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Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684

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If you petition for a peace,
These gallants they will slash yee.
Where now are your reformadoes?
To Scotland gone together:
'Twere better they were fairly trusst
Then they should bring them thither.
London, etc.

But if your aldermen were false,
Or Glyn, that's your recorder! (30)
Let them never betray you more,
But hang them up in order.
All these men may be coach't as well
As any other sinner
Up Holborne, and ride forwarde still,
To Tyburne to their dinner.
London, &c.

God send the valiant General may
Restore the King to glory! (31)
Then that name I have honour'd so
Will famous be in story;
While if he doe not, I much feare
The ruine of the nation,
And (that I should be loth to see)
His house's desolation.
London, etc.

Ballad: The Lawyers' Lamentation For The Loss Of Charing-Cross

From a Collection of Loyal Songs, 1610 to 1660.

Undone! undone! the lawyers cry,
They ramble up and down;
We know not the way to WESTMINSTER
Now CHARING-CROSS is down.
Now fare thee well, old Charing-Cross,
Then fare thee well, old stump;
It was a thing set up by a King,
And so pull'd down by the RUMP.

And when they came to the bottom of the Strand
They were all at a loss:
This is not the way to WESTMINSTER,
We must go by CHARING-CROSS.
Then fare thee well, etc.

The Parliament did vote it down
As a thing they thought most fitting,
For fear it should fall, and so kill 'em all
In the House as they were sitting.
Then fare thee well, etc.

Some letters about this CROSS were found,
Or else it might been freed;
But I dare say, and safely swear,
It could neither write nor read.
Then fare thee well, etc.

The WHIGs they do affirm and say
To POPERY it was bent;
For what I know it might be so,
For to church it never went,
Then fare thee well, etc.

They were so damn'd hard-hearted;
They pass'd a vote that CHARING-CROSS
Should be taken down and carted:
Then fare thee well, etc.

Now, WHIGS, I would advise you all,
'Tis what I'd have you do;
For fear the King should come again,
Pray pull down TYBURN too.
Then fare thee well, etc.

Ballad: The Downfal Of Charing-Cross

Charing-Cross, as it stood before the civil wars, was one of those
beautiful Gothic obelisks, erected to conjugal affection by Edward
I., who built such a one wherever the hearse of his beloved Eleanor
rested in its way from Lincolnshire to Westminster. But neither
its ornamental situation, the beauty of its structure, nor the
noble design of its erection (which did honour to humanity), could
preserve it from the merciless zeal of the times; for in 1647 it
was demolished by order of the House of Commons, as Popish and
superstitious. This occasioned the following not unhumorous
sarcasm, which has been often printed among the popular sonnets of
those times.

The plot referred to in ver. 3 was that entered into by Mr Waller
the poet, and others, with a view to reduce the city and Tower to
the service of the King; for which two of them, Nath. Tomkins and
Richard Chaloner, suffered death, July 5, 1643. Vid. Ath. Ox. 11.

Undone! undone! the lawyers are,
They wander about the towne,
Nor can find the way to Westminster
Now Charing-Cross is downe:
At the end of the Strand they make a stand,
Swearing they are at a loss,
And chaffing say, that's not the way,
They must go by Charing-Cross.

The Parliament to vote it down
Conceived it very fitting,
For fear it should fall, and kill them all
In the House as they were sitting.
They were told god-wot, it had a plot,
Which made them so hard-hearted,
To give command it should not stand,
But be taken down and carted.

Men talk of plots, this might have been worse,
For anything I know,
Were hang'd for long agoe.
Our Parliament did that prevent,
And wisely them defended,
For plots they will discover still
Before they were intended.

But neither man, woman, nor child
Will say, I'm confident,
They ever heard it speak one word
Against the Parliament.
An informer swore it letters bore,
Or else it had been freed;
In troth I'll take my Bible oath
It could neither write nor read.

The Committee said that verify
To Popery it was bent:
For ought I know, it might be so,
For to church it never went.
What with excise, and such device,
The kingdom doth begin
To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross
Without doors nor within.

Methinks the Common-council should
Of it have taken pity,
'Cause, good old cross, it always stood
So firmly to the city.
Since crosses you so much disdain,
Faith, if I were as you,
For fear the King should rule again
I'd pull down Tiburn too.

Whitlocke says, "May 3rd, 1643, Cheapside Cross and other crosses
were voted down," &c. When this vote was put in execution does not
appear; probably not till many mouths after Tomkins and Chaloner
had suffered.

We had a very curious account of the pulling down of Cheapside
Cross lately published in one of the Numbers of the GENTLEMEN'S

Ballad: The Long Parliament

By John Cleveland.

Most gracious and omnipotent,
And everlasting Parliament,
Whose power and majesty
Are greater than all kings by odds;
And to account you less than gods
Must needs be blasphemy.

Mosses and Aaron ne'er did do
More wonder than is wrought by you
For England's Israel;
But though the Red Sea we have past,
If you to Canaan bring's at last,
Is't not a miracle - ?

In six years' space you have done more
Than all the parliaments before;
You have quite done the work.
The King, the Cavalier, and Pope,
You have o'erthrown, and next we hope
You will confound the Turk.

By you we have deliverance
From the design of Spain and France,
Ormond, Montrose, the Danes;
You, aided by our brethren Scots,
Defeated have malignant plots,
And brought your sword to Cain's.

What wholesome laws you have ordain'd,
Whereby our property's maintain'd,
'Gainst those would us undo;
So that our fortunes and our lives,
Nay, what is dearer, our own wives,
Are wholly kept by you.

Oh! what a flourishing Church and State
Have we enjoy'd e'er since you sate,
With a glorious King (God save him!):
Have you not made his Majesty,
Had he the grace but to comply,
And do as you would have him!

Your DIRECTORY how to pray
By the spirit shows the perfect way;
In real you have abolisht
The Dagon of the COMMON PRAYER,
And next we see you will take care
That churches be demolisht.

A multitude in every trade
Of painful preachers you have made,
Learned by revelation;
Cambridge and Oxford made poor preachers,
Each shop affordeth better teachers, -
O blessed reformation!

