Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Free Classic E-books

Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684

Part 4 out of 6

Adobe PDF icon
Download this document as a .pdf
File size: 0.5 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

Too many, I must needs confess,
Are mightily to blame,
Who by their wicked practices
Disgrace the very name.

But, cobbler, still the major part
The minor should conclude;
To argue at another rate's
Impertinent and rude.

By this time all the neighbours round
Were flock'd about the door,
And some were on the vicar's side,
But on the cobbler's more.

Among the rest a grazier, who
Had lately been at town
To sell his oxen and his sheep,
Brim-full of news came down.

Quoth he, The priests have preach'd and pray'd,
And made so damn'd a pother,
That all the people are run mad
To murther one another.

By their contrivances and arts
They've play'd their game so long,
That no man knows which side is right,
Or which is in the wrong.

I'm sure I've Smithfield market used
For more than twenty year,
But never did such murmurings
And dreadful outcries hear.

Some for a church, and some a tub,
And some for both together;
And some, perhaps the greater part,
Have no regard for either.

Some for a king, and some for none;
And some have hankerings
To mend the Commonwealth, and make
An empire of all kings.

What's worse, old Noll is marching off,
And Dick, his heir-apparent,
Succeeds him in the government,
A very lame vicegerent.

He'll reign but little time, poor fool,
But sink beneath the State,
That will not fail to ride the fool
'Bove common horseman's weight.

And rulers, when they lose the power,
Like horses overweigh'd,
Must either fall and break their knees,
Or else turn perfect jade.

The vicar to be twice rebuked
No longer could contain;
But thus replies, - To knaves like you
All arguments are vain.

The Church must use her arm of flesh,
The other will not do;
The clergy waste their breath and time
On miscreants like you.

You are so stubborn and so proud,
So dull and prepossest,
That no instructions can prevail
How well soe'er addrest.

Who would reform such reprobates,
Must drub them soundly first;
I know no other way but that
To make them wise or just.

Fie, vicar, fie, his patron said,
Sure that is not the way;
You should instruct your auditors
To suffer or obey.

Those were the doctrines that of old
The learned fathers taught;
And 'twas by them the Church at first
Was to perfection brought.

Come, vicar, lay your feuds aside,
And calmly take your cup;
And let us try in friendly wise
To make the matter up.

That's certainly the wiser course,
And better too by far;
All men of prudence strive to quench
The sparks of civil war.

By furious heats and ill advice
Our neighbours are undone,
Then let us timely caution take
From their destruction.

If we would turn our heads about,
And look towards forty-one,
We soon should see what little jars
Those cruel wars begun.

A one-eyed cobbler then was one
Of that rebellious crew,
That did in Charles the martyr's blood
Their wicked hands imbrue.

I mention this not to deface
This cobbler's reputation,
Whom I have always honest found,
And useful in his station.

But this I urge to let you see
The danger of a fight
Between a cobbler and a priest,
Though he were ne'er so right.

The vicars are a numerous tribe,
So are the cobblers too;
And if a general quarrel rise,
What must the country do?

Our outward and our inward soals
Must quickly want repair;
And all the neighbourhood around
Would the misfortune share.

Sir, quoth the grazier, I believe
Our outward soals indeed
May quickly want the cobbler's help
To be from leakings freed.

But for our inward souls, I think
They're of a worth too great
To be committed to the care
Of any holy cheat,

Who only serves his God for gain,
Religion is his trade;
And 'tis by such as these our Church
So scandalous is made.

Why should I trust my soul with one
That preaches, swears, and prays,
And the next moment contradicts
Himself in all he says?

His solemn oaths he looks upon
As only words of course!
Which like their wives our fathers took
For better or for worse.

But he takes oaths as some take w-s,
Only to serve his ease;
And rogues and w-s, it is well known,
May part whene'er they please.

At this the cobbler bolder grew,
And stoutly thus reply'd, -
If you're so good at drubbing, Sir,
Your manhood shall be try'd.

What I have said I will maintain,
And further prove withal -
I daily do more good than you
In my respective call.

I know your character, quoth he,
You proud insulting vicar,
Who only huff and domineer
And quarrel in your liquor.

The honest gentleman, who saw
'Twould come again to blows,
Commands the cobbler to forbear,
And to the vicar goes.

