Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684

Scanned and proofed by David Price, email The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684 Edited by Charles Mackay The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684 Contents: When The King Enjoys His Own Again When The King Comes Home In Peace Again I Love My King And
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Scanned and proofed by David Price, email

The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684 Edited by Charles Mackay

The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684


When The King Enjoys His Own Again
When The King Comes Home In Peace Again I Love My King And Country Well
The Commoners
The Royalist
The New Courtier
Upon The Cavaliers Departing Out Of London A Mad World, My Masters
The Man O’ The Moon
The Tub-Preacher
The New Litany
The Old Protestant’s Litany
Vive Le Roy
The Cavalier
A Caveat To The Roundheads
Hey, Then, Up Go We
The Clean Contrary Way, Or, Colonel Venne’s Encouragement To His Soldiers
The Cameronian Cat
The Royal Feast
Upon His Majesty’s Coming To Holmby I Thank You Twice
The Cities Loyaltie To The King
The Lawyers’ Lamentation For The Loss Of Charing-Cross The Downfal Of Charing-Cross
The Long Parliament
The Puritan
The Roundhead
Prattle Your Pleasure Under The Rose The Dominion Of The Sword
The State’s New Coin
The Anarchie, Or The Blest Reformation Since 1640 A Coffin For King Charles, A Crown For Cromwell, And A Pit For The People
A Short Litany For The Year 1649
The Sale Of Rebellion’s House-Hold Stuff The Cavalier’s Farewell To His Mistress, Being Called To The Warrs The Last News From France
Song To The Figure Two
The Reformation
Upon The General Pardon Passed By The Rump An Old Song On Oliver’s Court
The Parliament Routed, Or Here’s A House To Be Let A Christmas Song When The Rump Was First Dissolved A Free Parliament Litany
The Mock Song
As Close As A Goose
The Prisoners
The Protecting Brewer
The Arraignment Of The Devil For Stealing Away President Bradshaw A New Ballad To An Old Tune, – Tom Of Bedlam Saint George And The Dragon, Anglice Mercurius Poeticus The Second Part Of St George For England A New-Year’s Gift For The Rump
A Proper New Ballad On The Old Parliament; Or, The Second Part Of Knave Out Of Doors
The Tale Of The Cobbler And The Vicar Of Bray The Geneva Ballad
The Devil’s Progress On Earth, Or Huggle Duggle A Bottle Definition Of That Fallen Angel, Called A Whig The Desponding Whig
Phanatick Zeal, Or A Looking-glass For The Whigs A New Game At Cards: Or, Win At First And Lose At Last The Cavaleers Litany
The Cavalier’s Complaint
An Echo To The Cavalier’s Complaint A Relation
The Glory Of These Nations
The Noble Progress
On The King’s Return
The Brave Barbary
A Catch
The Turn-Coat
The Claret Drinker’s Song
The Loyal Subjects’ Hearty Wishes To King Charles II. King Charles The Second’s Restoration, 29th May. The Jubilee, Or The Coronation Day
The King Enjoys His Own Again
A Country Song, Intituled The Restoration Here’s A Health Unto His Majesty
The Whigs Drowned In An Honest Tory Health The Cavalier
The Lamentation Of A Bad Market, Or The Disbanded Souldier The Courtier’s Health; Or, The Merry Boys Of The Times The Loyal Tories’ Delight; Or A Pill For Fanaticks The Royal Admiral
The Unfortunate Whigs
The Downfall Of The Good Old Cause
Old Jemmy
The Cloak’s Knavery
The Time-Server, Or A Medley
The Soldier’s Delight
The Loyal Soldier
The Polititian
A New Droll
The Royalist
The Royalist’s Resolve
Loyalty Turned Up Trump, Or The Danger Over The Loyalist’s Encouragement
The Trouper
On The Times, Or The Good Subject’s Wish The Jovialists’ Coronation
The Loyal Prisoner
Canary’s Coronation
The Mournful Subjects
“Memento Mori”
Accession Of James II
On The Most High And Mighty Monarch King James In A Summer’s Day


The Cavalier Ballads of England, like the Jacobite Ballads of England and Scotland at a later period, are mines of wealth for the student of the history and social manners of our ancestors. The rude but often beautiful political lyrics of the early days of the Stuarts were far more interesting and important to the people who heard or repeated them, than any similar compositions can be in our time. When the printing press was the mere vehicle of polemics for the educated minority, and when the daily journal was neither a luxury of the poor, a necessity of the rich, nor an appreciable power in the formation and guidance of public opinion, the song and the ballad appealed to the passion, if not to the intellect of the masses, and instructed them in all the leading events of the time. In our day the people need no information of the kind, for they procure it from the more readily available and more copious if not more reliable, source of the daily and weekly press. The song and ballad have ceased to deal with public affairs. No new ones of the kind are made except as miserable parodies and burlesques that may amuse sober costermongers and half-drunken men about town, who frequent music saloons at midnight, but which are offensive to every one else. Such genuine old ballads as remain in the popular memory are either fast dying out, or relate exclusively to the never-to-be-superseded topics of love, war, and wine. The people of our day have little heart or appreciation for song, except in Scotland and Ireland. England and America are too prosaic and too busy, and the masses, notwithstanding all their supposed advantages in education, are much too vulgar to delight in either song or ballad that rises to the dignity of poetry. They appreciate the buffooneries of the “Negro Minstrelsy,” and the inanities and the vapidities of sentimental love songs, but the elegance of such writers as Thomas Moore, and the force of such vigorous thinkers and tender lyrists as Robert Burns, are above their sphere, and are left to scholars in their closets and ladies in their drawing- rooms. The case was different among our ancestors in the memorable period of the struggle for liberty that commenced in the reign of Charles I. The Puritans had the pulpit on their side, and found it a powerful instrument. The Cavaliers had the song writers on theirs, and found them equally effective. And the song and ballad writers of that day were not always illiterate versifiers. Some of them were the choicest wits and most accomplished gentlemen of the nation. As they could not reach the ears of their countrymen by the printed book, the pamphlet, or the newspaper, nor mount the pulpit and dispute with Puritanism on its own ground and in its own precincts, they found the song, the ballad, and the epigram more available among a musical and song-loving people such as the English then were, and trusted to these to keep up the spirit of loyalty in the evil days of the royal cause, to teach courage in adversity, and cheerfulness in all circumstances, and to ridicule the hypocrites whom they could not shame, and the tyrants whom they could not overthrow. Though many thousands of these have been preserved in the King’s Pamphlets in the British Museum, and in other collections which have been freely ransacked for the materials of the following pages, as many thousands more have undoubtedly perished. Originally printed as broadsides, and sold for a halfpenny at country fairs, it used to be the fashion of the peasantry to paste them up in cupboards, or on the backs of doors, and farmers’ wives, as well as servant girls and farm labourers, who were able to read, would often paste them on the lids of their trunks, as the best means of preserving them. This is one reason why so many of them have been lost without recovery. To Sir W. C. Trevelyan literature is indebted for the restoration of a few of these waifs and strays, which he found pasted in an old trunk of the days of Cromwell, and which he carefully detached and presented to the British Museum. But a sufficient number of these flying leaves of satire, sentiment, and loyalty have reached our time, to throw a curious and instructive light upon the feelings of the men who resisted the progress of the English Revolution; and who made loyalty to the person of the monarch, even when the monarch was wrong, the first of the civic virtues. In the superabundance of the materials at command, as will be seen from the appended list of books and MSS. which have been consulted and drawn upon to form this collection, the difficulty was to keep within bounds, and to select only such specimens as merited a place in a volume necessarily limited, by their celebrity, their wit, their beauty, their historical interest, or the light they might happen to throw on the obscure biography of the most remarkable actors in the scenes which they describe. It would be too much to claim for these ballads the exalted title of poetry. They are not poetical in the highest sense of the word, and possibly would not have been so effective for the purpose which they were intended to serve, if their writers had been more fanciful and imaginative, or less intent upon what they had to say than upon the manner of saying it. But if not extremely poetical, they are extremely national, and racy of the soil; and some of them are certain to live as long as the language which produced them. For the convenience of reference and consultation they have been arranged chronologically; beginning with the discontents that inaugurated the reign of Charles I., and following regularly to the final, though short-lived, triumph of the Cavalier cause, in the accession of James II. After his ill- omened advent to the throne, the Cavalier became the Jacobite. In this collection no Jacobite songs, properly so called, are included, it being the intention of the publishers to issue a companion volume, of the Jacobite Ballads of England, from the accession of James II. to the battle of Culloden, should the public receive the present volume with sufficient favour to justify the venture.

