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Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684

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Great Charles of high renown,
That from his rights was banish'd
By Presbyterians, who
Most cruelty his father kill'd? -
O cursed, damned crew!
So let the bells in steeples ring,
And music sweetly play,
That loyal Tories mayn't forget
The twenty-ninth of May.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Jubilee, Or The Coronation Day

From Thomas Jordan's "ROYAL ARBOR OF LOYAL POESIE," 12mo, 1664. Mr
Chappell states - "As this consists of only two stanzas, and the
copy of the book, which is now in the possession of Mr Payne
Collier, is probably unique, they are here subjoined."

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

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

Ballad: The King Enjoys His Own Again

(1661.) - From Hogg's Jacobite Relics.

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: A Country Song, Intituled The Restoration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: Here's A Health Unto His Majesty

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

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

Ballad: The Whigs Drowned In An Honest Tory Health

From Col. 180 Loyal Songs.

Tune, "Hark, the thundering canons roar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Cavalier

By Alex. Brome. - (1661-2.)

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

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

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

Ballad: The Lamentation Of A Bad Market, Or The Disbanded Souldier

(July 17th, 1660.) - From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

London, printed for Charles Gustavus, 1660.

Ballad: The Courtier's Health; Or, The Merry Boys Of The Times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Loyal Tories' Delight; Or A Pill For Fanaticks

Being a most pleasant and new song.

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

To the tune of "Great York has been debar'd of late, etc."

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

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

God preserve our gracious King,
And safe tydings to us bring,
Defend us from the SHAM BLACK BOX, (114)
And all damn'd fanatick plots,
And all damn'd, etc.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Royal Admiral

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Unfortunate Whigs

1682. - From the Roxburgh Ballads.

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

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

They all owne duty to their lawful prince,
And loyal subjects should have been;
But their duty is worn out long since,
By the ASSOCIATION seen.
But these are the Whigs,
That have cut off some legs,
And fain would be at that sport amain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,

And yet they are sham-pretenders,
And they swear they'll support our laws;
These be the great defenders of
They'll defend the King
By swearing of the thing,
These are the cursed rogues in grain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,

The true religion that shall down,
Which so long has won the day,
And COMMON-PRAYER i'th' church of ev'ry town,
If that the Whigs could but bear the sway:
For Oates he does begin
Now for to bring them in,
As when he came mumping from Spain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,

How all their shamming plots they would hide,
Yet they are ignorant, they say,
When as Old TONY he was try'd
And brought off with IGNORAMUS sway:
When Oates he was dumb
And could not use his tongue,
This is the shamming rogues in grain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,

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

God preserve our gracious King,
With the Royal Consort of his bed,
And let all loyal subjects sing
That the crown may remain on Charles's head;
For we will drink his health
In spight of COMMON-WEALTH,
And his lawful rights we will maintain;
For since it is so,
They have wrought their overthrow,

Printed for S. Maurel, in the year 1682.

Ballad: The Downfall Of The Good Old Cause

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

Tune, - "Hey, Boys, up go we."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: Old Jemmy

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

To the tune of "Young Jemmy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Cloak's Knavery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Time-Server, Or A Medley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Soldier's Delight

(Made in the late times.)

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

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

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

PHYDELIA. - One kiss more, and so farewell.
SOLDIER. - Fie, no more! I prithee fool give o'er;
Why cloud'st thou thus thy beams?
I see by these extremes,
A woman's heaven or hell.
Pray the King may have his own,
That the Queen may be seen
With her babes on England's throne;
Rally up your men, one shall vanquish ten,
Victory, we come to try our valour once again.

Ballad: The Loyal Soldier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Polititian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: A New Droll

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hear the squibs and mind the bells,
The fifth of November;
The parson a sad story tells,
And with horror doth remember
How some hot-brain'd traitor wrought
Plots that would have ruin brought
To King and every member.

Ballad: The Royalist

A song made in the Rebellion.

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

Stay, shut the gate!
T'other quart, boys, 'tis not so late
As you are thinking;
The stars which you see in the hemisphere be
Are but studs in your cheeks by good drinking;
The sun's gone to tipple all night in the sea, boys,
To-morrow he'll blush that he's paler than we, boys;
Drink wine, give him water,
'Tis sack makes us the boys.

Fill up the glass,
To the next merry lad let it pass;
Come, away wi't;
Let's set foot to foot and but give our minds to't,
'Tis heretical sir, that doth slay wit;
Then hang up good faces, let's drink till our noses
Give's freedom to speak what our fancy disposes,
Beneath whose protection now under the rose is.

