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The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684 Edited by Charles Mackay
The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684
When The King Enjoys His Own Again When The King Comes Home In Peace Again I Love My King And Country Well The Commoners The Royalist The New Courtier Upon The Cavaliers Departing Out Of London A Mad World, My Masters The Man O' The Moon The Tub-Preacher The New Litany The Old Protestant's Litany Vive Le Roy The Cavalier A Caveat To The Roundheads Hey, Then, Up Go We The Clean Contrary Way, Or, Colonel Venne's Encouragement To His Soldiers The Cameronian Cat The Royal Feast Upon His Majesty's Coming To Holmby I Thank You Twice The Cities Loyaltie To The King The Lawyers' Lamentation For The Loss Of Charing-Cross The Downfal Of Charing-Cross The Long Parliament The Puritan The Roundhead Prattle Your Pleasure Under The Rose The Dominion Of The Sword The State's New Coin The Anarchie, Or The Blest Reformation Since 1640 A Coffin For King Charles, A Crown For Cromwell, And A Pit For The People A Short Litany For The Year 1649 The Sale Of Rebellion's House-Hold Stuff The Cavalier's Farewell To His Mistress, Being Called To The Warrs The Last News From France Song To The Figure Two The Reformation Upon The General Pardon Passed By The Rump An Old Song On Oliver's Court The Parliament Routed, Or Here's A House To Be Let A Christmas Song When The Rump Was First Dissolved A Free Parliament Litany The Mock Song As Close As A Goose The Prisoners The Protecting Brewer The Arraignment Of The Devil For Stealing Away President Bradshaw A New Ballad To An Old Tune, - Tom Of Bedlam Saint George And The Dragon, Anglice Mercurius Poeticus The Second Part Of St George For England A New-Year's Gift For The Rump A Proper New Ballad On The Old Parliament; Or, The Second Part Of Knave Out Of Doors The Tale Of The Cobbler And The Vicar Of Bray The Geneva Ballad The Devil's Progress On Earth, Or Huggle Duggle A Bottle Definition Of That Fallen Angel, Called A Whig The Desponding Whig Phanatick Zeal, Or A Looking-glass For The Whigs A New Game At Cards: Or, Win At First And Lose At Last The Cavaleers Litany The Cavalier's Complaint An Echo To The Cavalier's Complaint A Relation The Glory Of These Nations The Noble Progress On The King's Return The Brave Barbary A Catch The Turn-Coat The Claret Drinker's Song The Loyal Subjects' Hearty Wishes To King Charles II. King Charles The Second's Restoration, 29th May. The Jubilee, Or The Coronation Day The King Enjoys His Own Again A Country Song, Intituled The Restoration Here's A Health Unto His Majesty The Whigs Drowned In An Honest Tory Health The Cavalier The Lamentation Of A Bad Market, Or The Disbanded Souldier The Courtier's Health; Or, The Merry Boys Of The Times The Loyal Tories' Delight; Or A Pill For Fanaticks The Royal Admiral The Unfortunate Whigs The Downfall Of The Good Old Cause Old Jemmy The Cloak's Knavery The Time-Server, Or A Medley The Soldier's Delight The Loyal Soldier The Polititian A New Droll The Royalist The Royalist's Resolve Loyalty Turned Up Trump, Or The Danger Over The Loyalist's Encouragement The Trouper On The Times, Or The Good Subject's Wish The Jovialists' Coronation The Loyal Prisoner Canary's Coronation The Mournful Subjects "Memento Mori" Accession Of James II On The Most High And Mighty Monarch King James In A Summer's Day
The Cavalier Ballads of England, like the Jacobite Ballads of England and Scotland at a later period, are mines of wealth for the student of the history and social manners of our ancestors. The rude but often beautiful political lyrics of the early days of the Stuarts were far more interesting and important to the people who heard or repeated them, than any similar compositions can be in our time. When the printing press was the mere vehicle of polemics for the educated minority, and when the daily journal was neither a luxury of the poor, a necessity of the rich, nor an appreciable power in the formation and guidance of public opinion, the song and the ballad appealed to the passion, if not to the intellect of the masses, and instructed them in all the leading events of the time. In our day the people need no information of the kind, for they procure it from the more readily available and more copious if not more reliable, source of the daily and weekly press. The song and ballad have ceased to deal with public affairs. No new ones of the kind are made except as miserable parodies and burlesques that may amuse sober costermongers and half-drunken men about town, who frequent music saloons at midnight, but which are offensive to every one else. Such genuine old ballads as remain in the popular memory are either fast dying out, or relate exclusively to the never-to-be-superseded topics of love, war, and wine. The people of our day have little heart or appreciation for song, except in Scotland and Ireland. England and America are too prosaic and too busy, and the masses, notwithstanding all their supposed advantages in education, are much too vulgar to delight in either song or ballad that rises to the dignity of poetry. They appreciate the buffooneries of the "Negro Minstrelsy," and the inanities and the vapidities of sentimental love songs, but the elegance of such writers as Thomas Moore, and the force of such vigorous thinkers and tender lyrists as Robert Burns, are above their sphere, and are left to scholars in their closets and ladies in their drawing- rooms. The case was different among our ancestors in the memorable period of the struggle for liberty that commenced in the reign of Charles I. The Puritans had the pulpit on their side, and found it a powerful instrument. The Cavaliers had the song writers on theirs, and found them equally effective. And the song and ballad writers of that day were not always illiterate versifiers. Some of them were the choicest wits and most accomplished gentlemen of the nation. As they could not reach the ears of their countrymen by the printed book, the pamphlet, or the newspaper, nor mount the pulpit and dispute with Puritanism on its own ground and in its own precincts, they found the song, the ballad, and the epigram more available among a musical and song-loving people such as the English then were, and trusted to these to keep up the spirit of loyalty in the evil days of the royal cause, to teach courage in adversity, and cheerfulness in all circumstances, and to ridicule the hypocrites whom they could not shame, and the tyrants whom they could not overthrow. Though many thousands of these have been preserved in the King's Pamphlets in the British Museum, and in other collections which have been freely ransacked for the materials of the following pages, as many thousands more have undoubtedly perished. Originally printed as broadsides, and sold for a halfpenny at country fairs, it used to be the fashion of the peasantry to paste them up in cupboards, or on the backs of doors, and farmers' wives, as well as servant girls and farm labourers, who were able to read, would often paste them on the lids of their trunks, as the best means of preserving them. This is one reason why so many of them have been lost without recovery. To Sir W. C. Trevelyan