Your godly wisdom hath found out
The true religion, without doubt;
For sure among so many
We have five hundred at the least;
Is not the gospel much increast?
All must be pure, if any.

Could you have done more piously
Than sell church lands the King to buy,
And stop the city's plaints?
Paying the Scots church-militant,
That the new gospel helpt to plant;
God knows they are poor saints!

Because th' Apostles' Creed is lame,
Th' Assembly doth a better frame,
Which saves us all with ease;
Provided still we have the grace
To believe th' House in the first place,
Our works be what they please.

'Tis strange your power and holiness
Can't the Irish devils dispossess,
His end is very stout:
But tho' you do so often pray,
And ev'ry month keep fasting-day,
You cannot cast them out.

Ballad: The Puritan

By John Cleveland. To the tune of "An old Courtier of the

With face and fashion to be known,
For one of sure election;
With eyes all white, and many a groan,
With neck aside to draw in tone,
With harp in's nose, or he is none:
See a new teacher of the town,
Oh the town, oh the town's new teacher!

With pate cut shorter than the brow,
With little ruff starch'd, you know how,
With cloak like Paul, no cape I trow,
With surplice none; but lately now
With hands to thump, no knees to bow:
See a new teacher, etc.

With coz'ning cough, and hollow cheek,
To get new gatherings every week,
With paltry change of AND to EKE,
With some small Hebrew, and no Greek,
To find out words, when stuff's to seek:
See a new teacher, etc.

With shop-board breeding and intrusion,
With some outlandish institution,
With Ursine's catechism to muse on,
With system's method for confusion,
With grounds strong laid of mere illusion:
See a new teacher, etc.

With rites indifferent all damned,
And made unlawful, if commanded;
Good works of Popery down banded,
And moral laws from him estranged,
Except the sabbath still unchanged:
See a new teacher, etc.

With speech unthought, quick revelation,
With boldness in predestination,
With threats of absolute damnation
Yet YEA and NAY hath some salvation
For his own tribe, not every nation:
See a new teacher, etc.

With after license cast a crown,
When Bishop new had put him down;
With tricks call'd repetition,
And doctrine newly brought to town
Of teaching men to hang and drown:
See a new teacher, etc.

With flesh-provision to keep Lent,
With shelves of sweetmeats often spent,
Which new maid bought, old lady sent,
Though, to be saved, a poor present,
Yet legacies assure to event:
See a new teacher, etc.

With troops expecting him at th' door,
That would hear sermons, and no more;
With noting tools, and sighs great store,
With Bibles great to turn them o'er,
While he wrests places by the score:
See a new teacher, etc.

With running text, the named forsaken,
With FOR and BUT, both by sense shaken,
Cheap doctrines forced, wild uses taken,
Both sometimes one by mark mistaken;
With anything to any shapen:
See a new teacher, etc.

With new-wrought caps, against the canon,
For taking cold, tho' sure he have none;
A sermon's end, where he began one,
A new hour long, when's glass had run one,
New use, new points, new notes to stand on:
See a new teacher, etc.

Ballad: The Roundhead

From Samuel Butler's Posthumous Works.

What creature's that, with his short hairs,
His little band, and huge long ears,
That this new faith hath founded?
The saints themselves were never such,
The prelates ne'er ruled half so much;
Oh! such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that doth the bishops hate,
And counts their calling reprobate,
'Cause by the Pope propounded;
And thinks a zealous cobbler better
Than learned Usher in ev'ry letter?
Oh! such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that doth HIGH TREASON say,
As often as his YEA and NAY,
And wish the King confounded;
And dares maintain that Mr Pim
Is fitter for a crown than him?
Oh! such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that if he chance to hear
A little piece of COMMON PRAYER,
Doth think his conscience wounded;
Will go five miles to preach and pray,
And meet a sister by the way?
Oh! such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that met a holy sister
And in a haycock gently kiss'd her?
Oh! then his zeal abounded:
'Twas underneath a shady willow,
Her Bible served her for a pillow,
And there he got a Roundhead.

Ballad: Prattle Your Pleasure Under The Rose

From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum.

There is an old proverb which all the world knows,
Anything may be spoke, if 't be under the rose:
Then now let us speak, whilst we are in the hint,
Of the state of the land, and th' enormities in't.

Under the rose be it spoke, there is a number of knaves,
More than ever were known in a State before;
But I hope that their mischiefs have digg'd their own graves,
And we'll never trust knaves for their sakes any more.

Under the rose be it spoken, the city's an ass
So long to the public to let their gold run,
To keep the King out; but 'tis now come to pass,
I am sure they will lose, whosoever has won.

Under the rose be it spoken, there's a company of men,
Trainbands they are called - a plague confound 'em:-
And when they are waiting at Westminster Hall,
May their wives be beguiled and begat with child all!

Under the rose be it spoken, there's a damn'd committee
Sits in hell (Goldsmiths' Hall), in the midst of the city,
Only to sequester the poor Cavaliers -
The devil take their souls, and the hangman their ears.

Under the rose be it spoken, if you do not repent
Of that horrible sin, your pure Parliament,
Pray stay till Sir Thomas doth bring in the King,
Then Derrick (32) may chance have 'em all in a string.

Under the rose be it spoken, let the synod now leave
To wrest the whole Scripture, how souls to deceive;
For all they have spoken or taught will ne'er save 'em,
Unless they will leave that fault, hell's sure to have 'em!

Ballad: The Dominion Of The Sword

A song made in the Rebellion.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. To the tune of "Love lies a

Lay by your pleading,
Law lies a bleeding;
Burn all your studies down, and
Throw away your reading.

Small pow'r the word has,
And can afford us
Not half so much privilege as
The sword does.

It fosters your masters,
It plaisters disasters,
It makes the servants quickly greater
Than their masters.

It venters, it enters,
It seeks and it centers,
It makes a'prentice free in spite
Of his indentures.

It talks of small things,
But it sets up all things;
This masters money, though money
Masters all things.

It is not season
To talk of reason,
Nor call it loyalty, when the sword
Will have it treason.

It conquers the crown, too,
The grave and the gown, too,
First it sets up a presbyter, and
Then it pulls him down too.

This subtle disaster
Turns bonnet to beaver;
Down goes a bishop, sirs, and up
Starts a weaver.

