care,
And whilst wine it holds out, no bumpers we’ll spare.
I’ll subscribe to petitions for nothing but claret,
That that may be cheap, here’s both my hands for it;
’Tis my province, and with it I only am pleased,
With the rest, scolding wives let poor cuckolds appease.

No doubt ’tis the best of all drinks, or so soon
It ne’er had been chose by the Man in the Moon, {110}
Who drinks nothing else, both by night and by day
But claret, brisk claret, and most people say,
Whilst glasses brimful to the stars they go round,
Which makes them shine brighter with red juice still crown’d.

For all things in Nature doe live by good drinking,
And he’s a dull fool, and not worthy my thinking,
That does not prefer it before all the treasure
The Indies contain, or the sea without measure;
’Tis the life of good fellows, for without it they pine,
When nought can revive them but brimmers of wine.

I know the refreshments that still it does bring,
Which have oftentimes made us as great as a king
In the midst of his armies where’er he is found,
Whilst the bottles and glasses I’ve muster’d round;
Who are Bacchus’ warriors a conquest will gain
Without the least bloodshed, or wounded, or slain.

Then here’s a good health to all those that love peace,
Let plotters be damn’d and all quarrels now cease
Let me but have wine and I care for no more,
’Tis a treasure sufficient; there’s none can be poor
That has Bacchus to’s friend, for he laughs at all harm,
Whilst with high-proofed claret he does himself arm.

Printed for J. Jordan, at the Angel, Giltspur Street.

THE LOYAL SUBJECTS’ HEARTY WISHES TO KING CHARLES II.

From Sir W. C. Trevelyan’s Broadsides in the British Museum.

He that write these verses certainly
Did serve his royal father faithfully,
Likewise himself he served at Worcester fight,
And for his loyalty was put to flight.

But had he a haid of hair like Absolom,
And every hair as strong as was Samson,
I’d venture all for Charles the Second’s sake,
And for his Majesty my life forsake.

To the tune “When Cannons are roaring.”

FIRST PART.

TRUE subjects, all rejoice
After long sadness,
And now with heart and voice
Show forth your gladness.
That to King Charles were true
And rebels hated,
This song only to you
Is dedicated;
For Charles our sovereign dear
Is safe returned
True subjects’ hearts to cheer,
That long have mourned:
Then let us give God praise
That doth defend him,
And pray with heart and voice,
Angels, attend him.

The dangers he hath past
From vile usurpers
Now bring him joy at last,
Although some lurkers
Did seek his blood to spill
By actions evil;
But God we see is still
Above the Devil:
Though many serpents hiss
Him to devour,
God his defender is
By His strong power:
Then let us give him praise
That doth defend him,
And sing with heart and voice,
Angels, defend him.

The joy that he doth bring,
If true confessed,
The tongues of mortal men
Cannot confess it;
He cures our drooping fears,
Being long tormented,
And his true Cavaliers
Are well contented;
For now the Protestant
Again shall flourish;
The King our nursing father
He will us cherish:
Then let us give God praise
That did defend him,
And sing with heart and voice,
Angels, attend him.

Like Moses, he is meek
And tender-hearted;
And by all means doth seek
To have foes converted;
But, like the Israelites,
There are a number
That for his love to them
’Gainst him doth murmur:
Read Exodus,—’tis true
The Israelites rather
Yield to the Egyptian crew
Than Moses their father:
So many phanaticks,
With hearts disloyal,
Their hearts and minds do fix
’Gainst our King royal.

SECOND PART.

LIKE holy David, he
Past many troubles,
And by his constancy
His joys redoubles;
For now he doth bear sway
By God appointed,
For Holy Writ doth say,
Touch not mine Anointed.
He is God’s anointed sure,
Who still doth guide him
In all his wayes most pure,
Though some divide him.
Then let us give God praise
That doth defend him,
And sing with heart and voice,
Angels, attend him.

Many there are, we know,
Within this nation,
Lip-love to him do show
In ’simulation;
Of such vile hereticks
There are a number,
Whose hearts and tongues, we know,
Are far asunder;
Some do pray for the King
Being constrained;
Who lately against him
Greatly complained;
They turn both seat and seam
To cheat poor tailors,
But the fit place for them
Is under strong jailors.

Let the King’s foes admire
Who do reject him;
Seeing God doth him inspire,
And still direct him,
To heal those evil sores,
And them to cure
By his most gracious hand
And prayers pure.
Though simple people say
Doctors do as much,
None but our lawful King
Can cure with a touch;
As plainly hath been seen
Since he returned,—
Many have cured been
Which long have mourned.

The poorest wretch that hath
This evil, sure
May have ease from the King
And perfect cure;
His Grace is meek and wise,
Loving and civil,
And to his enemies
Doth good for evil;
For some that were his foes
Were by him healed;
His liberal cause to bless
Is not concealed;
He heals both poor and rich
By God’s great power,
And his most gracious touch
Doth them all cure.

Then blush, you infidels,
That late did scorn him;
And you that did rebel,
Crave pardon of him;
With speed turn a new leaf
For your transgresses;
Hear what the preacher sayes
In Ecclesiastes,—
The Scripture’s true, and shall
Ever be taught;
Curse not the King at all,
No, not in thy thought:
And holy Peter
Two commandments doth bring,—
Is first for to fear God,
And then honour the King.