literature is indebted for the restoration of a few of these waifs and strays, which he found pasted in an old trunk of the days of Cromwell, and which he carefully detached and presented to the British Museum. But a sufficient number of these flying leaves of satire, sentiment, and loyalty have reached our time, to throw a curious and instructive light upon the feelings of the men who resisted the progress of the English Revolution; and who made loyalty to the person of the monarch, even when the monarch was wrong, the first of the civic virtues. In the superabundance of the materials at command, as will be seen from the appended list of books and MSS. which have been consulted and drawn upon to form this collection, the difficulty was to keep within bounds, and to select only such specimens as merited a place in a volume necessarily limited, by their celebrity, their wit, their beauty, their historical interest, or the light they might happen to throw on the obscure biography of the most remarkable actors in the scenes which they describe. It would be too much to claim for these ballads the exalted title of poetry. They are not poetical in the highest sense of the word, and possibly would not have been so effective for the purpose which they were intended to serve, if their writers had been more fanciful and imaginative, or less intent upon what they had to say than upon the manner of saying it. But if not extremely poetical, they are extremely national, and racy of the soil; and some of them are certain to live as long as the language which produced them. For the convenience of reference and consultation they have been arranged chronologically; beginning with the discontents that inaugurated the reign of Charles I., and following regularly to the final, though short-lived, triumph of the Cavalier cause, in the accession of James II. After his ill- omened advent to the throne, the Cavalier became the Jacobite. In this collection no Jacobite songs, properly so called, are included, it being the intention of the publishers to issue a companion volume, of the Jacobite Ballads of England, from the accession of James II. to the battle of Culloden, should the public receive the present volume with sufficient favour to justify the venture.
The Editor cannot, in justice to previous fellow-labourers, omit to record his obligation to the interesting volume, with its learned annotations, contributed by Mr Thomas Wright to the Percy Society; or to another and equally valuable collection, edited by Mr J. O. Halliwell.
Ballad: When The King Enjoys His Own Again
This is perhaps the most popular of all the Cavalier songs - a favour which it partly owes to the excellent melody with which it is associated. The song, says Mr Chappell, is ascertained to be by Martin Parker, by the following extract from the GOSSIPS' FEAST, or Moral Tales, 1647. "By my faith, Martin Parker never got a fairer treat: no, not when he indited that sweet ballad, When the King enjoys his own again." In the poet's Blind Man's Bough (or Buff), 1641, Martin Parker says,
"Whatever yet was published by me Was known as Martin Parker, or M. P.;"
but this song was printed without his name or initials, at a time when it would have been dangerous to give either his own name or that of his publisher. Ritson calls it the most famous song of any time or country. Invented to support the declining interest of Charles I., it served afterwards with more success to keep up the spirits of the Cavaliers, and promote the restoration of his son; an event which it was employed to celebrate all over the kingdom. At the Revolution of 1688, it of course became an adherent of the exiled King, whose cause it never deserted. It did equal service in 1715 and 1745. The tune appears to have been originally known as MARRY ME, MARRY ME, QUOTH THE BONNIE LASS. Booker, Pond, Hammond, Rivers, Swallow, Dade, and "The Man in the Moon," were all astrologers and Almanac makers in the early days of the civil war. "The Man in the Moon" appears to have been a loyalist in his predictions. Hammond's Almanac is called "bloody" because the compiler always took care to note the anniversary of the death, execution, or downfall of a Royalist.
What BOOKER doth prognosticate Concerning kings' or kingdoms' fate? I think myself to be as wise As he that gazeth on the skies; My skill goes beyond the depth of a POND, Or RIVERS in the greatest rain, Thereby I can tell all things will be well When the King enjoys his own again.
There's neither SWALLOW, DOVE, nor DADE, Can soar more high, or deeper wade, Nor show a reason from the stars What causeth peace or civil wars; The Man in the Moon may wear out his shoon By running after Charles his wain: But all's to no end, for the times will not mend Till the King enjoys his own again.
Though for a time we see Whitehall With cobwebs hanging on the wall Instead of silk and silver brave, Which formerly it used to have, With rich perfume in every room, - Delightful to that princely train, Which again you shall see, when the time it shall be, That the King enjoys his own again.
Full forty years the royal crown Hath been his father's and his own; And is there any one but he That in the same should sharer be? For who better may the sceptre sway Than he that hath such right to reign? Then let's hope for a peace, for the wars will not cease Till the King enjoys his own again.
[Did WALKER no predictions lack In Hammond's bloody almanack? Foretelling things that would ensue, That all proves right, if lies be true; But why should not he the pillory foresee, Wherein poor Toby once was ta'en? And also foreknow to the gallows he must go When the King enjoys his own again?] (1)
Till then upon Ararat's hill My hope shall cast her anchor still, Until I see some peaceful dove Bring home the branch I dearly love; Then will I wait till the waters abate Which now disturb my troubled brain, Else never rejoice till I hear the voice That the King enjoys his own again.
Ballad: When The King Comes Home In Peace Again
From a broadside in the Roxburghe Collection of Ballads. It appears to have been written shortly after Martin Parker's original ballad obtained popularity among the Royalists, and to be by another hand. It bears neither date nor printer's name; and has "God save the King, Amen," in large letters at the end.
Oxford and Cambridge shall agree, With honour crown'd, and dignity; For learned men shall then take place, And bad be silenced with disgrace: They'll know it to be but a casualty That hath so long disturb'd their brain; For I can surely tell that all things will go well When the King comes home in peace again.
Church government shall settled be, And then I hope we shall agree Without their help, whose high-brain'd zeal Hath long disturb'd the common weal; Greed out of date, and cobblers that do prate Of wars that still disturb their brain; The which you will see, when the time it shall be That the King comes home in peace again.
Though many now are much in debt, And many shops are to be let, A golden time is drawing near, Men shops shall take to hold their ware; And then all our trade shall flourishing be made, To which ere long we shall attain; For still I can tell all things will be well When the King comes home in peace again.