Vicar, says he, for shame give o'er
And mitigate your rage;
You scandalize your cloth too much
A cobbler to engage.

All people's eyes are on your tribe,
And every little ill
They multiply and aggravate
And will because they will.

But now let's call another cause,
So let this health go round;
Be peace and plenty, truth and right,
In good old England found.

Quoth Ralph, All this is empty talk
And only tends to laughter;
If these two varlets should be spared,
Who'd pity us hereafter?

Your worship may do what you please,
But I'll have satisfaction
For drubbing and for damages
In this ungodly action.

I think that you can do no less
Than send them to the stocks;
And I'll assist the constable
In fixing in their hocks.

There let 'em sit and fight it out,
Or scold till they are friends;
Or, what is better much than both,
Till I am made amends.

Ralph, quoth the knight, that's well advised,
Let them both hither go,
And you and the sub-magistrate
Take care that it be so.

Let them be lock'd in face to face,
Bare buttocks on the ground;
And let them in that posture sit
Till they with us compound.

Thus fixt, well leave them for a time,
Whilst we with grief relate,
How at a wake this knight and squire
Got each a broken pate.

Ballad: The Geneva Ballad

From Samuel Butler's Posthumous Works.

Of all the factions in the town
Moved by French springs or Flemish wheels,
None turns religion upside down,
Or tears pretences out at heels,
Like SPLAYMOUTH with his brace of caps,
Whose conscience might be scann'd perhaps
By the dimensions of his chaps;

He whom the sisters do adore,
Counting his actions all divine,
Who when the spirit hints can roar,
And, if occasion serves, can whine;
Nay, he can bellow, bray, or bark;
Was ever SIKE A BEAUK-LEARN'D clerk
That speaks all linguas of the ark?

To draw the hornets in like bees,
With pleasing twangs he tones his prose;
He gives his handkerchief a squeeze,
And draws John Calvin thro' his nose;
Motive on motive he obtrudes,
With slip-stocking similitudes,
Eight uses more, and so concludes.

When monarchy began to bleed,
And treason had a fine new name;
When Thames was balderdash'd with Tweed,
And pulpits did like beacons flame;
When Jeroboam's calves were rear'd,
And Laud was neither loved nor fear'd,
This gospel-comet first appear'd.

Soon his unhallow'd fingers stript
His sovereign-liege of power and land;
And, having smote his master, slipt
His sword into his fellow's hand;
But he that wears his eyes may note
Oft-times the butcher binds a goat,
And leaves his boy to cut her throat.

Poor England felt his fury then
Outweigh'd Queen Mary's many grains;
His very preaching slew more men
Than Bonnar's faggots, stakes, and chains:
With dog-star zeal, and lungs like Boreas,
He fought, and taught, and, what's notorious,
Destroy'd his Lord to make him glorious.

Yet drew for King and Parliament,
As if the wind could stand north-south;
Broke Moses' law with blest intent,
Murther'd, and then he wiped his mouth:
Oblivion alters not his case,
Nor clemency nor acts of grace
Can blanch an Ethiopian's face.

Ripe for rebellion, he begins
To rally up the saints in swarms;
He bawls aloud, Sir, leave your sins,
But whispers, Boys, stand to your arms:
Thus he's grown insolently rude,
Thinking his gods can't be subdued -

Magistrates he regards no more
Than St George or the King of Colon,
Vowing he'll not conform before
The old wives wind their dead in woollen:
He calls the bishop gray-hair'd coff,
And makes his power as mere a scoff
As Dagon when his hands were off.

Hark! how he opens with full cry,
Halloo, my hearts, beware of Rome!
Cowards that are afraid to die
Thus make domestic brawls at home.
How quietly great Charles might reign,
Would all these Hotspurs cross the main
And preach down Popery in Spain.

The starry rule of Heaven is fixt,
There's no dissension in the sky;
And can there be a mean betwixt,
Confusion and conformity?
A place divided never thrives,
'Tis bad when hornets dwell in hives,
But worse when children play with knives.

I would as soon turn back to mass,
Or change my praise to THEE and THOU;
Let the Pope ride me like an ass,
And his priests milk me like a cow!
As buckle to Smectymnian laws,
The bad effects o' th' Good old Cause,
That have dove's plumes, but vulture's claws.