This makes a layman
To preach and to pray, man;
And makes a lord of him that
Was but a drayman.

Far from the gulpit
Of Saxby's pulpit,
This brought an Hebrew ironmonger
To the pulpit.

Such pitiful things be
More happy than kings be;
They get the upper hand of Thimblebee
And Slingsbee.

No gospel can guide it,
No law can decide it,
In Church or State, till the sword
Has sanctified it.

Down goes your law-tricks,
Far from the matricks,
Sprung up holy Hewson's power,
And pull'd down St Patrick's.

This sword it prevails, too,
So highly in Wales, too,
Shenkin ap Powel swears
"Cots-splutterer nails, too."

In Scotland this faster
Did make such disaster,
That they sent their money back
For which they sold their master.

It batter'd their Gunkirk,
And so it did their Spainkirk,
That he is fled, and swears the devil
Is in Dunkirk.

He that can tower,
Or he that is lower,
Would be judged a fool to put
Away his power.

Take books and rent 'em,
Who can invent 'em,
When that the sword replies,

Your brave college-butlers
Must stoop to the sutlers;
There's ne'er a library
Like to the cutlers'.

The blood that was spilt, sir,
Hath gain'd all the gilt, sir;
Thus have you seen me run my
Sword up to the hilt, sir.

Ballad: The State's New Coin

The coinage issued during the Protectorate of Cromwell, consisted
of pieces having on the obverse side a shield with St George's
cross, encircled by a laurel and palm branch, and the words, "The
Commonwealth of England." On the reverse side was the legend, "God
with us," and two shields, bearing the arms of England and Ireland.

Saw you the State's money new come from the Mint?
Some people do say it is wonderous fine;
And that you may read a great mystery in't,
Of mighty King Nol, the lord of the coin.

They have quite omitted his politic head,
His worshipful face, and his excellent nose;
But the better to show the life he had led,
They have fix'd upon it the print of his hose.

For, if they had set up his picture there,
They needs must ha' crown'd him in Charles's stead;
But 'twas cunningly done, that they did forbear,
And rather would set up aught else than his head.

'Tis monstrous strange, and yet it is true,
In this reformation we should have such luck;
That crosses were always disdain'd by you,
Who before pull'd them down, should now set them up.

On this side they have circumscribed "God with us,"
And in this stamp and coin they confide;
COMMON-WEALTH on the other, by which we may guess
That God and the States were not both of a side.

On this side they have cross and harp,
And only a cross on the other set forth;
By which we may learn, it falls to our part
Two crosses to have for one fit of mirth!

Ballad: The Anarchie, Or The Blest Reformation Since 1640

Being a new song, wherein the people expresse their thankes and
pray for the reformers.

To be said or sung of all the well-affected of the kingdome of
England, and dominion of Wales, before the breaking up of this
unhappy Parliament.

[From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum. It is printed but
incorrectly in the "Rump Songs," ed. 1665, under the title of "The

To a rare new Tune. (Oct. 24, 1648.)

Now that, thankes to the powers below!
We have e'ne done out our doe,
The mitre is downe, and so is the crowne,
And with them the coronet too;
Come clownes, and come boyes, come hober-de-hoyes,
Come females of each degree;
Stretch your throats, bring in your votes,
And make good the anarchy.
And "thus it shall goe," sayes Alice;
"Nay, thus it shall goe," sayes Amy;
"Nay, thus it shall goe," sayes Taffie, "I trow;"
"Nay, thus it shall goe," sayes Jamy.

Ah! but the truth, good people all,
The truth is such a thing;
For it wou'd undoe both Church and State too,
And cut the throat of our King.
Yet not the spirit, nor the new light,
Can make this point so cleare,
But thou must bring out, thou deified rout,
What thing this truth is, and where.
Speak Abraham, speak Kester, speak Judith, speak Hester,
Speak tag and rag, short coat and long;
Truth's the spell made us rebell,
And murther and plunder, ding-dong.
"Sure I have the truth," sayes Numph;
"Nay, I ha' the truth," sayes Clemme;
"Nay, I ha' the truth," sayes Reverend Ruth;
"Nay, I ha' the truth," sayes Nem.

Well, let the truth be where it will,
We're sure all else is ours;
Yet these divisions in our religions
May chance abate our powers.
Then let's agree on some one way,
It skills not much how true;
Take Pryn and his clubs; or Say and his tubs, (33)
Or any sect old or new;
The devil's i' th' pack, if choyce you can lack,
We're fourscore religions strong;
Take your choyce, the major voyce
Shall carry it, right or wrong.
"Then wee'le be of this," sayes Megg;
"Nay, wee'le be of that," sayes Tibb;
"Nay, wee'le be of all," sayes pitifull Paul;
"Nay, wee'le be of none," sayes Gibb.

Neighbours and friends, pray one word more,
There's something yet behinde;
And wise though you be, you doe not well see
In which doore sits the winde.
As for religion to speake right,
And in the Houses sence,
The matter's all one to have any or none,
If 'twere not for the pretence.
But herein doth lurke the key of the worke,
Even to dispose of the crowne,
Dexteriously, and as may be,
For your behoofe and your owne.
"Then let's ha' King Charles," sayes George;
"Nay, let's have his son," sayes Hugh;
"Nay, let's have none," sayes Jabbering Jone;
"Nay, let's be all kings," sayes Prue.

Oh we shall have (if we go on
In plunder, excise, and blood)
But few folke and poore to domineere ore,
And that will not be so good;
Then let's resolve on some new way,
Some new and happy course,
The country's growne sad, the city horne-mad,
And both the Houses are worse.
The synod hath writ, the generall hath spit,
And both to like purposes too;
Religion, lawes, the truth, the cause,
Are talk't of, but nothing we doe.
"Come, come, shal's ha' peace?" sayes Nell;
"No, no, but we won't," sayes Madge;
"But I say we will," sayes firy-faced Phill;
"We will and we won't," sayes Hodge.