Maidens shall enjoy their mates, And honest men their lost estates; Women shall have what they do lack, Their husbands, who are coming back. When the wars have an end, then I and my friend All subjects' freedom shall obtain; By which I can tell all things will be well When we enjoy sweet peace again.
Though people now walk in great fear Along the country everywhere, Thieves shall then tremble at the law, And justice shall keep them in awe: The Frenchies shall flee with their treacherie, And the foes of the King ashamed remain: The which you shall see when the time it shall be That the King comes home in peace again.
The Parliament must willing be That all the world may plainly see How they do labour still for peace, That now these bloody wars may cease; For they will gladly spend their lives to defend The King in all his right to reign: So then I can tell all things will be well When we enjoy sweet peace again.
When all these things to pass shall come Then farewell Musket, Pick, and Drum, The Lamb shall with the Lion feed, Which were a happy time indeed. O let us pray we may all see the day That peace may govern in his name, For then I can tell all things will be well When the King comes home in peace again.
Ballad: I Love My King And Country Well
From Songs and other Poems by Alex. Brome, Gent. Published London 1664; written 1645.
I love my King and country well, Religion and the laws; Which I'm mad at the heart that e'er we did sell To buy the good old cause. These unnatural wars And brotherly jars Are no delight or joy to me; But it is my desire That the wars should expire, And the King and his realms agree.
I never yet did take up arms, And yet I dare to dye; But I'll not be seduced by phanatical charms Till I know a reason why. Why the King and the state Should fall to debate I ne'er could yet a reason see, But I find many one Why the wars should be done, And the King and his realms agree.
I love the King and the Parliament, But I love them both together: And when they by division asunder are rent, I know 'tis good for neither. Whichsoe'er of those Be victorious, I'm sure for us no good 'twill be, For our plagues will increase Unless we have peace, And the King and his realms agree.
The King without them can't long stand, Nor they without the King; 'Tis they must advise, and 'tis he must command, For their power from his must spring. 'Tis a comfortless sway When none will obey; If the King han't his right, which way shall we? They may vote and make laws, But no good they will cause Till the King and his realm agree.
A pure religion I would have, Not mixt with human wit; And I cannot endure that each ignorant knave Should dare to meddle with it. The tricks of the law I would fain withdraw, That it may be alike to each degree: And I fain would have such As do meddle so much, With the King and the church agree.
We have pray'd and pray'd that the wars might cease, And we be free men made; I would fight, if my fighting would bring any peace, But war is become a trade. Our servants did ride With swords by their side, And made their masters footmen be; But we'll be no more slaves To the beggars and knaves Now the King and the realms do agree.
Ballad: The Commoners
Written in 1645 to the Club-men, by Alex. Brome.
Come your ways, Bonny boys Of the town, For now is your time or never: Shall your fears Or your cares Cast you down? Hang your wealth And your health, Get renown. We are all undone for ever, Now the King and the crown Are tumbling down, And the realm doth groan with disasters; And the scum of the land Are the men that command, And our slaves are become our masters.
Now our lives, Children, wives, And estate, Are a prey to the lust and plunder, To the rage Of our age; And the fate Of our land Is at hand; 'Tis too late To tread these usurpers under. First down goes the crown, Then follows the gown, Thus levell'd are we by the Roundhead; While Church and State must Feed their pride and their lust, And the kingdom and king be confounded.
Shall we still Suffer ill And be dumb, And let every varlet undo us? Shall we doubt Of each lout That doth come, With a voice Like the noise Of a drum, And a sword or a buff-coat, to us? Shall we lose our estates By plunder and rates, To bedeck those proud upstarts that swagger? Rather fight for your meat Which those locusts do eat, Now every man's a beggar.
Ballad: The Royalist
By Alex. Brome. Written 1646.
Come pass about the bowl to me, A health to our distressed King; Though we're in hold let cups go free, Birds in a cage may freely sing. The ground does tipple healths afar When storms do fall, and shall not we? A sorrow dares not show its face When we are ships, and sack's the sea.
Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let's sing; Shall's kill ourselves for fear of death? We'll live by th' air which songs do bring, Our sighing does but waste our breath. Then let us not be discontent, Nor drink a glass the less of wine; In vain they'll think their plagues are spent When once they see we don't repine.
We do not suffer here alone, Though we are beggar'd, so's the King; 'Tis sin t' have wealth when he has none, Tush! poverty's a royal thing! When we are larded well with drink, Our head shall turn as round as theirs, Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink Clean down the wind like Cavaliers.
Fill this unnatural quart with sack, Nature all vacuums doth decline; Ourselves will be a zodiac, And every mouth shall be a sign. Methinks the travels of the glass Are circular, like Plato's year; Where everything is as it was Let's tipple round: and so 'tis here.
Ballad: The New Courtier
By Alex. Brome. 1648.
Since it must be so Then so let it go, Let the giddy-brain'd times turn round; Since we have no king let the goblet be crown'd, Our monarchy thus will recover: While the pottles are weeping We'll drench our sad souls In big-bellied bowls; Our sorrows in sack shall lie steeping, And we'll drink till our eyes do run over; And prove it by reason That it can be no treason To drink and to sing A mournival of healths to our new-crown'd King.
Let us all stand bare; - In the presence we are, Let our noses like bonfires shine; Instead of the conduits, let the pottles run wine, To perfect this new coronation; And we that are loyal In drink shall be peers, While that face that wears Pure claret, looks like the blood-royal, And outstares the bones of the nation: In sign of obedience, Our oath of allegiance Beer-glasses shall be, And he that tipples ten is of the nobility.
But if in this reign The halberted train Or the constable should rebel, And should make their turbill'd militia to swell, And against the King's party raise arms; Then the drawers, like yeomen Of the guards, with quart pots Shall fuddle the sots, While we make 'em both cuckolds and freemen; And on their wives beat up alarums. Thus as each health passes We'll triple the glasses, And hold it no sin To be loyal and drink in defence of our King.
Ballad: Upon The Cavaliers Departing Out Of London
By Alex. Brome.
Now fare thee well, London, Thou next must be undone, 'Cause thou hast undone us before; This cause and this tyrant Had never play'd this high rant Were't not for thy ARGENT D'OR.
