Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684
by Charles Mackay
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684

Contents:

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

INTRODUCTION.

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.

December, 1862.

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.

Benedicat Dominus.

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

Or

The city courting their own ruin,
Thank the Parliament twice for their treble undoing.
A street ballad. From a broadside, 1647.

The hierarchy is out of date,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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Cavalier's Farewell To His Mistress, Being Called To
The Warrs

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Last News From France

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

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

Tune, "When the King enjoys his own again."

All you that do desire to know
What is become of the King o' Scots,
I