When that we had no King
To guide the nation,
Opinions up did spring
By toleration;
And many heresies
Were then advanced,
And cruel liberties
By old Noll granted.
Even able ministers
Were not esteemed;
Many false prophets
Good preachers were deemed.
The Church some hated;
A barn, house, or stable
Would serve the Quakers,
With their wicked rabble.

And now for to conclude:
The God of power
Preserve and guide our King
Both day and hour;
That he may rule and reign
Our hearts to cherish;
And on his head, good Lord,
Let his crown flourish.
Let his true subjects sing
With hearts most loyal,
God bless and prosper still
Charles our King royal.
So now let’s give God praise
That doth defend him,
And sing with heart and voice,
Angels defend him.

London, printed for John Andrews, at the White Lion, near Pye-Court.

KING CHARLES THE SECOND’S RESTORATION, 29TH MAY.

Tune, “Where have you been, my lovely sailor bold?”

YOU brave loyal Churchmen,
That ever stood by the crown,
Have you forgot that noble prince
Great Charles of high renown,
That from his rights was banish’d
By Presbyterians, who
Most cruelty his father kill’d?—
O cursed, damned crew!
So let the bells in steeples ring,
And music sweetly play,
That loyal Tories mayn’t forget
The twenty-ninth of May.

Twelve years was he banish’d
From what was his just due,
And forced to hide in fields and woods
From Presbyterian crew;
But God did preserve him,
As plainly you do see,
The blood-hounds did surround the oak
While he was in the tree.
So let, etc.

As Providence would have it,
The hounds did lose their scent;
To spill the blood of this brave prince
It was their whole intent.
While that he was in exile,
The Church they pull’d down,
The Common-prayer they burnt, sir,
And trampled on the crown.
So let, etc.

They plunder’d at their pleasure,
On lords’ estates they seiz’d,
The bishops they did send away,
They did just as they pleas’d.
But General Monk at last rose up,
With valiant heart so bold,
Saying, that he no longer
By them would be controul’d.
So let, etc.

So in great splendour
At last he did bring in,
Unto every Torie’s joy,
Great Charles our sovereign.
Then loyal hearts so merry
The royal oak did wear,
While balconies with tapestry hung—
Nothing but joy was there.
So let, etc.

The conduits they with wine did run,
The bonfires did blaze,
In every street likewise the skies
Did ring with loud huzzas,—
Saying, God bless our sovereign,
And send him long to reign,
Hoping the P—n crew
May never rule again.
So let, etc.

Soon as great Charles
Our royal King was crown’d,
He built the Church up again,
The meetings were pull’d down.
No canting then was in the land,
The subjects were at peace,
The Church again did flourish,
And joy did then increase.
So let, etc.

The cursed Presbyterian crew
Was then put to the flight,
Some did fly by day,
And others run by night.
In barns and stables they did cant,
And every place they could;
He made them remember
The spilling royal blood.
So let, etc.

May God for ever
Bless the Church and Crown,
And never let any subject strive
The King for to dethrone.
May Churchmen ever flourish,
And peace increase again;
God for ever bless the King,
And send him long to reign.
So let, etc.

THE JUBILEE, OR THE CORONATION DAY.

From Thomas Jordan’s “_Royal Arbor of Loyal Poesie_,” 12mo, 1664. Mr Chappell states—“As this consists of only two stanzas, and the copy of the book, which is now in the possession of Mr Payne Collier, is probably unique, they are here subjoined.”

LET every man with tongue and pen
Rejoice that Charles is come agen,
To gain his sceptre and his throne,
And give to every man his own;
Let all men that be
Together agree,
And freely now express their joy;
Let your sweetest voices bring
Pleasant songs unto the King,
To crown his Coronation Day.

All that do thread on English earth
Shall live in freedom, peace, and mirth;
The golden times are come that we
Did one day think we ne’er should see;
Protector and Rump
Did put us in a dump,
When they their colours did display;
But the time is come about,
We are in, and they are out,
By King Charles his Coronation Day.

THE KING ENJOYS HIS OWN AGAIN.

(1661.)—From Hogg’s Jacobite Relics.

WHIGS are now such precious things,
We see there’s not one to be found;
All roar “God bless and save the King!”
And his health goes briskly all day round.
To the soldier, cap in hand, the sneaking rascals stand,
And would put in for honest men;
But the King he well knows his friends from his foes,
And now he enjoys his own again.

From this plot’s first taking air,
Like lightning all the Whigs have run;
Nay, they’ve left their topping square,
To march off with our eldest son:
They’ve left their ’states and wives to save their precious lives,
Yet who can blame their flying, when
’Twas plain to them all, the great and the small,
That the King would have his own again?

This may chance a warning be
(If e’er the saints will warning take)
To leave off hatching villany,
Since they’ve seen their brother at the stake:
And more must mounted be (which God grant we may see),
Since juries now are honest men:
And the King lets them swing with a hey ding a ding,
Great James enjoys his own again.

Since they have voted that his Guards
A nuisance were, which now they find,
Since they stand between the King
And the treason that such dogs design’d;
’Tis they will you maul, though it cost them a fall,
In spight of your most mighty men;
For now they are alarm’d, and all Loyalists well arm’d,
Since the King enjoys his own again.

To the King, come, bumpers round,
Let’s drink, my boys, while life doth last:
He that at the core’s not sound
Shall be kick’d out without a taste.
We’ll fear no disgrace, but look traitors in the face,
Since we’re case-harden’d, honest men;
Which makes their crew mad, but us loyal hearts full glad,
That the King enjoys his own again.

A COUNTRY SONG, INTITULED THE RESTORATION.