Now we must desert thee, With the lines that begirt thee, And the red-coated saints domineer; Who with liberty fool thee, While a monster doth rule thee, And thou feel'st what before thou didst fear.
Now justice and freedom, With the laws that did breed 'em, Are sent to Jamaica for gold, And those that upheld 'em Have power but seldom, For justice is barter'd and sold.
Now the Christian religion Must seek a new region, And the old saints give way to the new; And we that are loyal Vail to those that destroy all, When the Christian gives place to the Jew.
But this is our glory, In this wretched story Calamities fall on the best; And those that destroy us Do better employ us, To sing till they are supprest.
Ballad: A Mad World, My Masters
From the King's pamphlets, British Museum.
We have a King, and yet no King, For he hath lost his power; For 'gainst his will his subjects are Imprison'd in the Tower.
We had some laws (but now no laws) By which he held his crown; And we had estates and liberties, But now they're voted down.
We had religion, but of late That's beaten down with clubs; Whilst that profaneness authorized Is belched forth in tubs.
We were free subjects born, but now We are by force made slaves, By some whom we did count our friends, But in the end proved knaves.
And now to such a grievous height Are our misfortunes grown, That our estates are took away By tricks before ne'er known.
For there are agents sent abroad Most humbly for to crave Our alms; but if they are denied, And of us nothing have,
Then by a vote EX TEMPORE We are to prison sent, Mark'd with the name of enemy, To King and Parliament:
And during our imprisonment, Their lawless bulls do plunder A license to their soldiers, Our houses for to plunder.
And if their hounds do chance to smell A man whose fortunes are Of some account, whose purse is full, Which now is somewhat rare;
A MONSTER now, DELINQUENT term'd, He is declared to be, And that his lands, as well as goods, Sequester'd ought to be.
As if our prisons were too good, He is to Yarmouth sent, By virtue of a warrant from The King and Parliament.
Thus in our royal sovereign's name, And eke his power infused, And by the virtue of the same, He and all his abused.
For by this means his castles now Are in the power of those Who treach'rously, with might and main, Do strive him to depose.
Arise, therefore, brave British men, Fight for your King and State, Against those trait'rous men that strive This realm to ruinate.
'Tis Pym, 'tis Pym and his colleagues, That did our woe engender; Nought but their lives can end our woes, And us in safety render.
Ballad: The Man O' The Moon
Hogg, in his second series of Jacobite Relics, states that he "got this song among some old papers belonging to Mr Orr of Alloa," and that he never met with it elsewhere. In his first series he printed a Scottish song beginning, -
"Then was a man came fron the moon And landed in our town, sir, And he has sworn a solemn oath That all but knaves must down, sir."
In Martin Parker's foregoing ballad, "When the King enjoys his own again," there is also an allusion to the man in the moon:-
"The Man in the Moon May wear out his shoon By running after Charles his wain;"
as it would appear that the "Man in the Moon," was the title assumed by an almanack-maker of the time of the Commonwealth, who, like other astronomers and astrologers, predicted the King's restoration. In this song the "Man o' the Moon" clearly signifies King Charles.
The man o' the moon for ever! The man o' the moon for ever! We'll drink to him still In a merry cup of ale, - Here's the man o' the moon for ever!
The man o' the moon, here's to him! How few there be that know him! But we'll drink to him still In a merry cup of ale, - The man o' the moon, here's to him!
Brave man o' the moon, we hail thee, The true heart ne'er shall fail thee; For the day that's gone And the day that's our own - Brave man o' the moon, we hail thee.
We have seen the bear bestride thee, And the clouds of winter hide thee, But the moon is changed And here we are ranged, - Brave man o' the moon, we bide thee.
The man o' the moon for ever! The man o' the moon for ever! We'll drink to him still In a merry cup of ale, - Here's the man o' the moon for ever!
We have grieved the land should shun thee, And have never ceased to mourn thee, But for all our grief There was no relief, - Now, man o' the moon, return thee.
There's Orion with his golden belt, And Mars, that burning mover, But of all the lights That rule the nights, The man o' the moon for ever!
Ballad: The Tub-Preacher
By Samuel Butler (Author of Hudibras). To the tune of "The Old Courtier of the Queen's."
With face and fashion to be known, With eyes all white, and many a groan, With neck awry and snivelling tone, And handkerchief from nose new-blown, And loving cant to sister Joan; 'Tis a new teacher about the town, Oh! the town's new teacher!
With cozening laugh, and hollow cheek, To get new gatherings every week, With paltry sense as man can speak, With some small Hebrew, and no Greek, With hums and haws when stuff's to seek; 'Tis a new teacher, etc.
With hair cut shorter than the brow, With little band, as you know how, With cloak like Paul, no coat I trow, With surplice none, nor girdle now, With hands to thump, nor knees to bow; 'Tis a new teacher, etc.
With shop-board breeding and intrusion, By some outlandish institution, With Calvin's method and conclusion, To bring all things into confusion, And far-stretched sighs for mere illusion; 'Tis a new teacher, etc.
With threats of absolute damnation, But certainty of some salvation To his new sect, not every nation, With election and reprobation, And with some use of consolation; 'Tis a new teacher, etc.
With troops expecting him at door To hear a sermon and no more, And women follow him good store, And with great Bibles to turn o'er, Whilst Tom writes notes, as bar-boys score, 'Tis a new teacher, etc.
With double cap to put his head in, That looks like a black pot tipp'd with tin; While with antic gestures he doth gape and grin; The sisters admire, and he wheedles them in, Who to cheat their husbands think no sin; 'Tis a new teacher, etc.
With great pretended spiritual motions, And many fine whimsical notions, With blind zeal and large devotions, With broaching rebellion and raising commotions, And poisoning the people with Geneva potions; 'Tis a new teacher, etc.
Ballad: The New Litany
From the King's pamphlets, British Museum. Satires in the form of a litany were common from 1646 to 1746, and even later.
From an extempore prayer and a godly ditty, From the churlish government of a city, From the power of a country committee, Libera nos, Domine.
From the Turk, the Pope, and the Scottish nation, From being govern'd by proclamation, And from an old Protestant, quite out of fashion, Libera, etc.