The Editor cannot, in justice to previous fellow-labourers, omit to record his obligation to the interesting volume, with its learned annotations, contributed by Mr Thomas Wright to the Percy Society; or to another and equally valuable collection, edited by Mr J. O. Halliwell.

December, 1862.

Ballad: When The King Enjoys His Own Again

This is perhaps the most popular of all the Cavalier songs – a favour which it partly owes to the excellent melody with which it is associated. The song, says Mr Chappell, is ascertained to be by Martin Parker, by the following extract from the GOSSIPS’ FEAST, or Moral Tales, 1647. “By my faith, Martin Parker never got a fairer treat: no, not when he indited that sweet ballad, When the King enjoys his own again.” In the poet’s Blind Man’s Bough (or Buff), 1641, Martin Parker says,

“Whatever yet was published by me
Was known as Martin Parker, or M. P.;”

but this song was printed without his name or initials, at a time when it would have been dangerous to give either his own name or that of his publisher. Ritson calls it the most famous song of any time or country. Invented to support the declining interest of Charles I., it served afterwards with more success to keep up the spirits of the Cavaliers, and promote the restoration of his son; an event which it was employed to celebrate all over the kingdom. At the Revolution of 1688, it of course became an adherent of the exiled King, whose cause it never deserted. It did equal service in 1715 and 1745. The tune appears to have been originally known as MARRY ME, MARRY ME, QUOTH THE BONNIE LASS. Booker, Pond, Hammond, Rivers, Swallow, Dade, and “The Man in the Moon,” were all astrologers and Almanac makers in the early days of the civil war. “The Man in the Moon” appears to have been a loyalist in his predictions. Hammond’s Almanac is called “bloody” because the compiler always took care to note the anniversary of the death, execution, or downfall of a Royalist.

What BOOKER doth prognosticate
Concerning kings’ or kingdoms’ fate? I think myself to be as wise
As he that gazeth on the skies;
My skill goes beyond the depth of a POND, Or RIVERS in the greatest rain,
Thereby I can tell all things will be well When the King enjoys his own again.

There’s neither SWALLOW, DOVE, nor DADE, Can soar more high, or deeper wade,
Nor show a reason from the stars
What causeth peace or civil wars;
The Man in the Moon may wear out his shoon By running after Charles his wain:
But all’s to no end, for the times will not mend Till the King enjoys his own again.

Though for a time we see Whitehall
With cobwebs hanging on the wall
Instead of silk and silver brave,
Which formerly it used to have,
With rich perfume in every room, –
Delightful to that princely train,
Which again you shall see, when the time it shall be, That the King enjoys his own again.

Full forty years the royal crown
Hath been his father’s and his own; And is there any one but he
That in the same should sharer be?
For who better may the sceptre sway Than he that hath such right to reign?
Then let’s hope for a peace, for the wars will not cease Till the King enjoys his own again.

[Did WALKER no predictions lack
In Hammond’s bloody almanack?
Foretelling things that would ensue, That all proves right, if lies be true;
But why should not he the pillory foresee, Wherein poor Toby once was ta’en?
And also foreknow to the gallows he must go When the King enjoys his own again?] (1)

Till then upon Ararat’s hill
My hope shall cast her anchor still, Until I see some peaceful dove
Bring home the branch I dearly love; Then will I wait till the waters abate
Which now disturb my troubled brain, Else never rejoice till I hear the voice That the King enjoys his own again.

Ballad: When The King Comes Home In Peace Again

From a broadside in the Roxburghe Collection of Ballads. It appears to have been written shortly after Martin Parker’s original ballad obtained popularity among the Royalists, and to be by another hand. It bears neither date nor printer’s name; and has “God save the King, Amen,” in large letters at the end.

Oxford and Cambridge shall agree,
With honour crown’d, and dignity;
For learned men shall then take place, And bad be silenced with disgrace:
They’ll know it to be but a casualty That hath so long disturb’d their brain; For I can surely tell that all things will go well When the King comes home in peace again.

Church government shall settled be,
And then I hope we shall agree
Without their help, whose high-brain’d zeal Hath long disturb’d the common weal;
Greed out of date, and cobblers that do prate Of wars that still disturb their brain;
The which you will see, when the time it shall be That the King comes home in peace again.

Though many now are much in debt,
And many shops are to be let,
A golden time is drawing near,
Men shops shall take to hold their ware; And then all our trade shall flourishing be made, To which ere long we shall attain;
For still I can tell all things will be well When the King comes home in peace again.