(May, 1661.)—From the twentieth volume of the folio broadsides, King’s
Pamphlets.

COME, come away
To the temple, and pray,
And sing with a pleasant strain;
The schismatick’s dead,
The liturgy’s read,
And the King enjoyes his own again.

The vicar is glad,
The clerk is not sad,
And the parish cannot refrain
To leap and rejoyce
And lift up their voyce,
That the King enjoyes his own again.

The country doth bow
To old justices now,
That long aside have been lain;
The bishop’s restored,
God is rightly adored,
And the King enjoyes his own again.

Committee-men fall,
And majors-generall,
No more doe those tyrants reign;
There’s no sequestration,
Nor new decimation,
For the King enjoyes the sword again.

The scholar doth look
With joy on his book,
Tom whistles and plows amain;
Soldiers plunder no more
As they did heretofore,
For the King enjoyes the sword again.

The citizens trade,
The merchants do lade,
And send their ships into Spain;
No pirates at sea
To make them a prey,
For the King enjoyes the sword again.

The old man and boy,
The clergy and lay,
Their joyes cannot contain;
’Tis better than of late
With the Church and the State,
Now the King enjoyes the sword again.

Let’s render our praise
For these happy dayes
To God and our sovereign;
Your drinking give ore,
Swear not as before,
For the King bears not the sword in vain.

Fanaticks, be quiet,
And keep a good diet,
To cure your crazy brain;
Throw off your disguise,
Go to church and be wise,
For the King bears not the sword in vain.

Let faction and pride
Be now laid aside,
That truth and peace may reign;
Let every one mend,
And there is an end,
For the King bears not the sword in vain.

HERE’S A HEALTH UNTO HIS MAJESTY.

There is only one verse to this Song. The music is arranged for three voices in “Playford’s Musical Companion, 1667.”

HERE’S a health unto his Majesty,
With a fal la la la la la la,
Confusion to his enemies,
With a fal lal la la la la la la.
And he that will not drink his health,
I wish him neither wit nor wealth,
Nor but a rope to hang himself.
With a fal lal la la la la la la la la,
With a fal lal la la la la la.

THE WHIGS DROWNED IN AN HONEST TORY HEALTH.

From Col. 180 Loyal Songs.

Tune, “Hark, the thundering canons roar.”

WEALTH breeds care, love, hope, and fear;
What does love or bus’ness here?
While Bacchus’ navy doth appear,
Fight on and fear not sinking;
Fill it briskly to the brim,
Till the flying top-sails swim,
We owe the first discovery to him
Of this great world of drinking.

Brave Cabals, who states refine,
Mingle their debates with wine,
Ceres and the god o’ th’ vine
Make every great commander;
Let sober Scots small beer subdue,
The wise and valiant wine do woo,
The Stagerite had the horrors too,
To be drunk with Alexander.

_Stand to your arms_! and now advance,
A health to the English King of France;
And to the next of boon esperance,
By Bacchus and Apollo;
Thus in state I lead the van,
Fall in your place by the right-hand man,
Beat drum! march on! dub a dub, ran dan!
He’s a Whig that will not follow.

Face about to the right again,
Britain’s admiral of the main,
York and his illustrious train
Crown the day’s conclusion;
Let a halter stop his throat
Who brought in the foremost vote,
And of all that did promote
The mystery of exclusion.

Next to Denmark’s warlike prince
Let the following health commence,
To the nymph whose influence
That brought the hero hither;—
May their race the tribe annoy,
Who the Grandsire would destroy,
And get every year a boy
Whilst they live together.

To the royal family
Let us close in bumpers three,
May the ax and halter be
The pledge of every Roundhead;
To all loyal hearts pursue,
Who to the monarch dare prove true;
But for him they call True Blue,
Let him be confounded.

THE CAVALIER.

By Alex. Brome.—(1661–2.)

WE have ventured our estates,
And our liberties and lives,
For our master and his mates,
And been toss’d by cruel fates
Where the rebellious Devil drives,
So that not one of ten survives;
We have laid all at stake
For his Majesty’s sake;
We have fought, we have paid,
We’ve been sold and betray’d,
And tumbled from nation to nation;
But now those are thrown down
That usurped the Crown,
Our hopes were that we
All rewarded should be,
But we’re paid with a Proclamation.

Now the times are turn’d about,
And the rebels’ race is run;
That many-headed beast the Rout,
That did turn the Father out,
When they saw they were undone,
Were for bringing in the son.
That phanatical crew,
Which made us all rue,
Have got so much wealth
By their plunder and stealth
That they creep into profit and power:
And so come what will,
They’ll be uppermost still;
And we that are low
Shall still be kept so,
While those domineer and devour.

Yet we will be loyal still,
And serve without reward or hire:
To be redeem’d from so much ill,
May stay our stomachs, though not still,
And if our patience do not tire,
We may in time have our desire.

THE LAMENTATION OF A BAD MARKET, OR THE DISBANDED SOULDIER.

(July 17th, 1660.)—From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.

This ballad relates to the disbanding of the Parliamentary army. Contrary, however, to what is pretended in it, says Mr. Wright, in his volume printed for the Percy Society, the writers of the time mention with admiration the good conduct of the soldiers after they were disbanded, each betaking himself to some honest trade or calling, with as much readiness as if he had never been employed in any other way. Not many weeks before the date of the present ballad, a prose tract had been published, with the same title, “The Lamentation of a Bad Market, or Knaves and Fools foully foyled, and fallen into a Pit of their own digging,” &c. March 21st, 1659–60.