From meddling with those that are out of our reaches, From a fighting priest, and a soldier that preaches, From an ignoramus that writes, and a woman that teaches, Libera, etc.
From the doctrine of deposing of a king, From the DIRECTORY, (2) or any such thing, From a fine new marriage without a ring, Libera, etc.
From a city that yields at the first summons, From plundering goods, either man or woman's, Or having to do with the House of Commons, Libera, etc.
From a stumbling horse that tumbles o'er and o'er, From ushering a lady, or walking before, From an English-Irish rebel, newly come o'er, (3) Libera, etc.
From compounding, or hanging in a silken altar, From oaths and covenants, and being pounded in a mortar, From contributions, or free-quarter, Libera, etc.
From mouldy bread, and musty beer, From a holiday's fast, and a Friday's cheer, From a brother-hood, and a she-cavalier, Libera, etc.
From Nick Neuter, for you, and for you, From Thomas Turn-coat, that will never prove true, From a reverend Rabbi that's worse than a Jew, Libera, etc.
From a country justice that still looks big, From swallowing up the Italian fig, Or learning of the Scottish jig, Libera, etc.
From being taken in a disguise, From believing of the printed lies, From the Devil and from the Excise, (4) Libera, etc.
From a broken pate with a pint pot, For fighting for I know not what, And from a friend as false as a Scot, Libera, etc.
From one that speaks no sense, yet talks all that he can, From an old woman and a Parliament man, From an Anabaptist and a Presbyter man, Libera, etc.
From Irish rebels and Welsh hubbub-men, From Independents and their tub-men, From sheriffs' bailiffs, and their club-men, Libera, etc.
From one that cares not what he saith, From trusting one that never payeth, From a private preacher and a public faith, Libera, etc.
From a vapouring horse and a Roundhead in buff, From roaring Jack Cavee, with money little enough, From beads and such idolatrous stuff, Libera, etc.
From holydays, and all that's holy, From May-poles and fiddlers, and all that's jolly From Latin or learning, since that is folly, Libera, etc.
And now to make an end of all, I wish the Roundheads had a fall, Or else were hanged in Goldsmith's Hall. Amen.
Ballad: The Old Protestant's Litany
Against all sectaries And their defendants, Both Presbyterians And Independents.
Mr Walter Wilkins, in his Political Ballads of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, says, the imprint of this broadside intimates that it was published in "the year of Hope, 1647," and Thomson, the collector, added the precise date, the 7th of September.
That thou wilt be pleased to grant our requests, And quite destroy all the vipers' nests, That England and her true religion molests, Te rogamus audi nos.
That thou wilt be pleased to censure with pity The present estate of our once famous city; Let her still be govern'd by men just and witty, Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased to consider the Tower, And all other prisons in the Parliament's power, Where King Charles his friends find their welcome but sour, Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased to look on the grief Of the King's old servants, and send them relief, Restore to the yeomen o' th' Guard chines of beef, Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased very quickly to bring Unto his just rights our so much-wrong'd King, That he may be happy in everything, Te rogamus, etc.
That Whitehall may shine in its pristine lustre, That the Parliament may make a general muster, That knaves may be punish'd by men who are juster, Te rogamus, etc.
That now the dog-days are fully expired, That those cursed curs, which our patience have tired, May suffer what is by true justice required, Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased to incline conquering Thomas (Who now hath both city and Tower gotten from us), That he may be just in performing his promise, Te rogamus, etc.
That our hopeful Prince and our gracious Queen (Whom we here in England long time have not seen) May soon be restored to what they have been, Te rogamus, etc.
That the rest of the royal issue may be From their Parliamentary guardians set free, And be kept according to their high degree, Te rogamus, etc.
That our ancient Liturgy may be restored, That the organs (by sectaries so much abhorr'd) May sound divine praises, according to the word, Te rogamus, etc.
That the ring in marriage, the cross at the font, Which the devil and the Roundheads so much affront, May be used again, as before they were wont, Te rogamus, etc.
That Episcopacy, used in its right kind, In England once more entertainment may find, That Scots and lewd factions may go down the wind, Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased again to restore All things in due order, as they were before, That the Church and the State may be vex'd no more, Te rogamus, etc.
That all the King's friends may enjoy their estates, And not be kept, as they have been, at low rates, That the poor may find comfort again at their gates, Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt all our oppressions remove, And grant us firm faith and hope, join'd with true love, Convert or confound all which virtue reprove, Te rogamus, etc.
That all peevish sects that would live uncontroll'd, And will not be govern'd, as all subjects should, To New England may pack, or live quiet i' th' Old, Te rogamus, etc.
That gracious King Charles, with his children and wife, Who long time have suffer'd through this civil strife, May end with high honour their natural life, Te rogamus, etc.
That they who have seized on honest men's treasure, Only for their loyalty to God and to Caesar, May in time convenient find measure for measure, Te rogamus, etc.
That thou all these blessings upon us wilt send, We are no INDEPENDENTS, on Thee we depend, And as we believe, from all harm us defend; Te rogamus, etc.
Ballad: Vive Le Roy
From a collection of songs, 1640 to 1660. It is also to be found in the additional MSS., No. 11, 608, p. 54, in the collection in the British Museum. It was sung to the air of Love lies bleeding, - and was, says Mr Chappell, "the God save the King" of Charles I., Charles II., and James II.
What though the zealots pull down the prelates, Push at the pulpit, and kick at the crown, Shall we not never once more endeavour, Strive to purchase our royall renown? Shall not the Roundhead first be confounded? Sa, sa, sa, say, boys, ha, ha, ha, ha, boys, Then we'll return with triumph and joy. Then we'll be merry, drink white wine and sherry, Then we will sing, boys, God bless the King, boys, Cast up our caps, and cry, VIVE LE ROY.
What though the wise make Alderman Isaac Put us in prison and steal our estates, Though we be forced to be unhorsed, And walk on foot as it pleaseth the fates; In the King's army no man shall harm ye. Then come along, boys, valiant and strong, boys, Fight for your goods, which the Roundheads enjoy; And when you venture London to enter, And when you come, boys, with fife and drum, boys, Isaac himself shall cry, VIVE LE ROY.