Maidens shall enjoy their mates,
And honest men their lost estates;
Women shall have what they do lack, Their husbands, who are coming back.
When the wars have an end, then I and my friend All subjects’ freedom shall obtain;
By which I can tell all things will be well When we enjoy sweet peace again.

Though people now walk in great fear
Along the country everywhere,
Thieves shall then tremble at the law, And justice shall keep them in awe:
The Frenchies shall flee with their treacherie, And the foes of the King ashamed remain: The which you shall see when the time it shall be That the King comes home in peace again.

The Parliament must willing be
That all the world may plainly see
How they do labour still for peace, That now these bloody wars may cease;
For they will gladly spend their lives to defend The King in all his right to reign:
So then I can tell all things will be well When we enjoy sweet peace again.

When all these things to pass shall come Then farewell Musket, Pick, and Drum,
The Lamb shall with the Lion feed,
Which were a happy time indeed.
O let us pray we may all see the day That peace may govern in his name,
For then I can tell all things will be well When the King comes home in peace again.

Ballad: I Love My King And Country Well

From Songs and other Poems by Alex. Brome, Gent. Published London 1664; written 1645.

I love my King and country well,
Religion and the laws;
Which I’m mad at the heart that e’er we did sell To buy the good old cause.
These unnatural wars
And brotherly jars
Are no delight or joy to me;
But it is my desire
That the wars should expire,
And the King and his realms agree.

I never yet did take up arms,
And yet I dare to dye;
But I’ll not be seduced by phanatical charms Till I know a reason why.
Why the King and the state
Should fall to debate
I ne’er could yet a reason see,
But I find many one
Why the wars should be done,
And the King and his realms agree.

I love the King and the Parliament,
But I love them both together:
And when they by division asunder are rent, I know ’tis good for neither.
Whichsoe’er of those
Be victorious,
I’m sure for us no good ’twill be,
For our plagues will increase
Unless we have peace,
And the King and his realms agree.

The King without them can’t long stand, Nor they without the King;
‘Tis they must advise, and ’tis he must command, For their power from his must spring.
‘Tis a comfortless sway
When none will obey;
If the King han’t his right, which way shall we? They may vote and make laws,
But no good they will cause
Till the King and his realm agree.

A pure religion I would have,
Not mixt with human wit;
And I cannot endure that each ignorant knave Should dare to meddle with it.
The tricks of the law
I would fain withdraw,
That it may be alike to each degree: And I fain would have such
As do meddle so much,
With the King and the church agree.

We have pray’d and pray’d that the wars might cease, And we be free men made;
I would fight, if my fighting would bring any peace, But war is become a trade.
Our servants did ride
With swords by their side,
And made their masters footmen be;
But we’ll be no more slaves
To the beggars and knaves
Now the King and the realms do agree.

Ballad: The Commoners

Written in 1645 to the Club-men, by Alex. Brome.

Come your ways,
Bonny boys
Of the town,
For now is your time or never:
Shall your fears
Or your cares
Cast you down?
Hang your wealth
And your health,
Get renown.
We are all undone for ever,
Now the King and the crown
Are tumbling down,
And the realm doth groan with disasters; And the scum of the land
Are the men that command,
And our slaves are become our masters.

Now our lives,
Children, wives,
And estate,
Are a prey to the lust and plunder, To the rage
Of our age;
And the fate
Of our land
Is at hand;
‘Tis too late
To tread these usurpers under.
First down goes the crown,
Then follows the gown,
Thus levell’d are we by the Roundhead; While Church and State must
Feed their pride and their lust,
And the kingdom and king be confounded.

Shall we still
Suffer ill
And be dumb,
And let every varlet undo us?
Shall we doubt
Of each lout
That doth come,
With a voice
Like the noise
Of a drum,
And a sword or a buff-coat, to us?
Shall we lose our estates
By plunder and rates,
To bedeck those proud upstarts that swagger? Rather fight for your meat
Which those locusts do eat,
Now every man’s a beggar.

Ballad: The Royalist

By Alex. Brome. Written 1646.

Come pass about the bowl to me,
A health to our distressed King;
Though we’re in hold let cups go free, Birds in a cage may freely sing.
The ground does tipple healths afar When storms do fall, and shall not we?
A sorrow dares not show its face
When we are ships, and sack’s the sea.

Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let’s sing; Shall’s kill ourselves for fear of death? We’ll live by th’ air which songs do bring, Our sighing does but waste our breath.
Then let us not be discontent,
Nor drink a glass the less of wine; In vain they’ll think their plagues are spent When once they see we don’t repine.

We do not suffer here alone,
Though we are beggar’d, so’s the King; ‘Tis sin t’ have wealth when he has none, Tush! poverty’s a royal thing!
When we are larded well with drink, Our head shall turn as round as theirs,
Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink Clean down the wind like Cavaliers.

Fill this unnatural quart with sack,
Nature all vacuums doth decline;
Ourselves will be a zodiac,
And every mouth shall be a sign.
Methinks the travels of the glass
Are circular, like Plato’s year;
Where everything is as it was
Let’s tipple round: and so ’tis here.

Ballad: The New Courtier

By Alex. Brome. 1648.

Since it must be so
Then so let it go,
Let the giddy-brain’d times turn round; Since we have no king let the goblet be crown’d, Our monarchy thus will recover:
While the pottles are weeping
We’ll drench our sad souls
In big-bellied bowls;
Our sorrows in sack shall lie steeping, And we’ll drink till our eyes do run over; And prove it by reason
That it can be no treason
To drink and to sing
A mournival of healths to our new-crown’d King.

Let us all stand bare; –
In the presence we are,
Let our noses like bonfires shine;
Instead of the conduits, let the pottles run wine, To perfect this new coronation;
And we that are loyal
In drink shall be peers,
While that face that wears
Pure claret, looks like the blood-royal, And outstares the bones of the nation:
In sign of obedience,
Our oath of allegiance
Beer-glasses shall be,
And he that tipples ten is of the nobility.

But if in this reign
The halberted train
Or the constable should rebel,
And should make their turbill’d militia to swell, And against the King’s party raise arms; Then the drawers, like yeomen
Of the guards, with quart pots
Shall fuddle the sots,
While we make ’em both cuckolds and freemen; And on their wives beat up alarums.
Thus as each health passes
We’ll triple the glasses,
And hold it no sin
To be loyal and drink in defence of our King.

Ballad: Upon The Cavaliers Departing Out Of London

By Alex. Brome.

Now fare thee well, London,
Thou next must be undone,
‘Cause thou hast undone us before;
This cause and this tyrant
Had never play’d this high rant
Were’t not for thy ARGENT D’OR.

Now we must desert thee,
With the lines that begirt thee,
And the red-coated saints domineer; Who with liberty fool thee,
While a monster doth rule thee,
And thou feel’st what before thou didst fear.