Drink off your bowl,
'Twill enrich both your head and your soul with Canary;
For a carbuncled face saves a tedious race,
And the Indies about us we carry;
No Helicon like to the juice of good wine is,
For Phoebus had never had wit that divine is,
Had his face not been bow-dy'd as thine is and mine is.

This must go round,
Off with your hats till the pavement be crown'd with your beavers;
A red-coated face frights a sergeant and his mace,
Whilst the constables tremble to shivers.
In state march our faces like some of that quorum,
While the. . . . do fall down and the vulgar adore 'um,
And our noses like link-boys run shining before 'um.

Ballad: The Royalist's Resolve

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society.

Come, drawer, some wine,
Or we'll pull down the sign,
For we are all jovial compounders;
We'll make the house ring
With healths to our King,
And confusion light on his confounders.

Since former committee
Afforded no pity,
Our sorrows in wine we will steep 'um;
They force us to take
Two oaths, but we'll make
A third, that we ne'er mean to keep 'um.

And next, whoe'er sees,
We'll drink on our knees
To the King; may he thirst that repines:
A fig for those traytors
That look to our waters,
They have nothing to do with our wines.

And next here's three bowls
To all gallant souls
That for the King did and will venture;
May they flourish when those
That are his and our foes
Are hang'd, and ram'd down to the center.

And may they be found
In all to abound,
Both with Heaven and the country's anger;
May they never want fractions,
Doubts, fears, and distractions,
Till the gallows-tree frees them from danger.

Ballad: Loyalty Turned Up Trump, Or The Danger Over

From the Loyal Garland, reprinted from a Black-Letter copy, printed
1686. Reprinted for the Percy society, 1850.

In vain ill men attempt us,
Their day is out of date;
The fates do now exempt us
From what we felt of late.
The nation is grown wiser
Than to believe their shame;
He that was the deviser
Themselves begin to blame.

They thought the trumps would ever
Turn on rebellion's side,
But kinder power deliver
Us from their foolish pride;
For see, they are deceived,
And can no more prevail;
Those who the Rump believed,
Ashamed are of the tale.

Ballad: The Loyalist's Encouragement

From the Loyal Garland. To the tune of "Now, now the fight's

You Royalists all, now rejoice and be glad,
The day is our own, there's no cause to be sad,
The tumult of faction is crush'd in its pride,
And the grand promoters their noddles all hide,
For fear of a swing, which does make it appear
Though treason they loved yet for hemp they don't care.

Then let us be bold still, and baffle their plots,
That they in the end may prove impotent sots;
And find both their wit and their malice defeated,
Nay, find how themselves and their pupils they cheated,
By heaping and thrusting to unhinge a State,
Of which Heaven's guardian fixt is by fate.

Though once they the rabble bewitch'd with their cant,
Whilst cobler and weaver set up for a saint;
Yet now the stale cheat they can fasten no more,
The juggle's discover'd and they must give o'er;
Yet give them their due that such mischief did work,
Who revile Christian princes and pray for the Turk.

Oh! give them their due, and let none of 'em want
A cup of Geneva or Turkish turbant,
That, clad in their colours, they may not deceive
The vulgar, too prone and too apt to believe
The fears they suggest on a groundless pretence,
On purpose to make 'em repine or their prince.

Ballad: The Trouper

From the Loyal Garland. A pleasant song revived.

Come, come, let us drink,
'Tis vain to think
Like fools of grief or sadness;
Let our money fly
And our sorrows dye,
All worldly care is madness;
But wine and good cheer
Will, in spite of our fear,
Inspire us all with gladness.

Let the greedy clowns,
That do live like hounds,
They know neither bound nor measure,
Lament every loss,
For their wealth is their cross,
Whose delight is in their treasure;
Whilst we with our own
Do go merrily on,
And spend it at our leisure.

Then trout about the bowl
To every loyal soul,
And to his hand commend it.
A fig for chink,
'Twas made to buy drink,
Before we depart we'll end it.
When we've spent our store,
The nation yields no more,
And merrily we will spend it.

Ballad: On The Times, Or The Good Subject's Wish

From the Loyal Garland. To the tune of "Young Phaon."

Good days we see, let us rejoice,
In peace and loyalty,
And still despise the factious noise
Of those that vainly try
To undermine our happiness,
That they may by it get;
Knavery has great increase
When honesty does set.