If you will choose them, do not refuse them, Since honest Parliament never made thieves, Charles will not further have rogues dipt in murder, Neither by leases, long lives, nor reprieves. 'Tis the conditions and propositions Will not be granted, then be not daunted, We will our honest old customs enjoy; Paul's not rejected, will be respected, And in the quier voices rise higher, Thanks to the heavens, and (cry), VIVE LE ROY.
Ballad: The Cavalier
By Samuel Butler. From his Posthumous Works. A somewhat different version appears in Chappell's Popular Music of the Olden Time.
He that is a clear Cavalier Will not repine, Although His pocket grow So very low He cannot get wine.
Fortune is a lass Will embrace, But soon destroy; Born free, In liberty We'll always be, Singing VIVE LE ROY.
Virtue is its own reward, And Fortune is a whore; There's none but knaves and fools regard her, Or her power implore. But he that is a trusty ROGER, And will serve the King; Altho' he be a tatter'd soldier, Yet may skip and sing: Whilst we that fight for love, May in the way of honour prove That they who make sport of us May come short of us; Fate will flatter them, And will scatter them; Whilst our loyalty Looks upon royalty, We that live peacefully, May be successfully Crown'd with a crown at last.
Tho' a real honest man May be quite undone, He'll show his allegiance, Love, and obedience; Those will raise him up, Honour stays him up, Virtue keeps him up, And we praise him up. Whilst the vain courtiers dine, With their bottles full of wine, Honour will make him fast. Freely then Let's be honest men And kick at fate, For we may live to see Our loyalty Valued at a higher rate. He that bears a sword Or a word against the throne, And does profanely prate To abuse the state, Hath no kindness for his own.
What tho' painted plumes and prayers Are the prosp'rous men, Yet we'll attend our own affairs 'Till they come to 't agen; Treachery may be faced with light, And letchery lined with furr; A cuckold may be made a knight, Sing FORTUNE DE LA GUERRE. But what's that to us, brave boys, That are right honest men? We'll conquer and come again, Beat up the drum again; Hey for CAVALIERS, Hoe for CAVALIERS, Drink for CAVALIERS, Fight for CAVALIERS, Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, Have at Old BEELZEBUB, OLIVER stinks for fear.
FIFTH MONARCHY-MEN must down, boys, With bulleys of every sect in town, boys; We'll rally and to 't again, Give 'em the rout again; Fly like light about, Face to the right-about, Charge them home again When they come on again; SING TANTARA RARA, BOYS, TANTARA RARA, BOYS, This is the life of an Old Cavalier.
Ballad: A Caveat To The Roundheads
From the Posthumous Works of Samuel Butler.
I come to charge ye That fight the clergy, And pull the mitre from the prelate's head, That you will be wary Lest you miscarry In all those factious humours you have bred; But as for BROWNISTS we'll have none, But take them all and hang them one by one.
Your wicked actions Join'd in factions Are all but aims to rob the King of his due; Then give this reason For your treason, That you'll be ruled, if he'll be ruled by you. Then leave these factions, zealous brother, Lest you be hanged one against another.
Ballad: Hey, Then, Up Go We
This song, says Mr Chappell, in his Popular Music of the Olden Time, which describes with some humour the taste of the Puritans, might pass for a Puritan song, if it were not contained in the "Shepherds' Oracles," by Francis Quarles, 1646. He was cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I., and afterwards chronologer to the city of London. He died in 1644, and his Shepherds' Oracles were a posthumous publication. It was often reprinted during the Restoration, and reproduced and slightly altered by Thomas Durfey, in his "Pills to Purge Melancholy," where the burthen is, "Hey, boys, up go we."
Know this, my brethren, heaven is clear, And all the clouds are gone; The righteous man shall flourish now, Good days are coming on. Then come, my brethren, and be glad, And eke rejoyce with me; Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down, And hey, then, up go we.
We'll break the windows which the whore Of Babylon hath painted, And when the popish saints are down Then Barrow shall be sainted; There's neither cross nor crucifix Shall stand for men to see, Rome's trash and trumpery shall go down, And hey, then, up go we.
Whate'er the Popish hands have built Our hammers shall undo; We'll break their pipes and burn their copes, And pull down churches too; We'll exercise within the groves, And teach beneath a tree; We'll make a pulpit of a cask, And hey, then, up go we.
We'll put down Universities, Where learning is profest, Because they practise and maintain The language of the Beast; We'll drive the doctors out of doors, And all that learned be; We'll cry all arts and learning down, And hey, then, up go we.
We'll down with deans and prebends, too, And I rejoyce to tell ye We then shall get our fill of pig, And capons for the belly. We'll burn the Fathers' weighty tomes, And make the School-men flee; We'll down with all that smells of wit, And hey, then, up go we.
If once the Antichristian crew Be crush'd and overthrown, We'll teach the nobles how to stoop, And keep the gentry down: Good manners have an ill report, And turn to pride, we see, We'll therefore put good manners down, And hey, then, up go we.
The name of lords shall be abhorr'd, For every man's a brother; No reason why in Church and State One man should rule another; But when the change of government Shall set our fingers free, We'll make these wanton sisters stoop, And hey, then, up go we.
What though the King and Parliament Do not accord together, We have more cause to be content, This is our sunshine weather: For if that reason should take place, And they should once agree, Who would be in a Roundhead's case, For hey, then, up go we.
What should we do, then, in this case? Let's put it to a venture; If that we hold out seven years' space We'll sue out our indenture. A time may come to make us rue, And time may set us free, Except the gallows claim his due, And hey, then, up go we.
Ballad: The Clean Contrary Way, Or, Colonel Venne's Encouragement To His Soldiers
To the air of "Hey, then, up go we." From a Collection of Loyal Songs written against the Rump Parliament.
Fight on, brave soldiers, for the cause, Fear not the Cavaliers; Their threat'nings are as senseless as Our jealousies and fears. Tis you must perfect this great work, And all malignants slay; You must bring back the King again The clean contrary way.
'Tis for religion that you fight, And for the kingdom's good; By robbing churches, plundering them, And shedding guiltless blood. Down with the orthodoxal train, All loyal subjects slay; When these are gone, we shall be blest The clean contrary way.