Now justice and freedom,
With the laws that did breed ’em,
Are sent to Jamaica for gold,
And those that upheld ’em
Have power but seldom,
For justice is barter’d and sold.

Now the Christian religion
Must seek a new region,
And the old saints give way to the new; And we that are loyal
Vail to those that destroy all,
When the Christian gives place to the Jew.

But this is our glory,
In this wretched story
Calamities fall on the best;
And those that destroy us
Do better employ us,
To sing till they are supprest.

Ballad: A Mad World, My Masters

From the King’s pamphlets, British Museum.

We have a King, and yet no King,
For he hath lost his power;
For ‘gainst his will his subjects are Imprison’d in the Tower.

We had some laws (but now no laws)
By which he held his crown;
And we had estates and liberties,
But now they’re voted down.

We had religion, but of late
That’s beaten down with clubs;
Whilst that profaneness authorized
Is belched forth in tubs.

We were free subjects born, but now
We are by force made slaves,
By some whom we did count our friends, But in the end proved knaves.

And now to such a grievous height
Are our misfortunes grown,
That our estates are took away
By tricks before ne’er known.

For there are agents sent abroad
Most humbly for to crave
Our alms; but if they are denied,
And of us nothing have,

Then by a vote EX TEMPORE
We are to prison sent,
Mark’d with the name of enemy,
To King and Parliament:

And during our imprisonment,
Their lawless bulls do plunder
A license to their soldiers,
Our houses for to plunder.

And if their hounds do chance to smell A man whose fortunes are
Of some account, whose purse is full, Which now is somewhat rare;

He is declared to be,
And that his lands, as well as goods, Sequester’d ought to be.

As if our prisons were too good,
He is to Yarmouth sent,
By virtue of a warrant from
The King and Parliament.

Thus in our royal sovereign’s name,
And eke his power infused,
And by the virtue of the same,
He and all his abused.

For by this means his castles now
Are in the power of those
Who treach’rously, with might and main, Do strive him to depose.

Arise, therefore, brave British men,
Fight for your King and State,
Against those trait’rous men that strive This realm to ruinate.

‘Tis Pym, ’tis Pym and his colleagues, That did our woe engender;
Nought but their lives can end our woes, And us in safety render.

Ballad: The Man O’ The Moon

Hogg, in his second series of Jacobite Relics, states that he “got this song among some old papers belonging to Mr Orr of Alloa,” and that he never met with it elsewhere. In his first series he printed a Scottish song beginning, –

“Then was a man came fron the moon
And landed in our town, sir,
And he has sworn a solemn oath
That all but knaves must down, sir.”

In Martin Parker’s foregoing ballad, “When the King enjoys his own again,” there is also an allusion to the man in the moon:-

“The Man in the Moon
May wear out his shoon
By running after Charles his wain;”

as it would appear that the “Man in the Moon,” was the title assumed by an almanack-maker of the time of the Commonwealth, who, like other astronomers and astrologers, predicted the King’s restoration. In this song the “Man o’ the Moon” clearly signifies King Charles.

The man o’ the moon for ever!
The man o’ the moon for ever!
We’ll drink to him still
In a merry cup of ale, –
Here’s the man o’ the moon for ever!

The man o’ the moon, here’s to him!
How few there be that know him!
But we’ll drink to him still
In a merry cup of ale, –
The man o’ the moon, here’s to him!

Brave man o’ the moon, we hail thee,
The true heart ne’er shall fail thee; For the day that’s gone
And the day that’s our own –
Brave man o’ the moon, we hail thee.

We have seen the bear bestride thee,
And the clouds of winter hide thee, But the moon is changed
And here we are ranged, –
Brave man o’ the moon, we bide thee.

The man o’ the moon for ever!
The man o’ the moon for ever!
We’ll drink to him still
In a merry cup of ale, –
Here’s the man o’ the moon for ever!

We have grieved the land should shun thee, And have never ceased to mourn thee,
But for all our grief
There was no relief, –
Now, man o’ the moon, return thee.

There’s Orion with his golden belt,
And Mars, that burning mover,
But of all the lights
That rule the nights,
The man o’ the moon for ever!

Ballad: The Tub-Preacher

By Samuel Butler (Author of Hudibras). To the tune of “The Old Courtier of the Queen’s.”

With face and fashion to be known,
With eyes all white, and many a groan, With neck awry and snivelling tone,
And handkerchief from nose new-blown, And loving cant to sister Joan;
‘Tis a new teacher about the town,
Oh! the town’s new teacher!

With cozening laugh, and hollow cheek, To get new gatherings every week,
With paltry sense as man can speak, With some small Hebrew, and no Greek,
With hums and haws when stuff’s to seek; ‘Tis a new teacher, etc.

With hair cut shorter than the brow,
With little band, as you know how,
With cloak like Paul, no coat I trow, With surplice none, nor girdle now,
With hands to thump, nor knees to bow; ‘Tis a new teacher, etc.

With shop-board breeding and intrusion, By some outlandish institution,
With Calvin’s method and conclusion, To bring all things into confusion,
And far-stretched sighs for mere illusion; ‘Tis a new teacher, etc.

With threats of absolute damnation,
But certainty of some salvation
To his new sect, not every nation,
With election and reprobation,
And with some use of consolation;
‘Tis a new teacher, etc.

With troops expecting him at door
To hear a sermon and no more,
And women follow him good store,
And with great Bibles to turn o’er, Whilst Tom writes notes, as bar-boys score, ‘Tis a new teacher, etc.

With double cap to put his head in,
That looks like a black pot tipp’d with tin; While with antic gestures he doth gape and grin; The sisters admire, and he wheedles them in, Who to cheat their husbands think no sin; ‘Tis a new teacher, etc.

With great pretended spiritual motions, And many fine whimsical notions,
With blind zeal and large devotions, With broaching rebellion and raising commotions, And poisoning the people with Geneva potions; ‘Tis a new teacher, etc.

Ballad: The New Litany

From the King’s pamphlets, British Museum. Satires in the form of a litany were common from 1646 to 1746, and even later.

From an extempore prayer and a godly ditty, From the churlish government of a city,
From the power of a country committee, Libera nos, Domine.

From the Turk, the Pope, and the Scottish nation, From being govern’d by proclamation,
And from an old Protestant, quite out of fashion, Libera, etc.

From meddling with those that are out of our reaches, From a fighting priest, and a soldier that preaches, From an ignoramus that writes, and a woman that teaches, Libera, etc.

From the doctrine of deposing of a king, From the DIRECTORY, (2) or any such thing, From a fine new marriage without a ring, Libera, etc.