Thus from the rout who can expect
Ought but division?
Since unity doth with monarchy
Begin and end in one.
If then when all is thought their owne,
And lyes at their behest,
These popular pates reap nought but debates,
From that many round-headed beast;
Come, Royalists, then, doe you play the men,
And Cavaliers give the word;
Now let us see at what you would be,
And whether you can accord.
"A health to King Charles!" sayes Tom;
"Up with it," sayes Ralph, like a man;
"God blesse him," sayes Doll; "and raise him," sayes Moll;
"And send him his owne!" sayes Nan.

Now for these prudent things that sit
Without end and to none,
And their committees, that townes and cities
Fill with confusion;
For the bold troopes of sectaries,
The Scots and their partakers,
Our new British states, Col. Burges and his mates,
The covenant and its makers;
For all these wee'le pray, and in such a way,
As if it might granted be,
Jack and Gill, Mat and Will,
And all the world would agree.
"A plague take them all!" sayes Besse;
"And a pestilence too!" sayes Margery,
"The devill!" sayes Dick; "And his dam, (34) too!" sayes Nick;
"Amen! and Amen!" say I.

It is desired that the knights and burgesses would take especial
care to send down full numbers hereof to their respective counties
and burroughs, for which they have served apprenticeship, that all
the people may rejoyce as one man for their freedom.

Ballad: A Coffin For King Charles, A Crown For Cromwell, And A Pit
For The People

From a broadside in the King's Pamphlets, vol. viii. in the British
Museum, with the direction, "You may sing this to the tune of
'Faine I would.'" The tune sometimes called "Parthenia," and "The
King's Complaint," is to be found in Mr Chappell's Popular Music of
the Olden Time. The King was beheaded in January, 1649. This
Ballad is dated the 23rd of April in the same year.


So, so, the deed is done,
The royal head is sever'd,
As I meant when I first begun,
And strongly have endeavour'd.
Now Charles the First is tumbled down,
The Second I do not fear;
I grasp the sceptre, wear the crown,
Nor for Jehovah care.


Think'st thou, base slave, though in my grave
Like other men I lie,
My sparkling fame and royal name
Can (as thou wishest) die?
Know, caitif, in my son I live
(The Black Prince call'd by some),
And he shall ample vengeance give
To those that did my doom.


Supprest, deprest, involved in woes,
Great Charles, thy people be
Basely deceived with specious shows
By those that murther'd thee.
We are enslaved to tyrants' hests,
Who have our freedom won:
Our fainting hope now only rests
On thy succeeding son.


Base vulgar! know, the more you stir,
The more your woes increase,
Your rashness will your hopes deter,
'Tis we must give you peace.
Black Charles a traitor is proclaim'd
Unto our dignity;
He dies (if e'er by us he's gain'd)
Without all remedy.


Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou
And thy degenerate train,
By mankind's Saviour's body vow
To me thy sovereign,
To make me the most glorious king
That e'er o'er England reign'd;
That me and mine in everything
By you should be maintain'd?


Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave
Of thy beloved shade;
'Tis we that brought thee to the grave,
Thou wert by us betray'd.
We did believe 'twas reformation
These monsters did desire;
Not knowing that thy degradation
And death should be our hire.


Ye sick-brain'd fools! whose wit does lie
In your small guts; could you
Imagine our conspiracy
Did claim no other due,
But for to spend our dearest bloods
To make rascallions flee?
No, we sought for your lives and goods,
And for a monarchy.


But there's a Thunderer above,
Who, though he winks awhile,
Is not with your black deeds in love,
He hates your damned guile.
And though a time you perch upon
The top of Fortune's wheel,
You shortly unto Acharon
(Drunk with your crimes) shall reel.


Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth)
We languishing do die:
EXCISE doth give free-quarters birth,
While soldiers multiply.
Our lives we forfeit every day,
Our money cuts our throats;
The laws are taken clean away,
Or shrunk to traitor's votes.


Like patient mules resolve to bear
Whate'er we shall impose;
Your lives and goods you need not fear,
We'll prove your friends, not foes.
We (the ELECTED ones) must guide
A thousand years this land;
You must be props unto our pride,
And slaves to our command.


But you may fail of your fair hopes,
If fates propitious be;
And yield your loathed lives in ropes
To vengeance and to me.
When as the Swedes and Irish join,
The Cumbrian and the Scot
Do with the Danes and French combine,
Then look unto your lot.


Our wrongs have arm'd us with such strength,
So sad is our condition,
That could we hope that now at length
We might find intermission,
And had but half we had before,
Ere these mechanics sway'd;
To our revenge, knee-deep in gore,
We would not fear to wade.


In vain (fond people) do you grutch
And tacitly repine.
For why? my skill and strength are such
Both poles of heaven are mine.
Your hands and purses both cohered
To raise us to this height:
You must protect those you have rear'd,
Or sink beneath their weight.


Singing with angels near the throne
Of the Almighty Three
I sit, and know perdition
(Base Cromwell) waits on thee,
And on thy vile associates:
Twelve months (35) shall full conclude
Your power - thus speak the powerful fates,
Then VADES your interlude.


Yea, powerful fates, haste, haste the time,
The most auspicious day,
On which these monsters of our time
To hell must post away.
Meanwhile, so pare their sharpen'd claws,
And so impair their stings,
We may no more fight for the Cause
Or other NOVEL things!

Ballad: A Short Litany For The Year 1649

By Samuel Butler. (From his Posthumous Works.)

From all the mischiefs that I mention here,
Preserve us, Heaven, in this approaching year:
From civil wars and those uncivil things
That hate the race of all our queens and kings;
From those who for self-ends would all betray,
From saints that curse and flatter when they pray;
From those that hold it merit to rebel,
In treason, murthers, and in theft excel;
From those new teachers have destroy'd the old,
And those that turn the gospel into gold;
From a High-Court, and that rebellious crew
That did their hands in royal blood imbrue, -
Defend us, Heaven, and to the throne restore
The rightful heir, and we will ask no more.

Ballad: The Sale Of Rebellion's House-Hold Stuff

Printed in "Percy's Reliques," from an old black-letter copy in Mr
Pepys' collection, corrected by two others, one of which is
preserved in a Choice Collection of 120 Loyal Songs - 1684

To the tune of "Old Sir Simon the King."

