The cobbler soon return’d the blows,And with both head and heelSo manfully behaved himself,He made the vicar reel.
Great was the outcry that was made,And in the woman ranTo tell his worship that the fightBetwixt them was began.
And is it so indeed? quoth he;I’ll make the slaves repent:Then up he took his basket hilt,And out enraged he went.
The country folk no sooner sawThe knight with naked blade,But for his worship instantlyAn open lane was made;
Who with a stern and angry lookCry’d out, What knaves are theseThat in the face of justice dareDisturb the public peace?
Vile rascals! I will make you knowI am a magistrate,And that as such I bear aboutThe vengeance of the State.
Go, seize them, Ralph, and bring them in,That I may know the cause,That first induced them to this rage,And thus to break the laws.
Ralph, who was both his squire and clerk,And constable withal,I’ th’ name o’ th’ Commonwealth aloudDid for assistance bawl.
The words had hardly pass’d his mouthBut they secure them both;And Ralph, to show his furious zealAnd hatred to the cloth,
Runs to the vicar through the crowd,And takes him by the throat:How ill, says he, doth this becomeYour character and coat!
Was it for this not long agoYou took the Covenant,And in most solemn manner sworeThat you’d become a saint?
And here he gave him such a pinchThat made the vicar shout,—Good people, I shall murder’d beBy this ungodly lout.
He gripes my throat to that degreeI can’t his talons bear;And if you do not hold his hands,He’ll throttle me, I fear.
At this a butcher of the townSteps up to Ralph in ire,—What, will you squeeze his gullet through,You son of blood and fire?
You are the Devil’s instrumentTo execute the laws;What, will you murther the poor manWith your phanatick claws?
At which the squire quits his hold,And lugging out his blade,Full at the sturdy butcher’s pateA furious stroke he made.
A dismal outcry then beganAmong the country folk;Who all conclude the butcher slainBy such a mortal stroke.
But here good fortune, that has stillA friendship for the brave,I’ th’ nick misguides the fatal blow,And does the butcher save.
The knight, who heard the noise within,Runs out with might and main,And seeing Ralph amidst the crowdIn danger to be slain,
Without regard to age or sexOld basket-hilt so ply’d,That in an instant three or fourLay bleeding at his side.
And greater mischiefs in his rageThis furious knight had done,If he had not prevented beenBy Dick, the blacksmith’s son,
Who catch’d his worship on the hip,And gave him such a squelch,That he some moments breathless layEre he was heard to belch.
Nor was the squire in better case,By sturdy butcher ply’d,Who from the shoulder to the flankHad soundly swinged his hide.
Whilst things in this confusion stood,And knight and squire disarm’d,Up comes a neighbouring gentlemanThe outcry had alarm’d;
Who riding up among the crowd,The vicar first he spy’d,With sleeveless gown and bloody bandAnd hands behind him ty’d.
Bless me, says he, what means all this?Then turning round his eyes,In the same plight, or in a worse,The cobbler bleeding spies.
And looking further round he saw,Like one in doleful dump,The knight, amidst a gaping mob,Sit pensive on his rump.
And by his side lay Ralph his squire,Whom butcher fell had maul’d;Who bitterly bemoan’d his fate,And for a surgeon call’d.
Surprised at first he paused awhile,And then accosts the knight,—What makes you here, Sir Samuel,In this unhappy plight?
At this the knight gave’s breast a thump,And stretching out his hand,—If you will pull me up, he cried,I’ll try if I can stand.
And then I’ll let you know the cause;But first take care of Ralph,Who in my good or ill successDoth always stand my half.
In short, he got his worship upAnd led him in the door;Where he at length relates the taleAs I have told before.
When he had heard the story out,The gentleman replies,—It is not in my province, sir,Your worship to advise.
But were I in your worship’s place,The only thing I’d do,Was first to reprimand the fools,And then to let them go.
I think it first advisableTo take them from the rabble,And let them come and both set forthThe occasion of the squabble.
This is the Vicar, Sir, of Bray,A man of no repute,The scorn and scandal of his tribe,A loose, ill-manner’d brute.
The cobbler’s a poor strolling wretchThat mends my servants’ shoes;And often calls as he goes byTo bring me country news.
At this his worship grip’d his beard,And in an angry mood,Swore by the laws of chivalryThat blood required blood.