From a city that yields at the first summons, From plundering goods, either man or woman’s, Or having to do with the House of Commons, Libera, etc.

From a stumbling horse that tumbles o’er and o’er, From ushering a lady, or walking before, From an English-Irish rebel, newly come o’er, (3) Libera, etc.

From compounding, or hanging in a silken altar, From oaths and covenants, and being pounded in a mortar, From contributions, or free-quarter,
Libera, etc.

From mouldy bread, and musty beer,
From a holiday’s fast, and a Friday’s cheer, From a brother-hood, and a she-cavalier, Libera, etc.

From Nick Neuter, for you, and for you, From Thomas Turn-coat, that will never prove true, From a reverend Rabbi that’s worse than a Jew, Libera, etc.

From a country justice that still looks big, From swallowing up the Italian fig,
Or learning of the Scottish jig,
Libera, etc.

From being taken in a disguise,
From believing of the printed lies, From the Devil and from the Excise, (4)
Libera, etc.

From a broken pate with a pint pot,
For fighting for I know not what,
And from a friend as false as a Scot, Libera, etc.

From one that speaks no sense, yet talks all that he can, From an old woman and a Parliament man,
From an Anabaptist and a Presbyter man, Libera, etc.

From Irish rebels and Welsh hubbub-men, From Independents and their tub-men,
From sheriffs’ bailiffs, and their club-men, Libera, etc.

From one that cares not what he saith, From trusting one that never payeth,
From a private preacher and a public faith, Libera, etc.

From a vapouring horse and a Roundhead in buff, From roaring Jack Cavee, with money little enough, From beads and such idolatrous stuff,
Libera, etc.

From holydays, and all that’s holy,
From May-poles and fiddlers, and all that’s jolly From Latin or learning, since that is folly, Libera, etc.

And now to make an end of all,
I wish the Roundheads had a fall,
Or else were hanged in Goldsmith’s Hall. Amen.

Benedicat Dominus.

Ballad: The Old Protestant’s Litany

Against all sectaries
And their defendants,
Both Presbyterians
And Independents.

Mr Walter Wilkins, in his Political Ballads of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, says, the imprint of this broadside intimates that it was published in “the year of Hope, 1647,” and Thomson, the collector, added the precise date, the 7th of September.

That thou wilt be pleased to grant our requests, And quite destroy all the vipers’ nests, That England and her true religion molests, Te rogamus audi nos.

That thou wilt be pleased to censure with pity The present estate of our once famous city; Let her still be govern’d by men just and witty, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased to consider the Tower, And all other prisons in the Parliament’s power, Where King Charles his friends find their welcome but sour, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased to look on the grief Of the King’s old servants, and send them relief, Restore to the yeomen o’ th’ Guard chines of beef, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased very quickly to bring Unto his just rights our so much-wrong’d King, That he may be happy in everything,
Te rogamus, etc.

That Whitehall may shine in its pristine lustre, That the Parliament may make a general muster, That knaves may be punish’d by men who are juster, Te rogamus, etc.

That now the dog-days are fully expired, That those cursed curs, which our patience have tired, May suffer what is by true justice required, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased to incline conquering Thomas (Who now hath both city and Tower gotten from us), That he may be just in performing his promise, Te rogamus, etc.

That our hopeful Prince and our gracious Queen (Whom we here in England long time have not seen) May soon be restored to what they have been, Te rogamus, etc.

That the rest of the royal issue may be From their Parliamentary guardians set free, And be kept according to their high degree, Te rogamus, etc.

That our ancient Liturgy may be restored, That the organs (by sectaries so much abhorr’d) May sound divine praises, according to the word, Te rogamus, etc.

That the ring in marriage, the cross at the font, Which the devil and the Roundheads so much affront, May be used again, as before they were wont, Te rogamus, etc.

That Episcopacy, used in its right kind, In England once more entertainment may find, That Scots and lewd factions may go down the wind, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased again to restore All things in due order, as they were before, That the Church and the State may be vex’d no more, Te rogamus, etc.

That all the King’s friends may enjoy their estates, And not be kept, as they have been, at low rates, That the poor may find comfort again at their gates, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt all our oppressions remove, And grant us firm faith and hope, join’d with true love, Convert or confound all which virtue reprove, Te rogamus, etc.

That all peevish sects that would live uncontroll’d, And will not be govern’d, as all subjects should, To New England may pack, or live quiet i’ th’ Old, Te rogamus, etc.

That gracious King Charles, with his children and wife, Who long time have suffer’d through this civil strife, May end with high honour their natural life, Te rogamus, etc.

That they who have seized on honest men’s treasure, Only for their loyalty to God and to Caesar, May in time convenient find measure for measure, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou all these blessings upon us wilt send, We are no INDEPENDENTS, on Thee we depend, And as we believe, from all harm us defend; Te rogamus, etc.

Ballad: Vive Le Roy

From a collection of songs, 1640 to 1660. It is also to be found in the additional MSS., No. 11, 608, p. 54, in the collection in the British Museum. It was sung to the air of Love lies bleeding, – and was, says Mr Chappell, “the God save the King” of Charles I., Charles II., and James II.

What though the zealots pull down the prelates, Push at the pulpit, and kick at the crown, Shall we not never once more endeavour,
Strive to purchase our royall renown? Shall not the Roundhead first be confounded? Sa, sa, sa, say, boys, ha, ha, ha, ha, boys, Then we’ll return with triumph and joy.
Then we’ll be merry, drink white wine and sherry, Then we will sing, boys, God bless the King, boys, Cast up our caps, and cry, VIVE LE ROY.

What though the wise make Alderman Isaac Put us in prison and steal our estates,
Though we be forced to be unhorsed, And walk on foot as it pleaseth the fates; In the King’s army no man shall harm ye. Then come along, boys, valiant and strong, boys, Fight for your goods, which the Roundheads enjoy; And when you venture London to enter,
And when you come, boys, with fife and drum, boys, Isaac himself shall cry, VIVE LE ROY.

If you will choose them, do not refuse them, Since honest Parliament never made thieves, Charles will not further have rogues dipt in murder, Neither by leases, long lives, nor reprieves. ‘Tis the conditions and propositions
Will not be granted, then be not daunted, We will our honest old customs enjoy;
Paul’s not rejected, will be respected, And in the quier voices rise higher,
Thanks to the heavens, and (cry), VIVE LE ROY.

Ballad: The Cavalier

By Samuel Butler. From his Posthumous Works. A somewhat different version appears in Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time.

He that is a clear
Will not repine,
His pocket grow
So very low
He cannot get wine.