When CHARLES we have made bankrupt, Of power and crown bereft him, And all his loyal subjects slain, And none but rebels left him; When we have beggar'd all the land, And sent our trunks away, We'll make him then a glorious prince The clean contrary way.
'Tis to preserve his Majesty That we against him fight, Nor ever are we beaten back, Because our cause is right: If any make a scruple at Our Declarations, say, - Who fight for us, fight for the King The clean contrary way.
At KEINTON, BRAINSFORD, PLYMOUTH, YORK, And divers places more, What victories we saints obtain, The like ne'er seen before: How often we Prince RUPERT kill'd, And bravely won the day, The wicked Cavaliers did run The clean contrary way.
The true religion we maintain, The kingdom's peace and plenty; The privilege of Parliament Not known to one and twenty; The ancient fundamental laws, And teach men to obey Their lawful sovereign, and all these The clean contrary way.
We subjects' liberties preserve By imprisonment and plunder, And do enrich ourselves and state By keeping th' wicked under. We must preserve mechanicks now To lectorize and pray; By them the gospel is advanced The clean contrary way.
And though the King be much misled By that malignant crew, He'll find us honest at the last, Give all of us our due. For we do wisely plot, and plot Rebellion to alloy, He sees we stand for peace and truth The clean contrary way.
The publick faith shall save our souls And our good works together; And ships shall save our lives, that stay Only for wind and weather: But when our faith and works fall down And all our hopes decay, Our acts will bear us up to heaven The clean contrary way.
Ballad: The Cameronian Cat
A well-known song from Hogg's Jacobite Relics; and popular among the Cavaliers both of England and Scotland in the days of the Commonwealth. It was usually sung to a psalm tune; the singers imitating the style and manner of a precentor at a Presbyterian church.
There was a Cameronian cat Was hunting for a prey, And in the house she catch'd a mouse Upon the Sabbath-day.
The Whig, being offended At such an act profane, Laid by his book, the cat he took, And bound her in a chain.
Thou damn'd, thou cursed creature, This deed so dark with thee, Think'st thou to bring to hell below My holy wife and me?
Assure thyself that for the deed Thou blood for blood shalt pay, For killing of the Lord's own mouse Upon the Sabbath-day.
The presbyter laid by the book, And earnestly he pray'd That the great sin the cat had done Might not on him be laid.
And straight to execution Poor pussy she was drawn, And high hang'd up upon a tree - The preacher sung a psalm.
And when the work was ended, They thought the cat near dead, She gave a paw, and then a mew, And stretched out her head.
Thy name, said he, shall certainly A beacon still remain, A terror unto evil ones For evermore, Amen.
Ballad: The Royal Feast
A Loyall Song of the Royall Feast kept by the Prisoners in the Towre, August last, with the Names, Titles, and Characters of every Prisoner. By Sir F. W., Knight and Baronet, Prisoner. (Sept. 16th, 1647.)
"In the negotiations between the King and the Parliament during the summer and autumn of this year," says Mr Thomas Wright in his Political Ballads of the Commonwealth, published for the Percy Society, "the case of the royalist prisoners in the Tower was frequently brought into question. The latter seized the occasion of complaining against the rigours (complaints apparently exaggerated) which were exerted against them, and on the 16th June, 1647, was published 'A True Relation of the cruell and unparallel'd Oppression which hath been illegally imposed upon the Gentlemen Prisoners in the Tower of London.' The several petitions contained in this tract have the signatures of Francis Howard, Henry Bedingfield, Walter Blount, Giles Strangwaies, Francis Butler, Henry Vaughan, Thomas Lunsford, Richard Gibson, Tho. Violet, John Morley, Francis Wortley, Edw. Bishop, John Hewet, Wingfield Bodenham, Henry Warren, W. Morton, John Slaughter, Gilbert Swinhow."
On the 19th of August (according to the MODERATE INTELLIGENCER of that date) the King sent to the royal prisoners in the Tower two fat bucks for a feast. This circumstance was the origin of the present ballad. It was written by Sir Francis Wortley, one of the prisoners. This ballad, as we learn by the concluding lines, was to be sung to the popular tune of "Chevy Chace."
God save the best of kings, King Charles! The best of queens, Queen Mary! The ladies all, Gloster and Yorke, Prince Charles, so like old harry! (5)
God send the King his own again, His towre and all his coyners! And blesse all kings who are to reigne, From traytors and purloyners! The King sent us poor traytors here (But you may guesse the reason) Two brace of bucks to mend the cheere, Is't not to eat them treason?
Let Selden search Cotton's records, And Rowley in the Towre, They cannot match the president, It is not in their power. Old Collet would have joy'd to 've seen This president recorded; For all the papers he ere saw Scarce such an one afforded. The King sent us, etc.
But that you may these traytors know, I'll be so bold to name them; That if they ever traytors prove Then this record may shame them: But these are well-try'd loyal blades (If England ere had any), Search both the Houses through and through You'ld scarcely finde so many. The King sent us, etc.
The first and chiefe a marquesse (6) is, Long with the State did wrestle; Had Ogle (7) done as much as he, Th'ad spoyl'd Will Waller's castle. Ogle had wealth and title got, So layd down his commissions; The noble marquesse would not yield, But scorn'd all base conditions. The King sent us, etc.
The next a worthy bishop (8) is, Of schismaticks was hated; But I the cause could never know, Nor see the reason stated. The cryes were loud, God knowes the cause, They had a strange committee, Which was a-foot well neere a yeare, Who would have had small pitty. The King sent us, etc.
The next to him is a Welsh Judge, (9) Durst tell them what was treason; Old honest David durst be good When it was out of season; He durst discover all the tricks The lawyers use, and knavery, And show the subtile plots they use To enthrall us into slavery. The King sent us, etc.
Frank Wortley (10) hath a jovial soule, Yet never was good club-man; He's for the bishops and the church, But can endure no tub-man. He told Sir Thomas in the Towre, Though he by him was undone, It pleased him that he lost more men In taking him then London. The King sent us, etc.
Sir Edward Hayles (11) was wond'rous rich, No flower in Kent yields honey In more abundance to the bee Then they from him suck money; Yet hee's as chearfull as the best - Judge Jenkins sees no reason That honest men for wealth should be Accused of high treason. The King sent us, etc.