Besides, I’m by the CommonwealthEntrusted to chastiseAll knaves that straggle up and downTo raise such mutinies.
However, since ’tis your request,They shall be call’d and heard;But neither Ralph nor I can grantSuch rascals should be clear’d.
And so, to wind the tale up short,They were call’d in together;And by the gentlemen were ask’dWhat wind ’twas blew them thither.
Good ale and handsome landladiesYou might have nearer home;And therefore ’tis for something moreThat you so far are come.
To which the vicar answer’d first,—My living is so small,That I am forced to stroll aboutTo try and get a call.
And, quoth the cobbler, I am forcedTo leave my wife and dwelling,T’ escape the danger of being press’dTo go a colonelling.
There’s many an honest jovial ladUnwarily drawn in,That I have reason to suspectWill scarce get out again.
The proverb says,Harm watch harm catch,I’ll out of danger keep,For he that sleeps in a whole skinDoth most securely sleep.
My business is to mend bad soalsAnd stitch up broken quarters:A cobbler’s name would look but oddAmong a list of martyrs.
Faith, cobbler, quoth the gentleman,And that shall be my case;I will neither party join,Let what will come to pass.
No importunities or threatsMy fixt resolves shall rest;Come here, Sir Samuel, where’s his healthThat loves old England best.
I pity those unhappy foolsWho, ere they were aware,Designing and ambitious menHave drawn into a snare.
But, vicar, to come to the case,—Amidst a senseless crowd,What urged you to such violence,And made you talk so loud?
Passion I’m sure does ill becomeYour character and cloath,And, tho’ the cause be ne’er so just,Brings scandal upon both.
Vicar, I speak it with regret,An inadvertent priestRenders himself ridiculous,And every body’s jest.
The vicar to be thus rebukedA little time stood mute;But having gulp’d his passion down,Replies,—That cobbling brute
Has treated me with such contempt,Such vile expressions used,That I no longer could forbearTo hear myself abused.
The rascal had the insolenceTo give himself the lie,And to aver h’ had done more goodAnd saved more soals than I.
Nay, further, Sir, this miscreantTo tell me was so bold,Our trades were very near of kin,But his was the more old.
Now, Sir, I will to you appealOn such a provocation,If there was not sufficient causeTo use a little passion?
Now, quoth the cobbler, with your leave,I’ll prove it to his face,All this is mere suggestion,And foreign to the case.
And since he calls so many namesAnd talks so very loud,I will be bound to make it plain’Twas he that raised the crowd.
Nay, further, I will make ’t appearHe and the priests have doneMore mischief than the cobblers farAll over Christendom.
All Europe groans beneath their yoke,And poor Great Britain owesTo them her present miseries,And dread of future woes.
The priests of all religions areAnd will be still the same,And all, tho’ in a different way,Are playing the same game.
At this the gentleman stood up,—Cobbler, you run too fast;By thus condemning all the tribeYou go beyond your last.
Much mischief has by priests been done,And more is doing still;But then to censure all alikeMust be exceeding ill.
Too many, I must needs confess,Are mightily to blame,Who by their wicked practicesDisgrace the very name.
But, cobbler, still the major partThe minor should conclude;To argue at another rate’sImpertinent and rude.
By this time all the neighbours roundWere flock’d about the door,And some were on the vicar’s side,But on the cobbler’s more.
Among the rest a grazier, whoHad lately been at townTo sell his oxen and his sheep,Brim-full of news came down.
Quoth he, The priests have preach’d and pray’d,And made so damn’d a pother,That all the people are run madTo murther one another.
By their contrivances and artsThey’ve play’d their game so long,That no man knows which side is right,Or which is in the wrong.
I’m sure I’ve Smithfield market usedFor more than twenty year,But never did such murmuringsAnd dreadful outcries hear.
Some for a church, and some a tub,And some for both together;And some, perhaps the greater part,Have no regard for either.
Some for a king, and some for none;And some have hankeringsTo mend the Commonwealth, and makeAn empire of all kings.
What’s worse, old Noll is marching off,And Dick, his heir-apparent,Succeeds him in the government,A very lame vicegerent.
He’ll reign but little time, poor fool,But sink beneath the State,That will not fail to ride the fool’Bove common horseman’s weight.