But let us baffle all their tricks,
Our King and country serve;
And may he never thrive that likes
Sedition in reserve:
Then let each in his station rest,
As all good subjects should;
And he that otherwise designs,
May he remain unblest.

May traytors ever be deceived
In all they undertake,
And never by good men believed;
May all the plots they make
Fall heavy on themselves, and may
They see themselves undone,
And never have a happy day,
That would the King dethrone.

Ballad: The Jovialists' Coronation

From the Loyal Garland.

Since it must be so, why then so let it go,
Let the giddy-brain'd times turn round;
Now we have our King, let the goblets be crowned,
And our monarchy thus we recover;
Whilst the pottles are weeping
We'll drench our sad souls
In big-belly'd bowls,
And our sorrows in wine shall lie steeping.
And we'll drink till our eyes do run over,
And prove it by reason,
It can be no treason
To drink or to sing
A mournifal of healths to our new-crowned King.

Let us all stand bare in the presence we are,
Let our noses like bonfires shine;
Instead of the conduits, let pottles run wine,
To perfect this true coronation;
And we that are loyal, in drink shall be peers;
For that face that wears claret
Can traytors defie all,
And out-stares the bores of our nation;
In sign of obedience
Our oaths of allegiance
Beer glasses shall be,
And he that tipples tends to jollitry.

But if in this reign a halberdly train,
Or a constable, chance to revel,
And would with his twyvels maliciously swell,
And against the King's party raise arms:
Then the drawers, like yeomen o' the guard,
With quart-pots
Shall fuddle the sots,
Till they make 'um both cuckolds and freemen,
And on their wives beat up alarms,
Thus as the health passes,
We'll triple our glasses,
And count it no sin
To drink and be loyal in defence of our King.

Ballad: The Loyal Prisoner

From the Loyal Garland.

How happy's that pris'ner that conquers his fate
With silence, and ne'er on bad fortune complains,
But carelessly plays with keys on his grate,
And he makes a sweet concert with them and his chains!
He drowns care in sack, while his thoughts are opprest,
And he makes his heart float like a cork in his breast.
Then since we are slaves, and all islanders be,
And our land a large prison enclosed by the sea,
We'll drink off the ocean, and set ourselves free,
For man is the world's epitomy.

Let tyrants wear purple, deep-dy'd in the blood
Of those they have slain, their scepters to sway,
If our conscience be clear, and our title be good,
With the rags that hang on us we are richer than they;
We'll drink down at night what we beg or can borrow,
And sleep without plotting for more the next morrow.
Then since, etc.

Let the usurer watch o'er his bags and his house,
To keep that from robbers he rak'd from his debtors,
Which at midnight cries thieves at the noise of a mouse,
And he looks if his trunks are fast bound to their fetters;
When once he's grown rich enough for a State's plot,
But in one hour plunders what threescore years got.
Then since, etc.

Come, drawer, fill each man a peck of old sherry,
This brimmer shall bid all our senses good-night;
When old Aristotle was frolic and merry,
By the juice of the grape, he stagger'd out-right;
Copernicus once, in a drunken fit, found
By the course of's brains that the world did turn round.
Then since, etc.

'Tis sack makes our faces like comets to shine,
And gives tincture beyond a complexion mask.
Diogenes fell so in love with his wine,
That when 'twas all out he dwelt in the cask,
And being shut up within a close room,
He, dying, requested a tub for his tomb.
Then since, etc.

Let him never so privately muster his gold,
His angels will their intelligence be;
How closely they're prest in their canvas hold,
And they want the State-souldier to set them all free:
Let them pine and be hanged, we'll merrily sing,
Who hath nothing to lose, may cry, God bless the King.
Then since, etc.

Ballad: Canary's Coronation

From the Loyal Garland.

Come, let's purge our brains
From ale and grains,
That do smell of anarchy;
Let's chuse a King
From whose blood may spring
Such a sparkling progeny;
It will be fit, strew mine in it,
Whose flames are bright and clear;
We'll not bind our hands with drayman's bands,
When as we may be freer;
Why should we droop, or basely stoop
To popular ale or beer?

Who shall be King? how comes the thing
For which we all are met?
Claret is a prince that hath long since
In the royal order set:
His face is spread with a warlike seed,
And so he loves to see men;
When he bears the sway, his subjects they
Shall be as good as freemen;
But here's the plot, almost forgot,
'Tis too much burnt with women.