Fortune is a lass
Will embrace,
But soon destroy;
Born free,
In liberty
We’ll always be,
Singing VIVE LE ROY.

Virtue is its own reward,
And Fortune is a whore;
There’s none but knaves and fools regard her, Or her power implore.
But he that is a trusty ROGER,
And will serve the King;
Altho’ he be a tatter’d soldier,
Yet may skip and sing:
Whilst we that fight for love,
May in the way of honour prove
That they who make sport of us
May come short of us;
Fate will flatter them,
And will scatter them;
Whilst our loyalty
Looks upon royalty,
We that live peacefully,
May be successfully
Crown’d with a crown at last.

Tho’ a real honest man
May be quite undone,
He’ll show his allegiance,
Love, and obedience;
Those will raise him up,
Honour stays him up,
Virtue keeps him up,
And we praise him up.
Whilst the vain courtiers dine,
With their bottles full of wine,
Honour will make him fast.
Freely then
Let’s be honest men
And kick at fate,
For we may live to see
Our loyalty
Valued at a higher rate.
He that bears a sword
Or a word against the throne,
And does profanely prate
To abuse the state,
Hath no kindness for his own.

What tho’ painted plumes and prayers
Are the prosp’rous men,
Yet we’ll attend our own affairs
‘Till they come to ‘t agen;
Treachery may be faced with light,
And letchery lined with furr;
A cuckold may be made a knight,
But what’s that to us, brave boys,
That are right honest men?
We’ll conquer and come again,
Beat up the drum again;
Drink for CAVALIERS,
Fight for CAVALIERS,
Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub,
Have at Old BEELZEBUB,
OLIVER stinks for fear.

FIFTH MONARCHY-MEN must down, boys,
With bulleys of every sect in town, boys; We’ll rally and to ‘t again,
Give ’em the rout again;
Fly like light about,
Face to the right-about,
Charge them home again
When they come on again;
This is the life of an Old Cavalier.

Ballad: A Caveat To The Roundheads

From the Posthumous Works of Samuel Butler.

I come to charge ye
That fight the clergy,
And pull the mitre from the prelate’s head, That you will be wary
Lest you miscarry
In all those factious humours you have bred; But as for BROWNISTS we’ll have none,
But take them all and hang them one by one.

Your wicked actions
Join’d in factions
Are all but aims to rob the King of his due; Then give this reason
For your treason,
That you’ll be ruled, if he’ll be ruled by you. Then leave these factions, zealous brother, Lest you be hanged one against another.

Ballad: Hey, Then, Up Go We

This song, says Mr Chappell, in his Popular Music of the Olden Time, which describes with some humour the taste of the Puritans, might pass for a Puritan song, if it were not contained in the “Shepherds’ Oracles,” by Francis Quarles, 1646. He was cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I., and afterwards chronologer to the city of London. He died in 1644, and his Shepherds’ Oracles were a posthumous publication. It was often reprinted during the Restoration, and reproduced and slightly altered by Thomas Durfey, in his “Pills to Purge Melancholy,” where the burthen is, “Hey, boys, up go we.”

Know this, my brethren, heaven is clear, And all the clouds are gone;
The righteous man shall flourish now, Good days are coming on.
Then come, my brethren, and be glad, And eke rejoyce with me;
Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down, And hey, then, up go we.

We’ll break the windows which the whore Of Babylon hath painted,
And when the popish saints are down Then Barrow shall be sainted;
There’s neither cross nor crucifix
Shall stand for men to see,
Rome’s trash and trumpery shall go down, And hey, then, up go we.

Whate’er the Popish hands have built
Our hammers shall undo;
We’ll break their pipes and burn their copes, And pull down churches too;
We’ll exercise within the groves,
And teach beneath a tree;
We’ll make a pulpit of a cask,
And hey, then, up go we.

We’ll put down Universities,
Where learning is profest,
Because they practise and maintain
The language of the Beast;
We’ll drive the doctors out of doors, And all that learned be;
We’ll cry all arts and learning down, And hey, then, up go we.

We’ll down with deans and prebends, too, And I rejoyce to tell ye
We then shall get our fill of pig,
And capons for the belly.
We’ll burn the Fathers’ weighty tomes, And make the School-men flee;
We’ll down with all that smells of wit, And hey, then, up go we.

If once the Antichristian crew
Be crush’d and overthrown,
We’ll teach the nobles how to stoop, And keep the gentry down:
Good manners have an ill report,
And turn to pride, we see,
We’ll therefore put good manners down, And hey, then, up go we.

The name of lords shall be abhorr’d,
For every man’s a brother;
No reason why in Church and State
One man should rule another;
But when the change of government
Shall set our fingers free,
We’ll make these wanton sisters stoop, And hey, then, up go we.

What though the King and Parliament
Do not accord together,
We have more cause to be content,
This is our sunshine weather:
For if that reason should take place, And they should once agree,
Who would be in a Roundhead’s case, For hey, then, up go we.

What should we do, then, in this case? Let’s put it to a venture;
If that we hold out seven years’ space We’ll sue out our indenture.
A time may come to make us rue,
And time may set us free,
Except the gallows claim his due,
And hey, then, up go we.

Ballad: The Clean Contrary Way, Or, Colonel Venne’s Encouragement To His Soldiers

To the air of “Hey, then, up go we.” From a Collection of Loyal Songs written against the Rump Parliament.

Fight on, brave soldiers, for the cause, Fear not the Cavaliers;
Their threat’nings are as senseless as Our jealousies and fears.
Tis you must perfect this great work, And all malignants slay;
You must bring back the King again
The clean contrary way.

‘Tis for religion that you fight,
And for the kingdom’s good;
By robbing churches, plundering them, And shedding guiltless blood.
Down with the orthodoxal train,
All loyal subjects slay;
When these are gone, we shall be blest The clean contrary way.

When CHARLES we have made bankrupt,
Of power and crown bereft him,
And all his loyal subjects slain,
And none but rebels left him;
When we have beggar’d all the land, And sent our trunks away,
We’ll make him then a glorious prince The clean contrary way.

‘Tis to preserve his Majesty
That we against him fight,
Nor ever are we beaten back,
Because our cause is right:
If any make a scruple at
Our Declarations, say, –
Who fight for us, fight for the King The clean contrary way.

At KEINTON, BRAINSFORD, PLYMOUTH, YORK, And divers places more,
What victories we saints obtain,
The like ne’er seen before:
How often we Prince RUPERT kill’d,
And bravely won the day,
The wicked Cavaliers did run
The clean contrary way.