And rulers, when they lose the power,Like horses overweigh’d,Must either fall and break their knees,Or else turn perfect jade.
The vicar to be twice rebukedNo longer could contain;But thus replies,—To knaves like youAll arguments are vain.
The Church must use her arm of flesh,The other will not do;The clergy waste their breath and timeOn miscreants like you.
You are so stubborn and so proud,So dull and prepossest,That no instructions can prevailHow well soe’er addrest.
Who would reform such reprobates,Must drub them soundly first;I know no other way but thatTo make them wise or just.
Fie, vicar, fie, his patron said,Sure that is not the way;You should instruct your auditorsTo suffer or obey.
Those were the doctrines that of oldThe learned fathers taught;And ’twas by them the Church at firstWas to perfection brought.
Come, vicar, lay your feuds aside,And calmly take your cup;And let us try in friendly wiseTo make the matter up.
That’s certainly the wiser course,And better too by far;All men of prudence strive to quenchThe sparks of civil war.
By furious heats and ill adviceOur neighbours are undone,Then let us timely caution takeFrom their destruction.
If we would turn our heads about,And look towards forty-one,We soon should see what little jarsThose cruel wars begun.
A one-eyed cobbler then was oneOf that rebellious crew,That did in Charles the martyr’s bloodTheir wicked hands imbrue.
I mention this not to defaceThis cobbler’s reputation,Whom I have always honest found,And useful in his station.
But this I urge to let you seeThe danger of a fightBetween a cobbler and a priest,Though he were ne’er so right.
The vicars are a numerous tribe,So are the cobblers too;And if a general quarrel rise,What must the country do?
Our outward and our inward soalsMust quickly want repair;And all the neighbourhood aroundWould the misfortune share.
Sir, quoth the grazier, I believeOur outward soals indeedMay quickly want the cobbler’s helpTo be from leakings freed.
But for our inward souls, I thinkThey’re of a worth too greatTo be committed to the careOf any holy cheat,
Who only serves his God for gain,Religion is his trade;And ’tis by such as these our ChurchSo scandalous is made.
Why should I trust my soul with oneThat preaches, swears, and prays,And the next moment contradictsHimself in all he says?
His solemn oaths he looks uponAs only words of course!Which like their wives our fathers tookFor better or for worse.
But he takes oaths as some take w—s,Only to serve his ease;And rogues and w—s, it is well known,May part whene’er they please.
At this the cobbler bolder grew,And stoutly thus reply’d,—If you’re so good at drubbing, Sir,Your manhood shall be try’d.
What I have said I will maintain,And further prove withal—I daily do more good than youIn my respective call.
I know your character, quoth he,You proud insulting vicar,Who only huff and domineerAnd quarrel in your liquor.
The honest gentleman, who saw’Twould come again to blows,Commands the cobbler to forbear,And to the vicar goes.
Vicar, says he, for shame give o’erAnd mitigate your rage;You scandalize your cloth too muchA cobbler to engage.
All people’s eyes are on your tribe,And every little illThey multiply and aggravateAnd will because they will.
But now let’s call another cause,So let this health go round;Be peace and plenty, truth and right,In good old England found.
Quoth Ralph, All this is empty talkAnd only tends to laughter;If these two varlets should be spared,Who’d pity us hereafter?
Your worship may do what you please,But I’ll have satisfactionFor drubbing and for damagesIn this ungodly action.
I think that you can do no lessThan send them to the stocks;And I’ll assist the constableIn fixing in their hocks.
There let ’em sit and fight it out,Or scold till they are friends;Or, what is better much than both,Till I am made amends.
Ralph, quoth the knight, that’s well advised,Let them both hither go,And you and the sub-magistrateTake care that it be so.
Let them be lock’d in face to face,Bare buttocks on the ground;And let them in that posture sitTill they with us compound.
Thus fixt, well leave them for a time,Whilst we with grief relate,How at a wake this knight and squireGot each a broken pate.
From Samuel Butler’s Posthumous Works.
Ofall the factions in the townMoved by French springs or Flemish wheels,None turns religion upside down,Or tears pretences out at heels,LikeSplaymouthwith his brace of caps,Whose conscience might be scann’d perhapsBy the dimensions of his chaps;
He whom the sisters do adore,Counting his actions all divine,Who when the spirit hints can roar,And, if occasion serves, can whine;Nay, he can bellow, bray, or bark;Was eversike a Beauk-learn’dclerkThat speaks all linguas of the ark?