Old Sir George Strangways (12) he came in, Though he himself submitted, Yet as a traytor he must be Excepted and committed: Yet they th' exception now take off, But not the sequestrations, Hee must forsooth to Goldsmith's-hall, The place of desolation. The King sent us, etc.
Honest Sir Berr's a reall man, As ere was lapt in leather; But he (God blesse us) loves the King, And therefore was sent hither. He durst be sheriff, and durst make The Parliament acquainted What he intended for to doe, And for this was attainted. The King sent us, etc.
Sir Benefield, (13) Sir Walter Blunt, Are Romishly affected, So's honest Frank of Howard's race, And slaughter is suspected. (14) But how the devill comes this about, That Papists are so loyall, And those that call themselves God's saints Like devils do destroy all? The King sent us, etc.
Jack Hewet (15) will have wholesome meat, And drink good wine, if any; His entertainment's free and neat, His choyce of friends not many; Jack is a loyall-hearted man, Well parted and a scholar; He'll grumble if things please him not, But never grows to choller. The King sent us, etc.
Gallant Sir Thomas, (16) bold and stout (Brave Lunsford), children eateth; But he takes care, where he eats one, There he a hundred getteth; When Harlow's wife brings her long bills, He wishes she were blinded; When shee speaks loud, as loud he swears The woman's earthly-minded. The King sent us, etc.
Sir Lewis (17) hath an able pen, Can cudgell a committee; He makes them doe him reason, though They others do not pitty. Brave Cleaveland had a willing minde, Frank Wortley was not able, But Lewis got foure pound per weeke For's children and his table. The King sent us, etc.
Giles Strangwayes (18) has a gallant soul, A brain infatigable; What study he ere undertakes To master it hee's able: He studies on his theoremes, And logarithmes for number; He loves to speake of Lewis Dives, (19) And they are ne'er asunder. The King sent us, etc.
Sir John Marlow's (20) a loyall man (If England ere bred any), He bang'd the pedlar back and side, Of Scots he killed many. Had General King (21) done what he should, And given the blew-caps battail, Wee'd make them all run into Tweed By droves, like sommer cattell. The King sent us, etc.
Will Morton's (22) of that Cardinal's race, Who made that blessed maryage; He is most loyall to his King, In action, word, and carryage; His sword and pen defends the cause, If King Charles thinke not on him, Will is amongst the rest undone, - The Lord have mercy on him! The King sent us, etc.
Tom Conisby (23) is stout and stern, Yet of a sweet condition; To them he loves his crime was great, He read the King's commission, And required Cranborn to assist; He charged, but should have pray'd him; Tom was so bold he did require All for the King should aid him. The King sent us, etc.
But I Win. Bodnam (24) had forgot, Had suffer'd so much hardship; There's no man in the Towre had left The King so young a wardship; He's firme both to the church and crowne, The crown law and the canon; The Houses put him to his shifts, And his wife's father Mammon. The King sent us, etc.
Sir Henry Vaughan (25) looks as grave As any beard can make him; Those come poore prisoners for to see Doe for our patriarke take him. Old Harry is a right true-blue, As valiant as Pendraggon; And would be loyall to his King, Had King Charles ne'er a rag on. The King sent us, etc.
John Lilburne (26) is a stirring blade, And understands the matter; He neither will king, bishops, lords, Nor th' House of Commons flatter: John loves no power prerogative, But that derived from Sion; As for the mitre and the crown, Those two he looks awry on. The King sent us, etc.
Tom Violet (27) swears his injuries Are scarcely to be numbred; He was close prisoner to the State These score dayes and nine hundred; For Tom does set down all the dayes, And hopes he has good debters; 'Twould be no treason (Jenkin sayes) To bring them peaceful letters. The King sent us, etc.
Poore Hudson (28) of all was the last, For it was his disaster, He met a turncoat swore that he Was once King Charles his master; So he to London soon was brought, But came in such a season, Their martial court was then cry'd down, They could not try his treason. The king sent us, etc.
Else Hudson had gone to the pot, Who is he can abide him? For he was master to the King, And (which is more) did guide him. Had Hudson done (as Judas did), Most loyally betray'd him, The Houses are so noble, they As bravely would have paid him. The King sent us, etc.
We'll then conclude with hearty healths To King Charles and Queen Mary; To the black lad in buff (the Prince), So like his grandsire Harry; To York, to Glo'ster; may we not Send Turk and Pope defiance, Since we such gallant seconds have To strengthen our alliance? Wee'l drink them o're and o're again, Else we're unthankfull creatures; Since Charles, the wise, the valiant King, Takes us for loyall traytors.
This if you will rhyme dogrell call, (That you please you may name it,) One of the loyal traytors here Did for a ballad frame it: Old Chevy Chace was in his minde; If any suit it better, All those concerned in the song Will kindly thank the setter.
Ballad: Upon His Majesty's Coming To Holmby
Charles I., after his surrender to the English Commissioners by the Scotch, was conveyed to Holmby House, Northamptonshire, 16th February, 1647.
Hold out, brave Charles, and thou shaft win the field; Thou canst not lose thyself, unless thou yield On such conditions as will force thy hand To give away thy sceptre, crown, and land. And what is worse, to hazard by thy fall, To lose a greater crown, more worth than all.
Thy poor distressed Cavaliers rejoyced To hear thy royal resolution voiced, And are content far more poor to be Than yet they are, so it reflects from thee. Thou art our sovereign still, in spite of hate; Our zeal is to thy PERSON, not thy STATE.
We are not so ambitious to desire Our drooping fortunes to be mounted higher, And thou so great a monarch, to our grief, Must sue unto thy subjects for relief: And when they sit and long debate about it, Must either stay their time, or go without it.
No, sacred prince, thy friends esteem thee more In thy distresses than ere they did before; And though their wings be clipt, their wishes fly To heaven by millions, for a fresh supply. That as thy cause was so betray'd by MEN, It may by ANGELS be restored agen.
Ballad: I Thank You Twice
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.
Ballad: 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.
Ballad: 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.
Ballad: 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.
Ballad: 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.
Ballad: 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.
Ballad: 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.
Ballad: 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!
Ballad: 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.
Ballad: 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!
Ballad: 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.
Ballad: 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!
Ballad: 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.
Ballad: 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.