Rebellion hath broken up house,
And hath left me old lumber to sell;
Come hither and take your choice,
I'll promise to use you well.
Will you buy the old Speaker's chair?
Which was warm and easy to sit in,
And oft has been clean'd, I declare,
Whereas it was fouler than fitting.
Says old Simon the King,
Says old Simon the King,
With his ale-dropt hose, and his Malmsey nose,
Sing, hey ding, ding-a-ding, ding.

Will you buy any bacon flitches,
The fattest that ever were spent?
They're the sides of the old committees
Fed up in the Long Parliament.
Here's a pair of bellows and tongs,
And for a small matter I'll sell ye 'um,
They are made of the presbyter's lungs,
To blow up the coals of rebellion.
Says old Simon, etc.

I had thought to have given them once
To some blacksmith for his forge;
But now I have consider'd on't,
They are consecrate to the Church:
So I'll give them unto some quire,
They will make the big organs roar,
And the little pipes to squeak higher
Than ever they could before.
Says old Simon, etc.

Here's a couple of stools for sale,
One's square, and t'other is round;
Betwixt them both, the tail
Of the Rump fell down to the ground.
Will you buy the State's council-table,
Which was made of the good wain-Scot?
The frame was a tottering Babel,
To uphold th' Independent plot.
Says old Simon, etc.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad: The Last News From France

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

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

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

All you that do desire to know
What is become of the King o' Scots,
I unto you will truly show
After the fight of Northern Rats.
'Twas I did convey
His Highness away,
And from all dangers set him free; -
In woman attire,
As reason did require,
And the King himself did wait on me.

He of me a service did crave,
And oftentimes to me stood bare;
In woman's apparel he was most brave,
And on his chin he had no hare;
Wherever I came
My speeches did frame
So well my waiting-man to free,
The like was never known
I think by any I one,
For the King himself did wait on me.

My waiting-man a jewel had,
Which I for want of money sold;
Because my fortune was so bad
We turn'd our jewel into gold.
A good shift indeed,
In time of our need,
Then glad was I and glad was he;
Our cause it did advance
Until we came to France,
And the King himself did wait on me.

We walked through Westminster Hall,
Where law and justice doth take place
Our grief was great, our comfort small,
We lookt grim death all in the face.
I lookt round about,
And made no other doubt
But I and my man should taken be;
The people little knew,
As I may tell to you,
The King himself did wait on me.

From thence we went to the fatal place
Where his father lost his life;
And then my man did weep apace,
And sorrow with him then was rife.
I bid him peace,
Let sorrow cease,
For fear that we should taken be.
The gallants in Whitehall
Did little know at all
That the King himself did wait on me.

The King he was my serving-man,
And thus the plot we did contrive:
I went by the name of Mistress Anne
When we took water at Queenhythe.
A boat there we took,
And London forsook,
And now in France arrived are we.
We got away by stealth,
And the King is in good health,
And he shall no longer wait on me.

The King of Denmark's dead, they say,
Then Charles is like to rule the land;
In France he will no longer stay,
As I do rightly understand.
That land is his due,
If they be but true,
And he with them do well agree:
I heard a bird sing
If he once be their king,
My man will then my master be.

Now Heaven grant them better success
With their young king than England had;
Free from war and from distress,
Their fortune may not be so bad;
Since the case thus stands,
Let neighbouring lands
Lay down their arms and at quiet be;
But as for my part,
I am glad with all my heart
That my King must now my master be.

And thus I have declared to you
By what means we escaped away;
Now we bid our cares adieu,
Though the King did lose the day.
To him I was true,
And that he well knew;
'Tis God that must his comfort be,
Else all our policy
Had been but foolery,
For the King no longer waits on me.

Ballad: Song To The Figure Two

From vol. ii. of the Roxburgh Ballads, in the British Museum.

A merry new song wherein you may view
The drinking healths of a joviall crew,
To t' happie return of the figure of TWO.

The figure of TWO is a palpable allusion to Charles II. Tune,
"Ragged, and torn, and true."

I have been a traveller long,
And seen the conditions of all;
I see how each other they wrong,
And the weakest still goes to the wall.
And here I'll begin to relate
The crosse condition of those
That hinder our happy fate,
And now are turned our foes.
Here's a health to the figure of TWO,
To the rest of the issue renown'd;
We'll bid all our sorrows adieu,
When the figure of TWO shall be crown'd.

I crossed the ocean of late,
And there I did meet with a crosse,
But having a pretty estate,
I never lamented my losse:
I never lamented my harmes,
And yet I was wondrous sad;
I found all the land up in arms,
And I thought all the folke had bin mad.
Here's a health, etc.

Kind countrymen, how fell ye out?
I left you all quiet and still;
But things are now brought so about,
You nothing but plunder and kill;
Some doe seem seemingly holy,
And would be reformers of men,
But wisdom doth laugh at their folly,
And sayes they'll be children agen,
Here's a health, etc.

But woe to the figure of One!
King Solomon telleth us so;
But he shall be wronged by none
That hath two strings to his bow.
How I love this figure of TWO
Among all the figures that be,
I'll make it appear unto you
If that you will listen to me.
Here's a health, etc.

Observe when the weather is cold
I wear a cap on my head,
But wish, if I may be so bold,
The figure of TWO in my bed.
TWO in my bed I do crave,
And that is myself and my mate;
But pray do not think I would have
TWO large great hornes on my pate.
Here's a health, etc.

Since Nature hath given two hands,
But when they are foul I might scorn them;
Yet people thus much understands,
TWO fine white gloves will adorn them.
TWO feet for to bear up my body,
No more had the knight of the sun;
But people would think me a noddy
If two shoes I would not put on.
Here's a health, etc.

The figure of TWO is a thing
That we cannot well live without,
No more than without a good king,
Though we be never so stout;
And thus we may well understand,
If ever our troubles should cease,
Two needful things in a land
Is a king and a justice of peace.
Here's a health, etc.

And now for to draw to an end,
I wish a good happy conclusion,
The State would so much stand our friend,
To end this unhappy confusion;
The which might be done in a trice,
In giving of Caesar his due;
If we were so honest and wise
As to think of the figure of TWO.
Here's a health, etc.