To draw the hornets in like bees,With pleasing twangs he tones his prose;He gives his handkerchief a squeeze,And draws John Calvin thro’ his nose;Motive on motive he obtrudes,With slip-stocking similitudes,Eight uses more, and so concludes.
When monarchy began to bleed,And treason had a fine new name;When Thames was balderdash’d with Tweed,And pulpits did like beacons flame;When Jeroboam’s calves were rear’d,And Laud was neither loved nor fear’d,This gospel-comet first appear’d.
Soon his unhallow’d fingers striptHis sovereign-liege of power and land;And, having smote his master, sliptHis sword into his fellow’s hand;But he that wears his eyes may noteOft-times the butcher binds a goat,And leaves his boy to cut her throat.
Poor England felt his fury thenOutweigh’d Queen Mary’s many grains;His very preaching slew more menThan Bonnar’s faggots, stakes, and chains:With dog-star zeal, and lungs like Boreas,He fought, and taught, and, what’s notorious,Destroy’d his Lord to make him glorious.
Yet drew for King and Parliament,As if the wind could stand north-south;Broke Moses’ law with blest intent,Murther’d, and then he wiped his mouth:Oblivion alters not his case,Nor clemency nor acts of graceCan blanch an Ethiopian’s face.
Ripe for rebellion, he beginsTo rally up the saints in swarms;He bawls aloud, Sir, leave your sins,But whispers, Boys, stand to your arms:Thus he’s grown insolently rude,Thinking his gods can’t be subdued—Money, I mean, andmultitude.
Magistrates he regards no moreThan St George or the King of Colon,Vowing he’ll not conform beforeThe old wives wind their dead in woollen:He calls the bishop gray-hair’d coff,And makes his power as mere a scoffAs Dagon when his hands were off.
Hark! how he opens with full cry,Halloo, my hearts, beware of Rome!Cowards that are afraid to dieThus make domestic brawls at home.How quietly great Charles might reign,Would all these Hotspurs cross the mainAnd preach down Popery in Spain.
The starry rule of Heaven is fixt,There’s no dissension in the sky;And can there be a mean betwixt,Confusion and conformity?A place divided never thrives,’Tis bad when hornets dwell in hives,But worse when children play with knives.
I would as soon turn back to mass,Or change my praise toTheeandThou;Let the Pope ride me like an ass,And his priests milk me like a cow!As buckle to Smectymnian laws,The bad effects o’ th’ Good old Cause,That have dove’s plumes, but vulture’s claws.
For ’twas the holy Kirk that nursed,The Brownists and the ranters’ crew;Foul error’s motley vesture firstWas oaded[98]in a northern blue;And what’s th’ enthusiastick breed,Or men of Knipperdolin’s creed,But Cov’nanters run up to seed!
Yet they all cry they love the King,And make boast of their innocence:There cannot be so vile a thingBut may be cover’d with pretence;Yet when all’s said, one thing I’ll swear,No subject like th’ old Cavalier,No traytor likeJack-Presbyter.
From Durfey’s “Pills to Purge Melancholy.”
Frier Baconwalks again,And DoctorForster[99]too;ProsperineandPluto,And many a goblin crew:With that a merry devil,To make theAiring, vow’d;Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!The Devil laugh’d aloud.
Why think you that he laugh’d?Forsooth he came from court;And there amongst the gallantsHad spy’d such pretty sport;There was such cunning jugling,And ladys gon so proud;Huggle Duggle, etc.
With that into the cityAway the Devil went;To view the merchants’ dealingsIt was his full intent:And there along the brave ExchangeHe crept into the croud.Huggle Duggle, etc.
He went into the cityTo see all there was well;Their scales were false, their weights were light,Their conscience fit for hell;AndPanderschosen magistrates,AndPuritansallow’d.Huggle Duggle, etc.
With that unto the countryAway the Devil goeth;For there is all plain dealing,For that the Devil knoweth:But the rich man reaps the gainsFor which the poor man plough’d.Huggle Duggle, etc.
With that the Devil in hasteTook post away to hell,And call’d his fellow furies,And told them all on earth was well:That falsehood there did flourish,Plain dealing was in a cloud.Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!The devils laugh’d aloud.