For 'twas the holy Kirk that nursed,
The Brownists and the ranters' crew;
Foul error's motley vesture first
Was oaded (98) in a northern blue;
And what's th' enthusiastick breed,
Or men of Knipperdolin's creed,
But Cov'nanters run up to seed!

Yet they all cry they love the King,
And make boast of their innocence:
There cannot be so vile a thing
But may be cover'd with pretence;
Yet when all's said, one thing I'll swear,
No subject like th' old Cavalier,
No traytor like JACK-PRESBYTER.

Ballad: The Devil's Progress On Earth, Or Huggle Duggle

From Durfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy."

FRIER BACON walks again,
And Doctor FORSTER (99) too;
And many a goblin crew:
With that a merry devil,
To make the AIRING, vow'd;
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The Devil laugh'd aloud.

Why think you that he laugh'd?
Forsooth he came from court;
And there amongst the gallants
Had spy'd such pretty sport;
There was such cunning jugling,
And ladys gon so proud;
Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that into the city
Away the Devil went;
To view the merchants' dealings
It was his full intent:
And there along the brave Exchange
He crept into the croud.
Huggle Duggle, etc.

He went into the city
To see all there was well;
Their scales were false, their weights were light,
Their conscience fit for hell;
And PANDERS chosen magistrates,
And PURITANS allow'd.
Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that unto the country
Away the Devil goeth;
For there is all plain dealing,
For that the Devil knoweth:
But the rich man reaps the gains
For which the poor man plough'd.
Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that the Devil in haste
Took post away to hell,
And call'd his fellow furies,
And told them all on earth was well:
That falsehood there did flourish,
Plain dealing was in a cloud.
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The devils laugh'd aloud.

Ballad: A Bottle Definition Of That Fallen Angel, Called A Whig

From a collection of Historical and State Poems, Satyrs, Songs, and
Epigrams, by Ned Ward, A. D. 1717.

What is a Whig? A cunning rogue
That once was in, now out of vogue:
A rebel to the Church and throne,
Of Lucifer the very spawn.

A tyrant, who is ne'er at rest
In power, or when he's dispossess'd;
A knave, who foolishly has lost
What so much blood and treasure cost.

A lying, bouncing desperado,
A bomb, a stink-pot, a granado;
That's ready primed, and charged to break,
And mischief do for mischief's sake:

A comet, whose portending phiz
Appears more dreadful than it is;
But now propitious stars repel
Those ills it lastly did fortel.

'Twill burst with unregarded spight,
And, since the Parliament proves right,
Will turn to smoke, which shone of late
So bright and flaming in the State.

Ballad: The Desponding Whig

From Ned Ward's Works, vol. iv. 1709.

When owles are strip'd of their disguise,
And wolves of shepherd's cloathing,
Those birds and beasts that please our eyes
Will then beget our loathing;
When foxes tremble in their holes
At dangers that they see,
And those we think so wise prove fools,
Then low, boys, down go we.

If those designs abortive prove
We've been so long in hatching,
And cunning knaves are forced to move
From home for fear of catching;
The rabble soon will change their tone
When our intrigues they see,
And cry God save the Church and Throne,
Then low, boys, down go we.

The weaver then no more must leave
His loom and turn a preacher,
Nor with his cant poor fools deceive
To make himself the richer.
Our leaders soon would disappear
If such a change should be,
Our scriblers too would stink for fear,
Then low, boys, down go we.

No canvisars would dare to shew
Their postures and grimaces,
Or proph'sy what they never knew,
By dint of ugly faces.
But shove the tumbler through the town,
And quickly banish'd be,
For none must teach without a gown,
Then low, boys, down go we.

If such unhappy days should come,
Our virtue, moderation,
Would surely be repaid us home
With double compensation;
For as we never could forgive,
I fear we then should see
That what we lent we must receive,
Then low, boys, down go we.

Should honest brethren once discern
Our knaveries, they'd disown us,
And bubbl'd fools more wit should learn,
The Lord have mercy on us;
Let's guard against that evil day,
Least such a time should be,
And tackers should come into play,
Then low, boys, down go we.

Tho' hitherto we've play'd our parts
Like wary cunning foxes,
And gain'd the common people's hearts
By broaching het'rodoxes, -
But they're as fickle as the winds,
With nothing long agree,
And when they change their wav'ring minds,
Then low, boys, down go we.