If any desire to know,
This riddle I now will unfold,
It is a man wrapped in woe,
Whose father is wrapped in mould:
So now to conclude my song,
I mention him so much the rather
Because he hath suffer'd some wrong,
And bears up the name of his father.
Here's a health, etc.

Ballad: The Reformation

Written in the year 1652, by Samuel Butler. From his Posthumous

Tell me not of Lords and laws,
Rules or reformation;
All that's done not worth two straws
To the welfare of the nation;
If men in power do rant it still,
And give no reason but their will
For all their domination;
Or if they do an act that's just,
'Tis not because they would, but must,
To gratify some party's lust.

All our expense of blood and purse
Has yet produced no profit;
Men are still as bad or worse,
And will whate'er comes of it.
We've shuffled out and shuffled in
The person, but retain the sin,
To make our game the surer;
Yet spight of all our pains and skill,
The knaves all in the pack are still,
And ever were, and ever will,
Though something now demurer.

And it can never be so,
Since knaves are still in fashion;
Men of souls so base and low,
Meer bigots of the nation;
Whose designs are power and wealth,
At which by rapine, power, and stealth,
Audaciously they vent're ye;
They lay their consciences aside,
And turn with every wind and tide,
Puff'd on by ignorance and pride,
And all to look like gentry.

Crimes are not punish'd 'cause they're crimes,
But cause they're low and little:
Mean men for mean faults in these times
Make satisfaction to tittle;
While those in office and in power
Boldly the underlings devour,
Our cobweb laws can't hold 'em;
They sell for many a thousand crown
Things which were never yet their own,
And this is law and custom grown,
'Cause those do judge who sold 'em.

Brothers still with brothers brawl,
And for trifles sue 'em;
For two pronouns that spoil all
Contentious MEUM and TUUM.
The wary lawyer buys and builds
While the client sells his fields
To sacrifice his fury;
And when he thinks t' obtain his right,
He's baffled off or beaten quite
By the judge's will, or lawyer's slight,
Or ignorance of the jury.

See the tradesman how he thrives
With perpetual trouble:
How he cheats and how he strives,
His estate t' enlarge and double;
Extort, oppress, grind and encroach,
To be a squire and keep a coach,
And to be one o' th' quorum;
Who may with's brother-worships sit,
And judge without law, fear, or wit,
Poor petty thieves, that nothing get,
And yet are brought before 'em.

And his way to get all this
Is mere dissimulation;
No factious lecture does he miss,
And 'scape no schism that's in fashion:
But with short hair and shining shoes,
He with two pens and note-book goes,
And winks and writes at random;
Thence with short meal and tedious grace,
In a loud tone and public place,
Sings wisdom's hymns, that trot and pace
As if Goliah scann'd 'em.

But when Death begins his threats,
And his conscience struggles
To call to mind his former cheats,
Then at Heaven he turns and juggles:
And out of all's ill-gotten store
He gives a dribbling to the poor;
An hospital or school-house;
And the suborn'd priest for his hire
Quite frees him from th' infernal fire,
And places him in th' angel's quire:
Thus these Jack-puddings fool us!

All he gets by's pains i' th' close,
Is, that he dy'd worth so much;
Which he on's doubtful seed bestows,
That neither care nor know much:
Then fortune's favourite, his heir,
Bred base and ignorant and bare,
Is blown up like a bubble:
Who wondering at's own sudden rise,
By pride, simplicity, and vice,
Falls to his sports, drink, drabs, and dice,
And make all fly like stubble.

And the Church, the other twin,
Whose mad zeal enraged us,
Is not purified a pin
By all those broils in which th' engaged us:
We our wives turn'd out of doors,
And took in concubines and whores,
To make an alteration;
Our pulpitors are proud and bold,
They their own wills and factions hold,
And sell salvation still for gold,
And here's our REFORMATION!

'Tis a madness then to make
Thriving our employment,
And lucre love for lucre's sake,
Since we've possession, not enjoyment:
Let the times run on their course,
For oppression makes them worse,
We ne'er shall better find 'em;
Let grandees wealth and power engross,
And honour, too, while we sit close,
And laugh and take our plenteous dose
Of sack, and never mind 'em.

Ballad: Upon The General Pardon Passed By The Rump

From a broadside in the King's Pamphlets, British Museum. After
Cromwell's victory at Worcester, he prevailed on the Parliament to
pass a general, or quasi-general, amnesty for all political
offences committed prior to that time.

Rejoice, rejoice, ye Cavaliers,
For here comes that dispels your fears;
A general pardon is now past,
What was long look'd for, comes at last.

It pardons all that are undone;
The Pope ne'er granted such a one:
So long, so large, so full, so free,
Oh what a glorious State have we!

Yet do not joy too much, my friends,
First see how well this pardon ends;
For though it hath a glorious face,
I fear there's in't but little grace.

'Tis said the mountains once brought forth, -
And what brought they? a mouse, in troth;
Our States have done the like, I doubt,
In this their pardon now set out.

We'll look it o'er, then, if you please,
And see wherein it brings us ease:
And first, it pardons words, I find,
Against our State - words are but wind.

Hath any pray'd for th' King of late,
And wish'd confusion to our State?
And call'd them rebels? He may come in
And plead this pardon for that sin.

Has any call'd King Charles that's dead
A martyr - he that lost his head?
And villains those that did the fact?
That man is pardon'd by this Act.

Hath any said our Parliament
I such a one as God ne'er sent?
Or hath he writ, and put in print,
That he believes the devil's in't?

Or hath he said there never were
Such tyrants anywhere as here?
Though this offence of his be high,
He's pardon'd for his blasphemy.

You see how large this pardon is,
It pardons all our MERCURIES, (37)
And poets too, for you know they
Are poor, and have not aught to pay.

For where there's money to be got,
I find this pardon pardons not;
Malignants that were rich before,
Shall not be pardon'd till they're poor.

Hath any one been true to th' Crown,
And for that paid his money down,
By this new Act he shall be free,
And pardon'd for his loyalty.

Who have their lands confiscate quite,
For not compounding when they might;
If that they know not how to dig,
This pardon gives them leave to beg.

Before this Act came out in print,
We thought there had been comfort in't;
We drank some healths to the higher powers,
But now we've seen't they'd need drink ours.