IN red-coat raggs attired,
I wander up and down,
Since fate and foes conspired,
Thus to array me,
Or betray me
To the harsh censure of the town.
My buffe doth make me boots, my velvet coat and scarlet,
Which used to do me credit with many a wicked harlot,
Have bid me all adieu, most despicable varlet!
Alas, poor souldier, whither wilt thou march?

I’ve been in France and Holland,
Guided by my starrs;
I’ve been in Spain and Poland,
I’ve been in Hungarie,
In Greece and Italy,
And served them in all their wars.
Britain these eighteen years has known my desperate slaughter,
I’ve killed ten at one blow, even in a fit of laughter,
Gone home again and smiled, and kiss’d my landlor’s daughter;
Alas! poor souldier, etc.

My valour prevailed,
Meeting with my foes,
Which strongly we assailed;
Oh! strange I wondred,
They were a hundred;
Yet I routed them with few blowes.
This fauchion by my side has kind more men, I’ll swear it,
Than Ajax ever did, alas! he ne’er came near it,
Yea, more than Priam’s boy, or all that ere did hear it.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.

For King and Parliament
I was Prester John.
Devout was my intent;
I haunted meetings,
Used zealous greetings,
Crept full of devotion;
Smectymnuus won me first, then holy Nye prevail, {111}
Then Captain Kiffin {112} slops me with John of Leyden’s tail,
Then Fox and Naylor bangs me with Jacob Beamond’s flail. {113}
Alas! poor souldier, etc.

I did about this nation
Hold forth my gifts and teach,
Maintained the tolleration
The common story
And Directory
I damn’d with the word “preach.”
Time was when all trades failed, men counterfeitly zealous
Turn’d whining, snievling praters, or kept a country ale-house,
Got handsome wives, turn’d cuckolds, howe’er were very jealous.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.

The world doth know me well,
I ne’re did peace desire,
Because I could not tell
Of what behaviour
I should savour
In a field of thundring fire.
When we had murdered King, confounded Church and State,
Divided parks and forests, houses, money, plate,
We then did peace desire, to keep what he had gat.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.

Surplice was surplisage,
We voted right or wrong,
Within that furious age,
Of the painted glass,
Or pictured brass,
And liturgie we made a song.
Bishops, and bishops’ lands, were superstitious words,
Until in souldiers’ hands, and so were kings and lords,
But in fashion now again in spight of all our swords.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.

Some say I am forsaken
By the great men of these times,
And they’re no whit mistaken;
It is my fate
To be out of date,
My masters most are guilty of such crimes.
Like an old Almanack, I now but represent
How long since Edge-Hill fight, or the rising was in Kent,
Or since the dissolution of the first Long Parliament.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.

Good sirs, what shall I fancie,
Amidst these gloomy dayes?
Shall I goe court brown Nancy?
In a countrey town
They’l call me clown,
If I sing them my outlandish playes.
Let me inform their nodle with my heroick spirit,
My language and worth besides transcend unto merit;
They’l not believe one word, what mortal flesh can bear it?
Alas! poor souldier, etc.

Into the countrey places
I resolve to goe,
Amongst those sun-burnt faces
I’le goe to plough
Or keep a cow,
’Tis that my masters now again must do.
Souldiers ye see will be of each religion,
They’re but like stars, which when the true sun rise they’re gon.
I’le to the countrey goe, and there I’le serve Sir John;
Aye, aye, ’tis thither, and thither will I goe.

London, printed for Charles Gustavus, 1660.

THE COURTIER’S HEALTH; OR, THE MERRY BOYS OF THE TIMES.

(A.D. 1672.)—From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. ii.
To the tune of “Come, Boys, fill us a Bumper.”

COME, boys, fill us a bumper,
Wee’l make the nation roar,
She’s grown sick of a _Rumper_,
That sticks on the old score.
Pox on phanaticks, rout ’um,
They thirst for our blood;
Wee’l taxes raise without ’um,
And drink for the nation’s good.
Fill the pottles and the gallons,
And bring the hogshead in,
Wee’l begin with a tallen,
A brimmer to the King.

Round, around, fill a fresh one,
Let no man bawk his wine,
Wee’l drink to the next in succession,
And keep it in the right line.
Bring us ten thousand glasses,
The more we drink we’re dry;
We mind not the beautiful lasses,
Whose conquest lyes all in the eye.
Fill the pottles, etc.

We boys are truly loyal,
For Charles wee’l venture all,
We know his blood is royal,
His name shall never fall.
But those that seek his ruine
May chance to dye before him,
While we that sacks are woeing
For ever will adore him.
Fill the pottles, etc.

I hate those strange dissenters
That strives to hawk a glass,
He that at all adventures
Will see what comes to pass:
And let the Popish nation
Disturb us if they can,
They ne’er shall breed distraction
In a true-hearted man.
Fill the pottles, etc.

Let the fanatics grumble
To see things cross their grain,
Wee’l make them now more humble
Or ease them of their pain:
They shall drink sack amain too,
Or they shall be choak’t;
Wee’l tell ’um ’tis in vain too
For us to be provok’t.
Fill the pottles, etc.

He that denyes the brimmer
Shall banish’d be in this isle,
And we will look more grimmer
Till he begins to smile:
Wee’l drown him in Canary,
And make him all our own,
And when his heart is merry
Hee’l drink to Charles on’s throne.
Fill the pottles, etc.