From a collection of Historical and State Poems, Satyrs, Songs, and Epigrams, by Ned Ward,A. D.1717.
Whatis a Whig? A cunning rogueThat once was in, now out of vogue:A rebel to the Church and throne,Of Lucifer the very spawn.
A tyrant, who is ne’er at restIn power, or when he’s dispossess’d;A knave, who foolishly has lostWhat so much blood and treasure cost.
A lying, bouncing desperado,A bomb, a stink-pot, a granado;That’s ready primed, and charged to break,And mischief do for mischief’s sake:
A comet, whose portending phizAppears more dreadful than it is;But now propitious stars repelThose ills it lastly did fortel.
’Twill burst with unregarded spight,And, since the Parliament proves right,Will turn to smoke, which shone of lateSo bright and flaming in the State.
From Ned Ward’s Works, vol. iv. 1709.
Whenowles are strip’d of their disguise,And wolves of shepherd’s cloathing,Those birds and beasts that please our eyesWill then beget our loathing;When foxes tremble in their holesAt dangers that they see,And those we think so wise prove fools,Then low, boys, down go we.
If those designs abortive proveWe’ve been so long in hatching,And cunning knaves are forced to moveFrom home for fear of catching;The rabble soon will change their toneWhen our intrigues they see,And cry God save the Church and Throne,Then low, boys, down go we.
The weaver then no more must leaveHis loom and turn a preacher,Nor with his cant poor fools deceiveTo make himself the richer.Our leaders soon would disappearIf such a change should be,Our scriblers too would stink for fear,Then low, boys, down go we.
No canvisars would dare to shewTheir postures and grimaces,Or proph’sy what they never knew,By dint of ugly faces.But shove the tumbler through the town,And quickly banish’d be,For none must teach without a gown,Then low, boys, down go we.
If such unhappy days should come,Our virtue, moderation,Would surely be repaid us homeWith double compensation;For as we never could forgive,I fear we then should seeThat what we lent we must receive,Then low, boys, down go we.
Should honest brethren once discernOur knaveries, they’d disown us,And bubbl’d fools more wit should learn,The Lord have mercy on us;Let’s guard against that evil day,Least such a time should be,And tackers should come into play,Then low, boys, down go we.
Tho’ hitherto we’ve play’d our partsLike wary cunning foxes,And gain’d the common people’s heartsBy broaching het’rodoxes,—But they’re as fickle as the winds,With nothing long agree,And when they change their wav’ring minds,Then low, boys, down go we.
Let’s preach and pray, but spit our gallOn those that do oppose us,And cant of grace, in spite of allThe shame the Devil owes us:The just, the loyal, and the wiseWith us shall Papists be,For if theHigh Churchonce should rise,Then,Low Church, down go we.
From a Collection of 180 Loyal Songs.Tune, “A Swearing we will go.”
Whowould not be a ToryWhen the loyal are call’d so:And a Whig now is knownTo be the nation’s foe?So a Tory I will be, will be,And a Tory I will be.
With little band precise,Hair Presbyterian cut,Whig turns up hands and eyesThough smoking hot from slut.So a Tory I will be, etc.
Black cap turn’d up with white,With wolfish neck and face,And mouth with nonsense stuft,Speaks Whig a man of grace,And a Tory I will be, etc.
The sisters go to meetingsTo meet their gallants there;And oft mistake for my Lord,And snivel out my dear.And a Tory I will be, etc.
Example, we do own,Than precept better is;For Creswell she was safe,When she lived a private Miss.And a Tory I will be, etc.
The Whigs, though ne’er so proud,Sometimes have been as low,For there are some of noteHave long a raree-show.And a Tory I will be, etc.
These mushrooms now have gotTheir champion turn-coat hick;But if the naked truth were knownThey’re assisted by old Nick.And a Tory I will be, etc.
To be and to be notAt once is in their power;For when they’re in, they’re guilty,But clear when out o’ the tower.And a Tory I will be, etc.
To carry their designs,Though ’t contradicts their sense;They’re clear a Whiggish traytorAgainst clear evidence.And a Tory I will be, etc.
The old proverb doth us tell,Each dog will have his day;And Whig has had his too,For which he’ll soundly pay;And a Tory I will be, etc.