By the river of Rhine is a valiant wine
That can all other replenish;
Let's then consent to the government
And the royal rule of Rhenish:
The German wine will warm the chine,
And frisk in every vein;
'Twill make the bride forget to chide,
And call him to't again:
But that's not all, he is too small
To be our sovereign.

Let us never think of a noble drink,
But with notes advance on high,
Let's proclaim good Canary's name, -
Heaven bless his Majesty!
He is a King in everything,
Whose nature doth renounce all,
He'll make us skip and nimbly trip
From ceiling to the groundsil;
Especially when poets be
Lords of the Privy Council.

But a vintner will his taster be,
Here's nothing that can him let;
A drawer that hath a good palat
Shall be squire of the gimblet.
The bar-boys shall be pages all,
A tavern well-prepared,
And nothing shall be spared;
In jovial sort shall be the court,
Wine-porters that are soldiers tall
Be yeomen of the guard.

But if a cooper we with a red nose see
In any part of the town;
The cooper shall, with his aids-royal,
Bear the sceptre of the crown;
Young wits that wash away their cash
In wine and recreation,
Who hates ale and beer, shall be welcome here
To give their approbation;
So shall all you that will allow
Canary's recreation.

Ballad: The Mournful Subjects,

Or The Whole Nation's Lamentation, From The Highest To The Lowest.

The Mournful Subjects, or the Whole Nation's Lamentation, from the
Highest to the Lowest; who did with brinish tears (the true signs
of sorrow) bewail the death of their most gracious Soveraign King
Charles the Second, who departed this life Feb. 6th, 1684, and was
interred in Westminster Abbey, in King Henry the Seventh's Chapel,
on Saturday night last, being the 14th day of the said month; to
the sollid grief and sorrow of all his loving subjects.

From vol. i. of the Roxburgh Ballads in Brit. Mus.

Tune, "Troy Town, or the Duchess of Suffolk."

True subjects mourn, and well they may,
Of each degree, both lords and earls,
Which did behold that dismal day,
The death of princely pious Charles;
Some thousand weeping tears did fall
At his most sollid funeral.

He was a prince of clemency,
Whose love and mercy did abound;
His death may well lamented be
Through all the nations Europe round;
Unto the ears of Christian kings
His death unwelcome tidings brings.

All those that ever thought him ill,
And did disturb him in his reign, -
Let horrour now their conscience fill,
And strive such actions to restrain;
For sure they know not what they do,
The time will come when they shall rue.

How often villains did design
By cruelty his blood to spill,
Yet by the Providence divine
God would not let them have their will,
But did preserve our gracious King,
Under the shadow of his wing.

We grieved his soul while he was here,
When we would not his laws obey;
Therefore the Lord he was severe,
And took our gracious prince away:
We were not worthy to enjoy
The prince whom subjects would annoy.

In peace he did lay down his head,
The sceptre and the royal crown;
His soul is now to heaven fled,
Above the reach of mortal frown,
Where joy and glory will not cease,
In presence with the King of Peace.

Alas! we had our liberty,
He never sought for to devour
By a usurping tyranny,
To rule by arbitrary power;
No, no, in all his blessed reign
We had no cause for to complain.

Let mourners now lament the loss
Of him that did the scepter sway,
And look upon it as a cross
That he from us is snatch'd away;
Though he is free from care or woe,
Yet we cannot forget him so.

But since it was thy blessed will
To call him from a sinful land,
Oh let us all be thankful still
That it was done by thine own hand:
No pitch of honour can be free
From Death's usurping tyranny.

The fourteen day of February
They did interr our gracious Charles;
His funeral solemnity,
Accompanied with lords and earls,
Four Dukes, I, and Prince George by name,
Went next the King with all his train.

And thus they to the Abbey went
To lay him in his silent tomb,
Where many inward sighs were spent
To think upon their dismal doom.
Whole showers of tears afresh then fell
When they beheld his last farewell.

Since it is so, that all must die,
And must before our God appear,
Oh let us have a watchful eye,
Over our conversation here;
That like great Charles, our King and friend,
We all may have a happy end.

Let England by their loyalty
Repair the breach which they did make;
And let us all united be
To gracious James, for Charles his sake;
And let there be no more discord,
But love the King and fear the Lord.

Printed for F. Deacon in Guilt-Spur Street.

Ballad: "Memento Mori"

An elogy on the death of his sacred Majesty King Charles II., of
blessed memory.

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