Quakers and Anabaptists,
Wee’l sink them in a glass;
He deals most plain and flattest
That sayes he loves a lass:
Then tumble down Canary,
And let our brains go round,
For he that won’t be merry
He can’t at heart be sound.
Fill the pottles, etc.

Printed for P. Brooksly, at the Golden Ball in West Smithfield, 1672.

THE LOYAL TORIES’ DELIGHT; OR, A PILL FOR FANATICKS.

Being a most pleasant and new song.

1680.—From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. iii., fol. 911.

To the tune of “Great York has been debar’d of late, etc.”

GREAT York has been debar’d of late
From Court by some accursed fate;
But ere long, we do not fear,
We shall have him, have him here,
We shall have him, have him here.

The makers of the plot we see,
By damn’d old _Tony’s_ treachery,
How they would have brought it about,
To have given great York the rout,
To have given, etc.

God preserve our gracious King,
And safe tydings to us bring,
Defend us from the _sham black box_, {114}
And all damn’d fanatick plots,
And all damn’d, etc.

Here Charles’s health I drink to thee,
And with him all prosperity;
God grant that he long time may reign,
To bring us home great York again,
To bring us home, etc.

That he, in spight of all his foes
Who loyalty and laws oppose,
May long remain in health and peace,
Whilst plots and plotters all shall cease,
Whilst plots, etc.

Let Whigs go down to Erebus,
And not stay here to trouble us
With noisy cant and needless fear,
Of ills to come they know not where,
Of ills to come, etc.

When our chief trouble they create,
For plain we see what they’d be at;
Could they but push great York once down
They’d next attempt to snatch the crown,
They’d next attempt, etc.

But Heaven preserve our gracious King,
May all good subjects loudly sing;
And Royal James preserve likewise,
From such as do against him rise,
From such as do, etc.

Then come, again fill round our glass,
And, loyal Tories, less it pass,
Fill up, fill up unto the brim,
And let each boule with necture swim,
And let each boule, etc.

Though _cloakmen_, that seem much precise,
’Gainst wine exclaim with turn’d-up eyes;
Yet in a corner they’l be drunk,
With drinking healths unto the Rump,
With drinking, etc.

In hopes that once more they shall tear
Both Church and State, which is their prayer;
But Heaven does yet protect the throne,
Whilst Tyburn for such slaves does groan,
Whilst Tyburn, etc.

For now ’tis plain, most men abhor,
What some so strongly voted for;
Great York in favour does remain,
In spight of all the Whiggish train,
In spight of all, etc.

And now the _Old Cause_ goes to wrack,
Sedition mauger cloath in black
Do greatly dread the triple tree,
Whilst we rejoyce in loyalty,
Whilst we rejoyce, etc.

Then come, let’s take another round,
And still in loyalty abound,
And wish our King he long may reign
To bring us home great York again,
To bring us home great York again.

THE ROYAL ADMIRAL.

Miss Strickland quotes this ballad in her Lives of the Queens of England, and states that this was the first Jacobite song that was written and set to music.

LET Titus {115} and Patience {116} stir up a commotion,
Their plotting and swearing shall prosper no more;
Now gallant old Jamie commands on the ocean,
And mighty Charles keeps them in awe on the shore.

Jamie the Valiant, the Champion Royal,
His own and the monarchy’s rival withstood;
The bane and the terror of those the disloyal,
Who slew his loved father and thirst for his blood.

York, the great admiral,—Ocean’s defender,
The joy of our navy, the dread of its foes,
The lawful successor,—what upstart pretender
Shall dare, in our isle, the true heir to oppose?

Jamie quelled the proud foe on the ocean,
And rode the sole conqueror over the main;
To this gallant hero let all pay devotion,
For England her admiral sees him again.

THE UNFORTUNATE WHIGS.

1682.—From the Roxburgh Ballads.

To the tune of “The King enjoys his own,” &c.

THE Whigs are but small, and of no good race,
And are beloved by very few;
Old _Tony_ broach’d his tap in every place,
To encourage all his factious crew.
At some great houses in this town,
The Whigs of high renown,
And all with a true blue was their stain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,
Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own_, _again_.

They all owne duty to their lawful prince,
And loyal subjects should have been;
But their duty is worn out long since,
By the _Association_ seen.
But these are the Whigs,
That have cut off some legs,
And fain would be at that sport amain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,
Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own again_.

And yet they are sham-pretenders,
And they swear they’ll support our laws;
These be the great defenders of
_Ignoramus_ and the _Old Cause_:
They’ll defend the King
By swearing of the thing,
These are the cursed rogues in grain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,
Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own again_.

The true religion that shall down,
Which so long has won the day,
And _Common-prayer_ i’th’ church of ev’ry town,
If that the Whigs could but bear the sway:
For Oates he does begin
Now for to bring them in,
As when he came mumping from Spain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,
Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own again_.

How all their shamming plots they would hide,
Yet they are ignorant, they say,
When as Old _Tony_ he was try’d
And brought off with _Ignoramus_ sway:
When Oates he was dumb
And could not use his tongue,
This is the shamming rogues in grain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,
Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own again_.

Then let all true subjects sing,
And damn the power of all those
That won’t show loyalty to their King,
And assist him against his Whiggish foes.
Then in this our happy state,
In spight of traytors’ hate,
We will all loyal still remain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,
Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own again_.