For bodkins and for thimblesNow let your tubsters cant;Their confounded tired causeHad never yet more want.So a Tory I will be, etc.
For ignoramus ToneyHas left you in the lurch;And you have spent your money,So, faith, e’en come to Church;For a Tory I will be, etc.
They are of no religion,Be it spoken to their glories,For St Peter and St PaulWith them both are Tories;And a Tory I will be, etc.
They’re excellent contrivers,I wonder what they’re not,For something they can makeOf nothing and a plot.And a Tory I will be, etc.
But now your holy cheatIs known throughout the nation;And a Whig is known to beA thing quite out of fashion.And a Tory I will be, etc.
A popular ballad, written immediately after the restoration of Charles II.; and in which the victorious Cavaliers render honour to General Monk, Duke of Albemarle.
Tune, “Ye gallants that delight to play.”
Yemerry hearts that love to playAt cards, see who hath won the day;You that once did sadly singThe knave of clubs hath won the king;Now more happy times we have,The king hath overcome the knave.
Not long ago a game was play’d,When three crowns at the stakes were laid;England had no cause to boast,Knaves won that which kings had lost:Coaches gave the way to carts,And clubs were better cards than hearts.
Old Noll was the knave o’ clubs,And dad of such as preach in tubs;Bradshaw, Ireton, and PrideWere three other knaves beside;And they play’d with half the pack,Throwing out all cards but black.
But the just Fates threw these four out,Which made the loyal party shout;The Pope would fain have had the stock,And with these cards have whipt his dock.But soon the Devil these cards snatchesTo dip in brimstone, and make matches.
But still the sport for to maintain,Bold Lambert, Haslerigg, and Vane,With one-eyed Hewson, took their places,Knaves were better cards than aces;But Fleetwood he himself did save,Because he was more fool than knave.
Cromwell, though he so much had won,Yet he had an unlucky son;He sits still, and not regards,Whilst cunning gamesters set the cards;And thus, alas! poor silly Dick,He play’d awhile, and lost his trick.
The Rumpers that had won whole towns,The spoils of martyrs and of crowns,Were not contented, but grew rough,As though they had not won enough;They kept the cards still in their hands,To play for tithes and college lands.
The Presbyters began to fretThat they were like to lose the sett;Unto the Rump they did appeal,And said it was their turn to deal;Then dealt with Presbyterians, butThe army swore that they would cut.
The foreign lands began to wonder,To see what gallants we lived under,That they, which Christians did forswear,Should follow gaming all the year,—Nay more, which was the strangest thing,To play so long without a king.
The bold phanatics present were,Like butlers with their boxes there,Not doubting but that every gameSome profit would redound to them;Because they were the gamesters’ minions,And every day broach’d new opinions.
But Cheshire men (as stories say)Began to show them gamester’s play;Brave Booth and all his army strivesTo save the stakes, or lose their lives;But, oh sad fate! they were undoneBy playing of their cards too soon.
Thus all the while a club was trump,There’s none could ever beat the Rump,Until a noble general came,And gave the cheaters a clear slam;His finger did outwit their noddy,And screw’d up poor Jack Lambert’s body.
Then Haslerigg began to scowl,And said the general play’d foul.Look to him, partners, for I tell ye,This Monk has got a king in’s belly.Not so, quoth Monk, but I believeSir Arthur has a knave in’s sleeve.
When General Monk did understandThe Rump were peeping into’s hand,He wisely kept his cards from sight,Which put the Rump into a fright;He saw how many were betray’dThat show’d their cards before they play’d.
At length, quoth he, some cards we lack,I will not play with half a pack;What you cast out I will bring in,And a new game we will begin:With that the standers-by did sayThey never yet saw fairer play.
But presently this game was past,And for a second knaves were cast;All new cards, not stain’d with spots,As was the Rumpers and the Scots,—Here good gamesters play’d their partsAnd turn’d up the king of hearts.
After this game was done, I thinkThe standers-by had cause to drink,And all loyal subjects sing,Farewell knaves, and welcome King;For, till we saw the King return’d,We wish’d the cards had all been burn’d.
(March 25th, 1660.)—From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.
Frompardons which extend to woods,Entitle thieves to keep our goods,Forgive our rents as well as bloods,God bless, etc.
From judges who award that noneOf our oppressours should attone(The losses sure were not their own),God bless, etc.