Let's preach and pray, but spit our gall
On those that do oppose us,
And cant of grace, in spite of all
The shame the Devil owes us:
The just, the loyal, and the wise
With us shall Papists be,
For if the HIGH CHURCH once should rise,
Then, LOW CHURCH, down go we.

Ballad: Phanatick Zeal, Or A Looking-glass For The Whigs

From a Collection of 180 Loyal Songs. Tune, "A Swearing we will

Who would not be a Tory
When the loyal are call'd so:
And a Whig now is known
To be the nation's foe?
So a Tory I will be, will be,
And a Tory I will be.

With little band precise,
Hair Presbyterian cut,
Whig turns up hands and eyes
Though smoking hot from slut.
So a Tory I will be, etc.

Black cap turn'd up with white,
With wolfish neck and face,
And mouth with nonsense stuft,
Speaks Whig a man of grace,
And a Tory I will be, etc.

The sisters go to meetings
To meet their gallants there;
And oft mistake for my Lord,
And snivel out my dear.
And a Tory I will be, etc.

Example, we do own,
Than precept better is;
For Creswell she was safe,
When she lived a private Miss.
And a Tory I will be, etc.

The Whigs, though ne'er so proud,
Sometimes have been as low,
For there are some of note
Have long a raree-show.
And a Tory I will be, etc.

These mushrooms now have got
Their champion turn-coat hick;
But if the naked truth were known
They're assisted by old Nick.
And a Tory I will be, etc.

To be and to be not
At once is in their power;
For when they're in, they're guilty,
But clear when out o' the tower.
And a Tory I will be, etc.

To carry their designs,
Though 't contradicts their sense;
They're clear a Whiggish traytor
Against clear evidence.
And a Tory I will be, etc.

The old proverb doth us tell,
Each dog will have his day;
And Whig has had his too,
For which he'll soundly pay;
And a Tory I will be, etc.

For bodkins and for thimbles
Now let your tubsters cant;
Their confounded tired cause
Had never yet more want.
So a Tory I will be, etc.

For ignoramus Toney
Has left you in the lurch;
And you have spent your money,
So, faith, e'en come to Church;
For a Tory I will be, etc.

They are of no religion,
Be it spoken to their glories,
For St Peter and St Paul
With them both are Tories;
And a Tory I will be, etc.

They're excellent contrivers,
I wonder what they're not,
For something they can make
Of nothing and a plot.
And a Tory I will be, etc.

But now your holy cheat
Is known throughout the nation;
And a Whig is known to be
A thing quite out of fashion.
And a Tory I will be, etc.

Ballad: A New Game At Cards: Or, Win At First And Lose At Last

A popular ballad, written immediately after the restoration of
Charles II.; and in which the victorious Cavaliers render honour to
General Monk, Duke of Albemarle.

Tune, "Ye gallants that delight to play."

Ye merry hearts that love to play
At cards, see who hath won the day;
You that once did sadly sing
The knave of clubs hath won the king;
Now more happy times we have,
The king hath overcome the knave.

Not long ago a game was play'd,
When three crowns at the stakes were laid;
England had no cause to boast,
Knaves won that which kings had lost:
Coaches gave the way to carts,
And clubs were better cards than hearts.

Old Noll was the knave o' clubs,
And dad of such as preach in tubs;
Bradshaw, Ireton, and Pride
Were three other knaves beside;
And they play'd with half the pack,
Throwing out all cards but black.

But the just Fates threw these four out,
Which made the loyal party shout;
The Pope would fain have had the stock,
And with these cards have whipt his dock.
But soon the Devil these cards snatches
To dip in brimstone, and make matches.

But still the sport for to maintain,
Bold Lambert, Haslerigg, and Vane,
With one-eyed Hewson, took their places,
Knaves were better cards than aces;
But Fleetwood he himself did save,
Because he was more fool than knave.

Cromwell, though he so much had won,
Yet he had an unlucky son;
He sits still, and not regards,
Whilst cunning gamesters set the cards;
And thus, alas! poor silly Dick,
He play'd awhile, and lost his trick.

The Rumpers that had won whole towns,
The spoils of martyrs and of crowns,
Were not contented, but grew rough,
As though they had not won enough;
They kept the cards still in their hands,
To play for tithes and college lands.