For by this Act it is thought fit
That no man shall have benefit,
Unless he first engage to be
A rebel to eternity.

Thus, in this pardon it is clear
That nothing's here and nothing's there:
I think our States do mean to choke us
With this new Act of HOCUS POCUS.

Well, since this Act's not worth a pin,
We'll pray our States to call it in,
For most men think it ought to be
Burnt by the hand of Gregory.

Then, to conclude, here's little joy
For those that pray VIVE LE ROY!
But since they'll not forget our crimes,
We'll keep our mirth till better times.

Ballad: An Old Song On Oliver's Court

Written in the year 1654, by Samuel Butler.

He that would a new courtier be
And of the late coyn'd gentry;
A brother of the prick-eared crew,
Half a presbyter, half a Jew,
When he is dipp'd in Jordan's flood,
And wash'd his hands in royal blood,
Let him to our court repair,
Where all trades and religions are.

If he can devoutly pray,
Feast upon a fasting day,
Be longer blessing a warm bit
Than the cook was dressing it;
With covenants and oaths dispense,
Betray his lord for forty pence,
Let him, etc.

If he be one of the eating tribe,
Both a Pharisee and a Scribe,
And hath learn'd the snivelling tone
Of a flux'd devotion;
Cursing from his sweating tub
The Cavaliers to Beelzebub,
Let him, etc.

Who sickler than the city ruff,
Can change his brewer's coat to buff,
His dray-cart to a coach, the beast
Into Flanders mares at least;
Nay, hath the art to murder kings,
Like David, only with his slings,
Let him, etc.

If he can invert the word,
Turning his ploughshare to a sword,
His cassock to a coat of mail;
'Gainst bishops and the clergy rail;
Convert Paul's church into the mews;
Make a new colonel of old shoes,
Let him, etc.

Who hath commission to convey
Both sexes to JAMAICA,
There to beget new babes of grace
On wenches hotter than the place,
Who carry in their tails a fire
Will rather scorch than quench desire,
Let him, etc.

Ballad: The Parliament Routed, Or Here's A House To Be Let

I hope that England, after many jarres,
Shall be at peace, and give no way to warres:
O Lord, protect the generall, that he
May be the agent of our unitie.

Written upon the dissolution of the Long Parliament by Cromwell, on
the 20th April, 1653, and extracted from the King's Pamphlets,
British Museum. June 3rd, 1653.

To the tune of "Lucina, or, Merrily and Cherrily."

Cheare up, kind countrymen, be not dismay'd,
True news I can tell ye concerning the nation;
Hot spirits are quench'd, the tempest is layd,
(And now we may hope for a good reformation).
The Parliament bold and the counsell of state
Doe wish them beyond sea, or else at Virginie;
For now all their orders are quite out of date,
Twelve Parliament men shall be sold for peny.

Full twelve years and more these rooks they have sat,
To gull and to cozen all true-hearted people;
Our gold and our silver has made them so fat,
That they lookt more big and mighty than Paul's steeple.
The freedome of subject they much did pretend,
But since they bore sway we never had any;
For every member promoted self-end,
Twelve Parliament men are now sold for one peny.

Their acts and their orders which they have contrived,
Was still in conclusion to multiply riches:
The Common-wealth sweetly by these men have thrived,
As Lancashire did with the juncto of witches. (38)
Oh! our freedome was chain'd to the Egyptian yoak,
As it hath been felt and endured by many,
Still making religion their author and cloak,
Twelve Parliament men shall be sold for a peny.

Both citie and countrey are almost undone
By these caterpillars, which swarm'd in the nation;
Their imps and their goblins did up and downe run,
Excise-men, I meane, all knaves of a fashion:
For all the great treasure that dayly came in,
The souldier wants pay, 'tis well knowne by a many;
To cheat and to cozen they held it no sinne,
Twelve Parliament men shall be sold for a peny.

The land and the livings which these men have had,
'Twould make one admire what use they've made of it,
With plate and with jewels they have bin well clad,
The souldier fared hard whilst they got the profit.
Our gold and our silver to Holland they sent,
But being found out, this is knowne by a many,
That no one would owne it for feare of a shent,
Twelve Parliament men are sold for a peny.

'Tis judged by most people that they were the cause
Of England and Holland, their warring together, (39)
Both friends and dear lovers to break civill lawes,
And in cruell manner to kill one another.
What cared they how many did lose their dear lives,
So they by the bargain did get people's money,
Sitting secure like bees in their hives?
But twelve Parliament men are now sold for a peny.


To the same tune.

They voted, unvoted, as fancy did guide,
To passe away time, but increasing their treasure
(When Jack is on cock-horse hee'l galloping ride,
But falling at last, hee'l repent it at leisure).
The widow, the fatherlesse, gentry and poore,
The tradesman and citizen, with a great many,
Have suffer'd full dearly to heap up their store;
But twelve Parliament men shall be sold for a peny.

These burdens and grievances England hath felt,
So long and so heavy, our hearts are e'en broken,
Our plate, gold and silver, to themselves they've dealt
(All this is too true, in good time be it spoken).
For a man to rise high and at last to fall low,
It is a discredit: this lot fals to many,
But 'tis no great matter these men to serve so,
Twelve Parliament men now are sold for a peny.

The generall (40) perceiving their lustfull desire
To covet more treasure, being puft with ambition,
By their acts and their orders to set all on fire,
Pretending religion to rout superstition:
He bravely commanded the souldiers to goe
In the Parliament-house, in defiance of any;
To which they consented, and now you doe know
That twelve Parliament men may be sold for a peny.

The souldiers undaunted laid hold on the mace,
And out of the chaire they removed the speaker:
The great ones was then in a pittifull case,
And Tavee cryd out, All her cold must forsake her. (41)
Thus they were routed, pluckt out by the eares,
The House was soone empty and rid of a many
Usurpers, that sate there this thirteen long yeares;
Twelve Parliament men may be sold for a peny.

To the Tower of London away they were sent,
As they have sent others by them captivated;
Oh what will become of this old Parliament
And all their compeers, that were royally stated.
What they have deserved I wish they may have,
And 'tis the desire I know of a many;
For us to have freedome, oh that will be brave!
But twelve Parliament men may be sold for a peny.