From Christians which can soon forgetOur injuries, but not one bitOf self-concernment would remit,God bless, etc.
From duresse, and their dolefull tale,Who, famisht by a lawless sale,Compounded it for cakes and ale,God bless, etc.
From persons still to tread the stage,Who did the drudgeries of our age(Such counsells are, I fear, too sage),God bless, etc.
From maximes which (to make all sure)With great rewards the bad allure,’Cause of the good they are secure,God bless, etc.
From cunning gamesters, who, they say,Are sure to winne, what-e’re they play;In April Lambert, Charles in May,God bless, etc.
From neuters and their leven’d lump,Who name the King and mean the Rump,Or care not much what card is trump,God bless, etc.
From midnight-birds, who lye at catchSome plume from monarchy to snatch,And from fond youths that cannot watch,God bless, etc.
From brethren who must still dissent,Whose froward gospell brooks no Lent,And who recant, but ne’er repent,God bless, etc.
From Levites void of truth and shame,Who to the time their pulpits frame,And keep the style but change the name,God bless, etc.
From men by heynous crimes made rich,Who (though their hopes are in the ditch)Have still th’ old fornicatours itch,God bless, etc.
From such as freely paid th’ arrearsOf the State-troops for many years,But grudge one tax for Cavaleers,God bless, etc.
Acrownof gold without allay,Not here provided for one day,But framed above to last for aye!God send, etc.
A Queen to fill the empty place,And multiply his noble race,Wee all beseech the throne of graceTo send, etc.
A people still as true and kindAs late (when for their King they pin’d),Not fickle as the tide or wild,God send, etc.
A fleet like that in fifty-three,To re-assert our power at sea,And make proud Flemings bend their knee,God send, etc.
Full magazines and cash in store,That such as wrought his fate beforeMay hope to do the same no more,God send, etc.
A searching judgement to divine,Of persons whether they do joynFor love, for fear, or for design,God send, etc.
A well-complexion’d Parliament,That shall (like Englishmen) resentWhat loyall subjects underwent,God send, etc.
Review of statutes lately past,Made in such heat, pen’d in such hast,That all events were not forecast,God send, etc.
Dispatch of businesse, lawes upright,And favour where it stands with right,(Be their purses ne’er so light),God send, etc.
A raven to supply their need,Whose martyrdom (like noble seed)Sprung up at length and choak’t the weed,God send, etc.
The King and kingdom’s debts defray’d,And those of honest men well pay’d,To which their vertue them betray’d,God send, etc.
Increase of customes to the KingMay our increase of traffick bring,’Tis that will make the people singLong live, etc.
London, printed for Robert Crofts, at the Crown, in Chancery Lane, 1661.
This and the following ballad, from the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum, express the discontent of the Cavaliers at the ingratitude of King Charles to the old supporters of the fortunes of his family.—(March 15th, 1660.)
To the tune of “I tell thee, Dick.”
Come, Jack, let’s drink a pot of ale,And I shall tell thee such a taleWill make thine ears to ring;My coyne is spent, my time is lost,And I this only fruit can boast,That once I saw my King.
But this doth most afflict my mind:I went to Court in hope to findSome of my friends in place;And walking there, I had a sightOf all the crew, but, by this light!I hardly knew one face.
’S’life! of so many noble sparkes,Who on their bodies bear the markesOf their integritie;And suffer’d ruine of estate,It was my damn’d unhappy fateThat I not one could see.
Not one, upon my life, amongMy old acquaintance all alongAt Truro and before;And I suppose the place can showAs few of those whom thou didst knowAt Yorke or Marston-moore.
But truly there are swarmes of thoseWho lately were our chiefest foes,Of pantaloons and muffes;Whilst the old rusty CavaleerRetires, or dares not once appear,For want of coyne and cuffes.
When none of these I could descry,Who better far deserv’d then I,Calmely I did reflect;“Old services (by rule of State)Like almanacks grow out of date,—What then can I expect?”
Troth! in contempt of Fortune’s frown,I’ll get me fairly out of town,And in a cloyster pray;That since the starres are yet unkindTo Royalists, the King may findMore faithfull friends than they.