God preserve our gracious King,
With the Royal Consort of his bed,
And let all loyal subjects sing
That the crown may remain on Charles’s head;
For we will drink his health
In spight of _Common-wealth_,
And his lawful rights we will maintain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,
Old Tony _will ne’r enjoy his own again_.

Printed for S. Maurel, in the year 1682.

THE DOWNFALL OF THE GOOD OLD CAUSE.

From a “Collection of One Hundred and Eighty Loyal Songs, all written since 1678,” and published London, 1694. [Fourth Edition.]

Tune,—“Hey, Boys, up go we.”

NOW the Bad Old Cause is tapt,
And the vessel standeth stoop’d;
The cooper may starve for want of work,
For the cask shall never be hoop’d;—
We will burn the Association,
The Covenant and vow,
The public cheat of the nation,
Anthony, now, now, now

No fanatick shall bear the sway
In court, city, or town,
These good kingdoms to betray,
And cry the right line down;—
Let them cry they love the King,
Yet if they hate his brother,
Remember Charles they murdered,
And so they would the other.

Weavers and such like fellows
In pulpit daily prate,
Like the Covenanters,
Against the Church and State:
Yet they cry they love the King,
But their baseness will discover;
Charles the First they murdered,
And so they would the other.

When these fellows go to drink,
In city or in town,
They vilify the bishops
And they cry the Stuarts down:
Still they cry they love the King,
But their baseness I’ll discover;
Charles the First they murdered,
And so they would the other.

When the King wanted money,
Poor Tangier to relieve,
They cry’d down his revenue,
Not a penny they would give:
Still they cry’d they loved the King,
But their baseness I’ll discover;
Charles the First they murdered,
And so they would the other.

The noble Marquis of Worcester,
And many such brave lord,
By the King-killing crew
They daily are abhor’d,
And called evil councellors,
When the truth they did discover;
And Charles the First they murdered,
And so they would the other.

The Papists they would kill the King,
But the Phanaticks did;
Their perjuries and treacheries
Aren’t to be parallel’d:
Let them cry they love the King,
Their faults I will discover;
Charles the First they murdered,
And so they would the other.

Charles the Second stands on’s guard,
Like a good politick King;
The Phanaticks ought to be abhor’d
For all their flattering:
Let them cry they love the King,
Their faults I will discover;
Charles the First they murdered,
And so they would the other.

Now let us all good subjects be,
That bear a loyal heart;
Stand fast for the King
And each man act his part;
And to support his Sovereign,
Religion, and the laws,
That formerly were established,
And down with the cursed cause.

OLD JEMMY.

From a “Collection of 180 Loyal Songs,” written since 1678. This is a parody on the Whig song, “Young Jemmy is a lad that’s royally descended,” written in celebration of the Duke of Monmouth. Old Jemmy is the Duke of York, afterwards James II.

To the tune of “Young Jemmy.”

OLD Jemmy is a lad
Right lawfully descended;
No bastard born nor bred,
Nor for a Whig suspended;
The true and lawful heir to th’ crown
By right of birth and laws,
And bravely will maintain his own
In spight of all his foes.

Old Jemmy is the top
And chief among the princes;
No _Mobile_ gay fop,
With Birmingham pretences;
A heart and soul so wondrous great,
And such a conquering eye,
That every loyal lad fears not
In Jemmy’s cause to die.

Old Jemmy is a prince
Of noble resolutions,
Whose powerful influence
Can order our confusions;
But oh! he fights with such a grace
No force can him withstand,
No god of war but must give place
When Jemmy leads the van.

To Jemmy every swain
Does pay due veneration,
And Scotland does maintain
His title to the nation;
The pride of all the court he stands,
The patron of his cause,
The joy and hope of all his friends,
And terror of his foes.

Maliciously they vote
To work Old Jemmy’s ruin,
And zealously promote
A Bill for his undoing;
Both Lords and Commons most agree
To pull his Highness down,
But (spight of all their policy)
Old Jemmy’s heir to th’ crown.

The schismatick and saint,
The Baptist and the Atheist,
Swear by the Covenant,
Old Jemmy is a Papist:
Whilst all the holy crew did plot
To pull his Highness down,
Great Albany, a noble Scot
Did raise unto a crown.

Great Albany, they swear,
He before any other
Shall be immediate heir
Unto his royal brother;
Who will, in spight of all his foes,
His lawful rights maintain,
And all the fops that interpose
Old Jemmy’s York again.

The Whigs and zealots plot
To banish him the nation,
But the renowned Scot
Hath wrought his restoration:
With high respects they treat his Grace,
His royal cause maintain;
Brave Albany (to Scotland’s praise)
Is mighty York again.

Against his envious fates
The Kirk hath taught a lesson,
A blessing on the States,
To settle the succession;
They real were, both knight and lord,
And will his right maintain,
By royal Parliament restored,
Old Jemmy’s come again.

And now he’s come again,
In spight of all Pretenders;
Great Albany shall reign,
Amongst the Faith’s defenders.
Let Whig and Birmingham repine,
They show their teeth in vain,
The glory of the British line,
Old Jemmy’s come again.

THE CLOAK’S KNAVERY.

From “Wit and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melancholy; being a Collection of the best merry Ballads and Songs, old and new.” London, 1714.

COME buy my new ballad,
I have’t in my wallet,
But ’twill not I fear please every pallate;
Then mark what ensu’th,
I swear by my youth
That every line in my ballad is truth.
A ballad of wit, a ballad of worth,
’Tis newly printed and newly come forth;
’Twas made of a cloak that fell out with a gown,
That cramp’d all the kingdom and crippled the crown.