Let's pray for the generall and all his brave traine,
He may be an instrument for England's blessing,
Appointed in heaven to free us againe, -
For this is the way of our burdens redressing:
For England to be in glory once more,
It would satisfy, I know, a great many;
But ending I say, as I said before,
Twelve Parliament men now are sold for a peny.

Ballad: A Christmas Song When The Rump Was First Dissolved

From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum. The Rump Parliament, in
an excess of Puritanic acerbity, had abolished the observance of
Christmas, and forbidden the eating of puddings and pies, as
savouring of Popery.

Tune - "I tell thee, Dick."

This Christmas time 'tis fit that we
Should feast, and sing, and merry be.
It is a time of mirth;
For never since the world began
More joyful news was brought to man
Than at our Saviour's birth.

But such have been these times of late,
That holidays are out of date,
And holiness to boot;
For they that do despise and scorn
To keep the day that Christ was born,
Want holiness no doubt.

That Parliament that took away
The observation of that day,
We know it was not free;
For if it had, such acts as those
Had ne'er been seen in verse or prose,
You may conclude with me.

'Twas that Assembly did maintain
'Twas law to kill their sovereign,
Who by that law must die;
Though God's anointed ones are such,
Which subjects should not dare to touch,
Much less to crucify.

'Twas that which turn'd our bishops out
Of house and home, both branch and root,
And gave no reason why;
And all our clergy did expel,
That would not do like that rebel -
This no man can deny.

It was that Parliament that took
Out of our churches our SERVICE BOOK,
A book without compare;
And made God's house (to all our griefs),
That house of prayer, a den of thiefs'
Both here and everywhere.

They had no head for many years,
Nor heart (I mean the House of Peers),
And yet it did not die;
Of these long since it was bereft,
And nothing but the tail was left,
You know as well as I.

And in this tail was a tongue,
Lenthal (42) I mean, whose fame hath rung
In country and in city;
Not for his worth or eloquence,
But for a rebel to his prince,
And neither wise nor witty.

This Speaker's words must needs be wind,
Since they proceeded from behind;
Besides, you way remember,
From thence no act could be discreet,
Nor could the sense o' the House be sweet
Where Atkins was a member.

This tale's now done, the Speaker's dumb,
Thanks to the trumpet and the drum;
And now I hope to see
A Parliament that will restore
All things that were undone before,
That we may Christians be.

Ballad: A Free Parliament Litany

From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum. - (A. D. 1655.) To the
tune of "An Old Courtier of the Queen's."

More ballads! - here's a spick and span new supplication,
By order of a Committee for the Reformation,
To be read in all churches and chapels of this nation,
Upon pain of slavery and sequestration.
From fools and knaves in our Parliament free,

From those that ha' more religion and less conscience than their
From a representative that's fearful and zealous;
From a starting jadish people that is troubled with the yellows,
And a priest that blows the coal (a crack in his bellows);
From fools and knaves, etc.

From shepherds that lead their flocks into the briars,
And then fleece 'em; from vow-breakers and king-tryers;
Of Church and Crown lands, from both sellers and buyers;
From the children of him that is the father of liars;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From the doctrine and discipline of NOW AND ANON,
Preserve us and our wives from John T. and Saint John,
Like master like man, every way but one, -
The master has a large conscience, and the man has none;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From major-generals, army officers, and that phanatique crew;
From the parboil'd pimp Scot, and from Good-face the Jew;
From old Mildmay, that in Cheapside mistook his queu,
And from him that won't pledge - Give the devil his due;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From long-winded speeches, and not a wise word;
From a gospel ministry settled by the sword;
From the act of a Rump, that stinks when 'tis stirr'd;
From a knight of the post, and a cobbling lord;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From all the rich people that ha' made us poor;
From a Speaker that creeps to the House by a back-door;
From that badger, Robinson (that limps and bites sore);
And that dog in a doublet, Arthur - that will do so no more;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From a certain sly knave with a beastly name;
From a Parliament that's wild, and a people that's tame;
From Skippon, Titchbourne, Ireton, - and another of the same;
From a dung-hill cock, and a hen of the game;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From all those that sat in the High Court of Justice;
From usurpers that style themselves the people's trustees;
From an old Rump, in which neither profit nor gust is,
And from the recovery of that which now in the dust is;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From a backsliding saint that pretend t' acquiesce;
From crossing of proverbs (let 'um hang that confess);
From a sniveling cause, in a pontificall dress,
And two lawyers, with the devil and his dam in a mess;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From those that trouble the waters to mend the fishing,
And fight the Lord's battles under the devil's commission,
Such as eat up the nation, whilst the government's a-dishing;
And from a people when it should be doing, stands wishing;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From an everlasting mock-parliament - and from NONE;
From Strafford's old friends - Harry, Jack, and John;
From our solicitor's wolf-law deliver our King's son;
And from the resurrection of the Rump that is dead and gone;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From foreign invasion and commotions at home;
From our present distraction, and from work to come;
From the same hand again Smectymnus, or the bum,
And from taking Geneva in our way to Rome;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From a hundred thousand pound tax to keep knaves by the score
(But it is well given to these that turn'd those out of door);
From undoing ourselves in plaistering old sores;
He that set them a-work, let him pay their scores;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From saints and tender consciences in buff;
From Mounson in a foam, and Haslerig in a huff;
From both men and women that think they never have enough;
And from a fool's head that looks through a chain and a duff;
From fools and knaves, etc.

From those that would divide the gen'ral and the city;
From Harry Martin's girl, that was neither sweet nor pretty;
From a faction that has neither brain nor pity:
From the mercy of a phanatique committee;
From fools and knaves, etc.

Preserve us, good Heaven, from entrusting those
That ha' much to get and little to lose;
That murther'd the father, and the son would depose
(Sure they can't be our friends that are their country's foes);
From fools and knaves, etc.

From Bradshaw's presumption, and from Hoyle's despairs;
From rotten members, blind guides, preaching aldermen, and false
From long knives, long ears, long parliaments, and long pray'rs;
In mercy to this nation - Deliver us and our heirs;
From fools and knaves, etc.

Ballad: The Mock Song

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