The true religion we maintain,
The kingdom’s peace and plenty;
The privilege of Parliament
Not known to one and twenty;
The ancient fundamental laws,
And teach men to obey
Their lawful sovereign, and all these The clean contrary way.

We subjects’ liberties preserve
By imprisonment and plunder,
And do enrich ourselves and state
By keeping th’ wicked under.
We must preserve mechanicks now
To lectorize and pray;
By them the gospel is advanced
The clean contrary way.

And though the King be much misled
By that malignant crew,
He’ll find us honest at the last,
Give all of us our due.
For we do wisely plot, and plot
Rebellion to alloy,
He sees we stand for peace and truth The clean contrary way.

The publick faith shall save our souls And our good works together;
And ships shall save our lives, that stay Only for wind and weather:
But when our faith and works fall down And all our hopes decay,
Our acts will bear us up to heaven
The clean contrary way.

Ballad: The Cameronian Cat

A well-known song from Hogg’s Jacobite Relics; and popular among the Cavaliers both of England and Scotland in the days of the Commonwealth. It was usually sung to a psalm tune; the singers imitating the style and manner of a precentor at a Presbyterian church.

There was a Cameronian cat
Was hunting for a prey,
And in the house she catch’d a mouse Upon the Sabbath-day.

The Whig, being offended
At such an act profane,
Laid by his book, the cat he took,
And bound her in a chain.

Thou damn’d, thou cursed creature,
This deed so dark with thee,
Think’st thou to bring to hell below My holy wife and me?

Assure thyself that for the deed
Thou blood for blood shalt pay,
For killing of the Lord’s own mouse Upon the Sabbath-day.

The presbyter laid by the book,
And earnestly he pray’d
That the great sin the cat had done Might not on him be laid.

And straight to execution
Poor pussy she was drawn,
And high hang’d up upon a tree –
The preacher sung a psalm.

And when the work was ended,
They thought the cat near dead,
She gave a paw, and then a mew,
And stretched out her head.

Thy name, said he, shall certainly
A beacon still remain,
A terror unto evil ones
For evermore, Amen.

Ballad: The Royal Feast

A Loyall Song of the Royall Feast kept by the Prisoners in the Towre, August last, with the Names, Titles, and Characters of every Prisoner. By Sir F. W., Knight and Baronet, Prisoner. (Sept. 16th, 1647.)

“In the negotiations between the King and the Parliament during the summer and autumn of this year,” says Mr Thomas Wright in his Political Ballads of the Commonwealth, published for the Percy Society, “the case of the royalist prisoners in the Tower was frequently brought into question. The latter seized the occasion of complaining against the rigours (complaints apparently exaggerated) which were exerted against them, and on the 16th June, 1647, was published ‘A True Relation of the cruell and unparallel’d Oppression which hath been illegally imposed upon the Gentlemen Prisoners in the Tower of London.’ The several petitions contained in this tract have the signatures of Francis Howard, Henry Bedingfield, Walter Blount, Giles Strangwaies, Francis Butler, Henry Vaughan, Thomas Lunsford, Richard Gibson, Tho. Violet, John Morley, Francis Wortley, Edw. Bishop, John Hewet, Wingfield Bodenham, Henry Warren, W. Morton, John Slaughter, Gilbert Swinhow.”

On the 19th of August (according to the MODERATE INTELLIGENCER of that date) the King sent to the royal prisoners in the Tower two fat bucks for a feast. This circumstance was the origin of the present ballad. It was written by Sir Francis Wortley, one of the prisoners. This ballad, as we learn by the concluding lines, was to be sung to the popular tune of “Chevy Chace.”

God save the best of kings, King Charles! The best of queens, Queen Mary!
The ladies all, Gloster and Yorke,
Prince Charles, so like old harry! (5)

God send the King his own again,
His towre and all his coyners!
And blesse all kings who are to reigne, From traytors and purloyners!
The King sent us poor traytors here (But you may guesse the reason)
Two brace of bucks to mend the cheere, Is’t not to eat them treason?

Let Selden search Cotton’s records,
And Rowley in the Towre,
They cannot match the president,
It is not in their power.
Old Collet would have joy’d to ‘ve seen This president recorded;
For all the papers he ere saw
Scarce such an one afforded.
The King sent us, etc.

But that you may these traytors know, I’ll be so bold to name them;
That if they ever traytors prove
Then this record may shame them:
But these are well-try’d loyal blades (If England ere had any),
Search both the Houses through and through You’ld scarcely finde so many.
The King sent us, etc.

The first and chiefe a marquesse (6) is, Long with the State did wrestle;
Had Ogle (7) done as much as he,
Th’ad spoyl’d Will Waller’s castle. Ogle had wealth and title got,
So layd down his commissions;
The noble marquesse would not yield, But scorn’d all base conditions.
The King sent us, etc.

The next a worthy bishop (8) is,
Of schismaticks was hated;
But I the cause could never know,
Nor see the reason stated.
The cryes were loud, God knowes the cause, They had a strange committee,
Which was a-foot well neere a yeare, Who would have had small pitty.
The King sent us, etc.

The next to him is a Welsh Judge, (9) Durst tell them what was treason;
Old honest David durst be good
When it was out of season;
He durst discover all the tricks
The lawyers use, and knavery,
And show the subtile plots they use To enthrall us into slavery.
The King sent us, etc.

Frank Wortley (10) hath a jovial soule, Yet never was good club-man;
He’s for the bishops and the church, But can endure no tub-man.
He told Sir Thomas in the Towre,
Though he by him was undone,
It pleased him that he lost more men In taking him then London.
The King sent us, etc.

Sir Edward Hayles (11) was wond’rous rich, No flower in Kent yields honey
In more abundance to the bee
Then they from him suck money;
Yet hee’s as chearfull as the best – Judge Jenkins sees no reason
That honest men for wealth should be Accused of high treason.
The King sent us, etc.

Old Sir George Strangways (12) he came in, Though he himself submitted,
Yet as a traytor he must be
Excepted and committed:
Yet they th’ exception now take off, But not the sequestrations,
Hee must forsooth to Goldsmith’s-hall, The place of desolation.
The King sent us, etc.

Honest Sir Berr’s a reall man,
As ere was lapt in leather;
But he (God blesse us) loves the King, And therefore was sent hither.
He durst be sheriff, and durst make The Parliament acquainted
What he intended for to doe,
And for this was attainted.
The King sent us, etc.

Sir Benefield, (13) Sir Walter Blunt, Are Romishly affected,
So’s honest Frank of Howard’s race, And slaughter is suspected. (14)
But how the devill comes this about, That Papists are so loyall,
And those that call themselves God’s saints Like devils do destroy all?
The King sent us, etc.