I’ll tell you in brief
A story of grief,
Which happen’d when Cloak was Commander-in-chief;
It tore common prayers,
Imprison’d lord mayors,
In one day it voted down prelates and prayers;
It made people perjured in point of obedience,
And the Covenant did cut off the oath of allegiance.
Then let us endeavour to pull the Cloak down
That cramp’d all the kingdom and crippled the crown.

It was a black Cloke,
In good time be it spoke,
That kill’d many thousands but never struck stroke;
With hatchet and rope
The forlorn hope
Did join with the Devil to pull down the Pope;
It set all the sects in the city to work,
And rather than fail ’twould have brought in the Turk.
Then let us endeavour, etc.

It seized on the tower-guns,
Those fierce demi-gorgons,
It brought in the bag-pipes, and brought in the organs;
The pulpits did smoke,
The churches did choke,
And all our religion was turn’d to a cloak.
It brought in lay-elders could not write nor read,
It set public faith up and pull’d down the creed.
Then let us endeavour, etc.

This pious impostor
Such fury did foster,
It left us no penny nor no _pater-noster_;
It threw to the ground
The commandments down,
And set up twice twenty times ten of its own;
It routed the King and villains elected,
To plunder all those whom they thought disaffected.
Then let us endeavour, etc.

To blind people’s eyes
This Cloak was so wise,
It took off ship-money, but set up excise;
Men brought in their plate
For reasons of state,
And gave it to Tom Trumpeter and his mate.
In pamphlets it writ many specious epistles,
To cozen poor wenches of bodkins and whistles.
Then let us endeavour, etc.

In pulpits it moved,
And was much approved
For crying out, _Fight The Lord’s battles_, _beloved_;
It bob-tayled the gown,
Put Prelacy down,
It trod on the mitre to reach at the crown;
And into the field it an army did bring,
To aim at the council but shoot at the King.
Then let us endeavour, etc.

It raised up States
Whose politic fates
Do now keep their quarters on the city gates.
To father and mother,
To sister and brother,
It gave a commission to kill one another.
It took up men’s horses at very low rates,
And plunder’d our goods to secure our estates.
Then let us endeavour, etc.

This Cloak did proceed
To damnable deed,
It made the best mirror of majesty bleed;
Tho’ Cloak did not do’t,
He set it on foot,
By rallying and calling his journeymen to’t.
For never had come such a bloody disaster,
If Cloak had not first drawn a sword at his master.
Then let us endeavour, etc.

Tho’ some of them went hence
By sorrowful sentence,
This lofty long Cloak is not moved to repentance;
But he and his men,
Twenty thousand times ten,
Are plotting to do their tricks over again.
But let this proud Cloak to authority stoop,
Or DUN will provide him a button and loop.
Then let us endeavour to pull the Cloak down
That basely did sever the head from the crown.

Let’s pray that the King
And his Parliament
In sacred and secular things may consent;
So righteously firm,
And religiously free,
That Papists and Atheists suppressed may be.
And as there’s one Deity does over-reign us,
One faith and one form and one Church may contain us.
Then peace, truth, and plenty our kingdom will crown,
And all Popish plots and their plotters shall down.

THE TIME-SERVER, OR A MEDLEY.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.

ROOM for a gamester that plays at all he sees,
Whose fickle fancy suits such times as these,
One that says Amen to every factious prayer,
From Hugh Peters’ pulpit to St Peter’s chair;
One that doth defy the Crozier and the Crown,
But yet can house with blades that carouse,
Whilst pottle pots tumble down, derry down,
One that can comply with surplice and with cloak,
Yet for his end can independ
Whilst Presbyterian broke Brittain’s yoke.

This is the way to trample without trembling,
’Tis the sycophant’s only secure.
Covenants and oaths are badges of dissembling,
’Tis the politick pulls down the pure.
To profess and betray, to plunder and pray,
Is the only ready way to be great;
Flattery doth the feat;
Ne’er go, ne’er stir, sir—will venture further
Than the greatest dons in the town,
From a coffer to a crown.

I’m in a temperate humour now to think well,
Now I’m in another humour for to drink well,
Then fill us up a beer-bowl, boys, that we
May drink it, drink it merrily;
No knavish spy shall understand,
For, if it should be known,
’Tis ten to one we shall be trepanned.

I’ll drink to them a brace of quarts,
Whose anagram is call’d true hearts;
If all were well, as I would ha’t,
And Britain cured of its tumour,
I should very well like my fate,
And drink my sack at a cheaper rate,
Without any noise or rumour,
Oh then I should fix my humour.

But since ’tis no such matter, change your hue,
I may cog and flatter, so may you;
Religion is a widgeon, and reason is treason,
And he that hath a loyal heart may bid the world adieu.

We must be like the Scottish man,
Who, with intent to beat down schism,
Brought in the Presbyterian
With canon and with catechism.
If beuk wont do’t, then Jockey shoot,
For the Church of Scotland doth command;
And what hath been since they came in
I think we have cause to understand.

THE SOLDIER’S DELIGHT.

(Made in the late times.)

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.

FAIR Phydelia, tempt no more,
I may not now thy beauty so adore,
Nor offer to thy shrine;
I serve one more divine
And greater far than you:
Hark! the trumpet calls away,
We must go, lest the foe
Get the field and win the day;
Then march bravely on,
Charge them in the van,
Our cause God’s is, though the odds is
Ten times ten to one.