The Presbyters began to fret
That they were like to lose the sett;
Unto the Rump they did appeal,
And said it was their turn to deal;
Then dealt with Presbyterians, but
The army swore that they would cut.

The foreign lands began to wonder,
To see what gallants we lived under,
That they, which Christians did forswear,
Should follow gaming all the year, -
Nay more, which was the strangest thing,
To play so long without a king.

The bold phanatics present were,
Like butlers with their boxes there,
Not doubting but that every game
Some profit would redound to them;
Because they were the gamesters' minions,
And every day broach'd new opinions.

But Cheshire men (as stories say)
Began to show them gamester's play;
Brave Booth and all his army strives
To save the stakes, or lose their lives;
But, oh sad fate! they were undone
By playing of their cards too soon.

Thus all the while a club was trump,
There's none could ever beat the Rump,
Until a noble general came,
And gave the cheaters a clear slam;
His finger did outwit their noddy,
And screw'd up poor Jack Lambert's body.

Then Haslerigg began to scowl,
And said the general play'd foul.
Look to him, partners, for I tell ye,
This Monk has got a king in's belly.
Not so, quoth Monk, but I believe
Sir Arthur has a knave in's sleeve.

When General Monk did understand
The Rump were peeping into's hand,
He wisely kept his cards from sight,
Which put the Rump into a fright;
He saw how many were betray'd
That show'd their cards before they play'd.

At length, quoth he, some cards we lack,
I will not play with half a pack;
What you cast out I will bring in,
And a new game we will begin:
With that the standers-by did say
They never yet saw fairer play.

But presently this game was past,
And for a second knaves were cast;
All new cards, not stain'd with spots,
As was the Rumpers and the Scots, -
Here good gamesters play'd their parts
And turn'd up the king of hearts.

After this game was done, I think
The standers-by had cause to drink,
And all loyal subjects sing,
Farewell knaves, and welcome King;
For, till we saw the King return'd,
We wish'd the cards had all been burn'd.

Ballad: The Cavaleers Litany

(March 25th, 1660.) - From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum.

From pardons which extend to woods,
Entitle thieves to keep our goods,
Forgive our rents as well as bloods,
God bless, etc.

From judges who award that none
Of our oppressours should attone
(The losses sure were not their own),
God bless, etc.

From Christians which can soon forget
Our injuries, but not one bit
Of self-concernment would remit,
God bless, etc.

From duresse, and their dolefull tale,
Who, famisht by a lawless sale,
Compounded it for cakes and ale,
God bless, etc.

From persons still to tread the stage,
Who did the drudgeries of our age
(Such counsells are, I fear, too sage),
God bless, etc.

From maximes which (to make all sure)
With great rewards the bad allure,
'Cause of the good they are secure,
God bless, etc.

From cunning gamesters, who, they say,
Are sure to winne, what-e're they play;
In April Lambert, Charles in May,
God bless, etc.

From neuters and their leven'd lump,
Who name the King and mean the Rump,
Or care not much what card is trump,
God bless, etc.

From midnight-birds, who lye at catch
Some plume from monarchy to snatch,
And from fond youths that cannot watch,
God bless, etc.

From brethren who must still dissent,
Whose froward gospell brooks no Lent,
And who recant, but ne'er repent,
God bless, etc.

From Levites void of truth and shame,
Who to the time their pulpits frame,
And keep the style but change the name,
God bless, etc.

From men by heynous crimes made rich,
Who (though their hopes are in the ditch)
Have still th' old fornicatours itch,
God bless, etc.

From such as freely paid th' arrears
Of the State-troops for many years,
But grudge one tax for Cavaleers,
God bless, etc.


A crown of gold without allay,
Not here provided for one day,
But framed above to last for aye!
God send, etc.

A Queen to fill the empty place,
And multiply his noble race,
Wee all beseech the throne of grace
To send, etc.

A people still as true and kind
As late (when for their King they pin'd),
Not fickle as the tide or wild,
God send, etc.

A fleet like that in fifty-three,
To re-assert our power at sea,
And make proud Flemings bend their knee,
God send, etc.

Full magazines and cash in store,
That such as wrought his fate before
May hope to do the same no more,
God send, etc.

A searching judgement to divine,
Of persons whether they do joyn
For love, for fear, or for design,
God send, etc.