Jack Hewet (15) will have wholesome meat, And drink good wine, if any;
His entertainment’s free and neat,
His choyce of friends not many;
Jack is a loyall-hearted man,
Well parted and a scholar;
He’ll grumble if things please him not, But never grows to choller.
The King sent us, etc.

Gallant Sir Thomas, (16) bold and stout (Brave Lunsford), children eateth;
But he takes care, where he eats one, There he a hundred getteth;
When Harlow’s wife brings her long bills, He wishes she were blinded;
When shee speaks loud, as loud he swears The woman’s earthly-minded.
The King sent us, etc.

Sir Lewis (17) hath an able pen,
Can cudgell a committee;
He makes them doe him reason, though They others do not pitty.
Brave Cleaveland had a willing minde, Frank Wortley was not able,
But Lewis got foure pound per weeke For’s children and his table.
The King sent us, etc.

Giles Strangwayes (18) has a gallant soul, A brain infatigable;
What study he ere undertakes
To master it hee’s able:
He studies on his theoremes,
And logarithmes for number;
He loves to speake of Lewis Dives, (19) And they are ne’er asunder.
The King sent us, etc.

Sir John Marlow’s (20) a loyall man
(If England ere bred any),
He bang’d the pedlar back and side, Of Scots he killed many.
Had General King (21) done what he should, And given the blew-caps battail,
Wee’d make them all run into Tweed
By droves, like sommer cattell.
The King sent us, etc.

Will Morton’s (22) of that Cardinal’s race, Who made that blessed maryage;
He is most loyall to his King,
In action, word, and carryage;
His sword and pen defends the cause, If King Charles thinke not on him,
Will is amongst the rest undone, –
The Lord have mercy on him!
The King sent us, etc.

Tom Conisby (23) is stout and stern,
Yet of a sweet condition;
To them he loves his crime was great, He read the King’s commission,
And required Cranborn to assist;
He charged, but should have pray’d him; Tom was so bold he did require
All for the King should aid him.
The King sent us, etc.

But I Win. Bodnam (24) had forgot,
Had suffer’d so much hardship;
There’s no man in the Towre had left The King so young a wardship;
He’s firme both to the church and crowne, The crown law and the canon;
The Houses put him to his shifts,
And his wife’s father Mammon.
The King sent us, etc.

Sir Henry Vaughan (25) looks as grave As any beard can make him;
Those come poore prisoners for to see Doe for our patriarke take him.
Old Harry is a right true-blue,
As valiant as Pendraggon;
And would be loyall to his King,
Had King Charles ne’er a rag on.
The King sent us, etc.

John Lilburne (26) is a stirring blade, And understands the matter;
He neither will king, bishops, lords, Nor th’ House of Commons flatter:
John loves no power prerogative,
But that derived from Sion;
As for the mitre and the crown,
Those two he looks awry on.
The King sent us, etc.

Tom Violet (27) swears his injuries
Are scarcely to be numbred;
He was close prisoner to the State
These score dayes and nine hundred; For Tom does set down all the dayes,
And hopes he has good debters;
‘Twould be no treason (Jenkin sayes) To bring them peaceful letters.
The King sent us, etc.

Poore Hudson (28) of all was the last, For it was his disaster,
He met a turncoat swore that he
Was once King Charles his master;
So he to London soon was brought,
But came in such a season,
Their martial court was then cry’d down, They could not try his treason.
The king sent us, etc.

Else Hudson had gone to the pot,
Who is he can abide him?
For he was master to the King,
And (which is more) did guide him.
Had Hudson done (as Judas did),
Most loyally betray’d him,
The Houses are so noble, they
As bravely would have paid him.
The King sent us, etc.

We’ll then conclude with hearty healths To King Charles and Queen Mary;
To the black lad in buff (the Prince), So like his grandsire Harry;
To York, to Glo’ster; may we not
Send Turk and Pope defiance,
Since we such gallant seconds have
To strengthen our alliance?
Wee’l drink them o’re and o’re again, Else we’re unthankfull creatures;
Since Charles, the wise, the valiant King, Takes us for loyall traytors.

This if you will rhyme dogrell call,
(That you please you may name it,)
One of the loyal traytors here
Did for a ballad frame it:
Old Chevy Chace was in his minde;
If any suit it better,
All those concerned in the song
Will kindly thank the setter.

Ballad: Upon His Majesty’s Coming To Holmby

Charles I., after his surrender to the English Commissioners by the Scotch, was conveyed to Holmby House, Northamptonshire, 16th February, 1647.

Hold out, brave Charles, and thou shaft win the field; Thou canst not lose thyself, unless thou yield On such conditions as will force thy hand To give away thy sceptre, crown, and land. And what is worse, to hazard by thy fall, To lose a greater crown, more worth than all.

Thy poor distressed Cavaliers rejoyced To hear thy royal resolution voiced,
And are content far more poor to be Than yet they are, so it reflects from thee. Thou art our sovereign still, in spite of hate; Our zeal is to thy PERSON, not thy STATE.

We are not so ambitious to desire
Our drooping fortunes to be mounted higher, And thou so great a monarch, to our grief, Must sue unto thy subjects for relief:
And when they sit and long debate about it, Must either stay their time, or go without it.

No, sacred prince, thy friends esteem thee more In thy distresses than ere they did before; And though their wings be clipt, their wishes fly To heaven by millions, for a fresh supply. That as thy cause was so betray’d by MEN, It may by ANGELS be restored agen.

Ballad: I Thank You Twice


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Cities Loyaltie To The King

(Aug. 13th, 1647.)

The city of London made several demonstrations this year to support the Presbyterian party in the Parliament against the Independents and the army. In the latter end of September, after the army had marched to London, and the Parliament acted under its influence, the lord mayor and a large part of the aldermen were committed to the Tower on the charge of high treason; and a new mayor for the rest of the year was appointed by the Parliament.

To the tune of “London is a fine town and a gallant city.”

Why kept your train-bands such a stirre? Why sent you them by clusters?
Then went into Saint James’s Parke? Why took you then their musters?
Why rode my Lord up Fleet-street
With coaches at least twenty,
And fill’d they say with aldermen,
As good they had been empty?
London is a brave towne,
Yet I their cases pitty;
Their mayor and some few aldermen
Have cleane undone the city.

The ‘prentices are gallant blades,
And to the king are clifty;
But the lord mayor and aldermen
Are scarce so wise as thrifty.
I’le pay for the apprentices,
They to the King were hearty;
For they have done all that they can To advance their soveraignes party.
London, etc.

What’s now become of your brave Poyntz? And of your Generall Massey? (29)