Tempt no more, I may not yield,
Although thine eyes a kingdom may surprise;
Leave off thy wanton tales,
The high-born Prince of Wales
Is mounted in the field,
Where the loyal gentry flock,
Though forlorn, nobly born,
Of a ne’er-decaying stock;
Cavaliers, be bold, ne’er let go your hold,
Those that loiters are by traitors
Dearly bought and sold.

_Phydelia_.—One kiss more, and so farewell.
_Soldier_.—Fie, no more! I prithee fool give o’er;
Why cloud’st thou thus thy beams?
I see by these extremes,
A woman’s heaven or hell.
Pray the King may have his own,
That 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 our valour once again.

THE LOYAL SOLDIER.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and
edited by J. O. Halliwell.

WHEN in the field of Mars we lie,
Amongst those martial wights,
Who, never daunted, are to dye
For King and countrie’s rights;
As on Belona’s god I wait,
And her attendant be,
Yet, being absent from my mate,
I live in misery.

When lofty winds aloud do blow,
It snoweth, hail, or rain,
And Charon in his boat doth row,
Yet stedfast I’ll remain;
And for my shelter in some barn creep,
Or under some hedge lye;
Whilst such as do now strong castles keep
Knows no such misery.

When down in straw we tumbling lye,
With Morpheus’ charms asleep,
My heavy, sad, and mournful eye
In security so deep;
Then do I dream within my arms
With thee I sleeping lye,
Then do I dread or fear no harms,
Nor feel no misery.

When all my joys are thus compleat,
The canons loud do play,
The drums alarum straight do beat,
Trumpet sounds, horse, away!
Awake I then, and nought can find
But death attending me,
And all my joys are vanisht quite,—
This is my misery.

When hunger oftentimes I feel,
And water cold do drink,
Yet from my colours I’le not steal,
Nor from my King will shrink;
No traytor base shall make me yield,
But for the cause I’le be:
This is my love, pray Heaven to shield,
And farewell misery.

Then to our arms we straight do fly,
And forthwith march away;
Few towns or cities we come nigh
Good liquor us deny;
In Lethe deep our woes we steep—
Our loves forgotten be,
Amongst the jovialst we sing,
Hang up all misery.

Propitious fate, then be more kind,
Grim death, lend me thy dart,
O sun and moon, and eke the wind,
Great Jove, take thou our part;
That of these Roundheads and these wars
An end that we may see,
And thy great name we’ll all applaud,
And hang all misery.

THE POLITITIAN.

Upon an act of Treason made by the Rebels, etc.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and
edited by J. O. Halliwell.

BUT since it was lately enacted high treason
For a man to speak truth ’gainst the head of a state,
Let every wise man make a use of his reason
To think what he will, but take heed what he prate;
For the proverb doth learn us,
He that stays from the battel sleeps in a whole skin,
And our words are our own if we keep them within,
What fools are we then that to prattle do begin
Of things that do not concern us!

’Tis no matter to me whoe’er gets the battle,
The rubs or the crosses, ’tis all one to me;
It neither increaseth my goods nor my cattle;
A beggar’s a beggar, and so he shall be
Unless he turn traitor.
Let misers take courses to hoard up their treasure,
Whose bounds have no limits, whose minds have no measure,
Let me be but quiet and take a little pleasure,
A little contents my own nature.

But what if the kingdom returns to the prime ones?
My mind is a kingdom, and so it shall be;
I’ll make it appear, if I had but the time once,
He’s as happy in one as they are in three,
If he might but enjoy it.
He that’s mounted aloft is a mark for the fate,
And an envy to every pragmatical pate,
Whilst he that is low is safe in his estate,
And the great ones do scorn to annoy him.

I count him no wit that is gifted in rayling
And flurting at those that above him do sit;
Whilst they do outwit him with whipping and jailing,
His purse and his person must pay for his wit.
But ’tis better to be drinking;
If sack were reform’d to twelve-pence a quart
I’d study for money to merchandise for’t,
With a friend that is willing in mirth we would sport;
Not a word, but we’d pay it with thinking.

My petition shall be that Canary be cheaper,
Without either custom or cursed excise;
That the wits may have freedom to drink deeper and deeper,
And not be undone whilst our noses we baptize;
But we’ll liquor them and drench them.
If this were but granted, who would not desire
To dub himself one of Apollo’s own quire?
And then we will drink whilst our noses are on fire,
And the quart pots shall be buckets to quench them.

A NEW DROLL.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Edited by J. O. Halliwell.

COME let’s drink, the time invites,
Winter and cold weather;
For to spend away long nights,
And to keep good wits together.
Better far than cards or dice,
Isaac’s balls are quaint device,
Made up with fan and feather.

Of strange actions on the seas
Why should we be jealous?
Bring us liquor that will please,
And will make us braver fellows
Than the bold Venetian fleet,
When the Turks and they do meet
Within their Dardanellos.

Valentian, that famous town,
Stood the French man’s wonder;
Water they employ’d to drown,
So to cut their troops assunder;
Turein gave a helpless look,
While the lofty Spaniard took
La Ferta and his plunder.

As for water, we disclaim
Mankind’s adversary;
Once it caused the world’s whole frame
In the deluge to miscarry;
And that enemy of joy
Which sought our freedom to destroy
And murder good Canary.

We that drink have no such thoughts,
Black and void of reason:
We take care to fill our vaults
With good wine of every season;
And with many a chirping cup
We blow one another up,
And that’s our only treason.