A well-complexion'd Parliament,
That shall (like Englishmen) resent
What loyall subjects underwent,
God send, etc.

Review of statutes lately past,
Made in such heat, pen'd in such hast,
That all events were not forecast,
God send, etc.

Dispatch of businesse, lawes upright,
And favour where it stands with right,
(Be their purses ne'er so light),
God send, etc.

A raven to supply their need,
Whose martyrdom (like noble seed)
Sprung up at length and choak't the weed,
God send, etc.

The King and kingdom's debts defray'd,
And those of honest men well pay'd,
To which their vertue them betray'd,
God send, etc.

Increase of customes to the King
May our increase of traffick bring,
'Tis that will make the people sing
Long live, etc.

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

Ballad: The Cavalier's Complaint

This and the following ballad, from the King's Pamphlets, British
Museum, express the discontent of the Cavaliers at the ingratitude
of King Charles to the old supporters of the fortunes of his
family. - (March 15th, 1660.)

To the tune of "I tell thee, Dick."

Come, Jack, let's drink a pot of ale,
And I shall tell thee such a tale
Will make thine ears to ring;
My coyne is spent, my time is lost,
And I this only fruit can boast,
That once I saw my King.

But this doth most afflict my mind:
I went to Court in hope to find
Some of my friends in place;
And walking there, I had a sight
Of all the crew, but, by this light!
I hardly knew one face.

'S'life! of so many noble sparkes,
Who on their bodies bear the markes
Of their integritie;
And suffer'd ruine of estate,
It was my damn'd unhappy fate
That I not one could see.

Not one, upon my life, among
My old acquaintance all along
At Truro and before;
And I suppose the place can show
As few of those whom thou didst know
At Yorke or Marston-moore.

But truly there are swarmes of those
Who lately were our chiefest foes,
Of pantaloons and muffes;
Whilst the old rusty Cavaleer
Retires, or dares not once appear,
For want of coyne and cuffes.

When none of these I could descry,
Who better far deserv'd then I,
Calmely I did reflect;
"Old services (by rule of State)
Like almanacks grow out of date, -
What then can I expect?"

Troth! in contempt of Fortune's frown,
I'll get me fairly out of town,
And in a cloyster pray;
That since the starres are yet unkind
To Royalists, the King may find
More faithfull friends than they.

Ballad: An Echo To The Cavalier's Complaint

I marvel, Dick, that having been
So long abroad, and having seen
The world as thou hast done,
Thou should'st acquaint mee with a tale
As old as Nestor, and as stale
As that of Priest and Nunne. (100)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: A Relation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SECOND PART - To the same tune.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Glory Of These Nations

Or, King and peoples happinesse. Being a brief relation of King
Charles's royall progresse from Dover to London, how the Lord
Generall and the Lord Mayor, with all the nobility and gentry of
the land, brought him thorow the famous city of London to his
pallace at Westminster, the 29th of May last, being his Majesties
birth-day, to the great comfort of his loyall subjects.

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

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

To the tune of "When the King enjoys his own again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

London, printed for Charles Tyns, on London Bridge.

Ballad: The Noble Progress

Or, A True Relation Of The Lord General Monk's Political

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

Tune - "When first the Scottish wars began."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: On The King's Return

By Alex. Brome.

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

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

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

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


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

Ballad: The Brave Barbary

A Ballad by Alex. Brome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: A Catch

By Alex. Brome. A.D. 1660.

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

Ballad: The Turn-Coat

By Samuel Butler. 1661.

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

To the tune of "London is a fine town."

I loved no King since forty-one,
When Prelacy went down;
A cloak and band I then put on
And preach'd against the crown.
A turn-coat is a cunning man
That cants to admiration,
And prays for any king to gain
The people's approbation.

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Claret Drinker's Song

Or The Good Fellow's Design. Being a pleasant song of the times,
written by a person of quality. - From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol.

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

To the tune of "Let Caesar live long."

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Loyal Subjects' Hearty Wishes To King Charles II.

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

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

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

To the tune "When Cannons are roaring."


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: King Charles The Second's Restoration, 29th May.

Tune, "Where have you been, my lovely sailor bold?"

You brave loyal Churchmen,
That ever stood by the crown,
Have you forgot that noble prince

Book of the day:
Facebook Google Reddit StumbleUpon Twitter Pinterest