Imarvel, Dick, that having beenSo long abroad, and having seenThe world as thou hast done,Thou should’st acquaint mee with a taleAs old as Nestor, and as staleAs that of Priest and Nunne.[100]
Are we to learn what is a Court?A pageant made for fortune’s sport,Where merits scarce appear;For bashfull merit only dwellsIn camps, in villages, and cells;Alas! it dwells not there.
Desert is nice in its addresse,And merit ofttimes doth oppresseBeyond what guilt would do;But they are sure of their demandsThat come to Court with golden hands,And brazen faces, too.
The King, they say, doth still professeTo give his party some redresse,And cherish honestie;But his good wishes prove in vain,Whose service with his servants’ gainNot alwayes doth agree.
All princes (be they ne’er so wise)Are fain to see with others’ eyes,But seldom hear at all;And courtiers find their interestIn time to feather well their nest,Providing for their fall.
Our comfort doth on time depend,Things when they are at worst will mend;And let us but reflectOn our condition th’ other day,When none but tyrants bore the sway,What did we then expect?
Meanwhile a calm retreat is best,But discontent (if not supprest)Will breed disloyaltie;This is the constant note I sing,I have been faithful to the King,And so shall ever be.
London, printed for Robert Crofts, at the Crown, in Chancery Lane, 1661.
Of Ten grand infamous Traytors, who, for their horrid murder and detestable villany against our late soveraigne Lord King Charles the First, that ever blessed martyr, were arraigned, tryed, and executed in the moneth of October, 1660, which in perpetuity will be had in remembrance unto the world’s end.
This is one of the Six Ballads of the Restoration found in a trunk, and sent by Sir W. C. Trevelyan to the British Museum. “No measure threw more disgrace on the Restoration,” says Mr Wright, “than the prosecution of the regicides; and the heartless and sanguinary manner in which it was conducted tended more than any other circumstance to open the eyes of the people to the real character of the government to which they had been betrayed.” Pepys observes on the 20th Oct., “A bloody week this and the last have been; there being ten hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
The tune is “Come let us drinke, the time invites.”
Heethat can impose a thing,And shew forth a reasonFor what was done against the King,From the palace to the prison;Let him here with me recite,For my pen is bent to writeThe horrid facts of treason.
Since there is no learned scribeNor arithmaticionEver able to decideThe usurp’d base ambition,Which in truth I shall declare,Traytors here which lately were,Who wanted a phisitian.
For the grand disease that bredNature could not weane it;From the foot unto the head,Was putrefacted treason in it;Doctors could no cure give,Which made the squire then beleeveThat he must first begin it.
And the phisick did compose,Within a pound of reason;First to take away the cause,Then to purge away the treason,With a dosse of hemp made up,Wrought as thickly as a rope,And given them in due season.
The doctors did prescribe at lastTo give ’um this potation,A vomit or a single cast,Well deserved, in purgation;After that to lay them downe,And bleed a veine in every one,As traytors of the nation.
So when first the physicke wrought,The thirteenth of October,[101]The patient on a sledge was brought,Like a rebell and a rover,To the execution tree;Where with much dexterityWas gently turned over.
To the same tune.
Mondaywas the fifteenth day,As Carew then did follow,[102]Of whom all men I thinke might sayIn tyranny did deeply wallow;Traytor proved unto the King,Which made him on the gallowes swing,And all the people hallow.
Tuesday, after Peters, Cooke,[103]Two notorious traytors,That brought our soveraigne to the blocke,For which were hang’d and cut in quarters;’Twas Cooke which wrought the bloody thingTo draw the charge against our King,That ever blessed martyr.
Next, on Wednesday, foure came,For murthur all imputed,There to answer for the same,Which in judgement were confuted.Gregorie Clement, Jones, and Scot,And Scroop together, for a plot,[104]Likewise were executed.
Thursday past, and Friday then,To end the full conclusion,And make the traytors just up ten,That day were brought to execution,Hacker and proud Axtell he,[105]At Tyburne for their treacheryReceived their absolution.
Being against the King and States,The Commons all condemn’d ’um,And their quarters on the gatesHangeth for a memorandum’Twixt the heavens and the earth;Traytors are so little worth,To dust and smoake wee’l send ’um.
Let now October warning makeTo bloody-minded traytors,That never phisicke more they take,For in this moneth they lost their quarters;Being so against the King,Which to murther they did bring,The ever blessed martyr.
London, printed for Fr. Coles, T. Vere, M. Wright, and W. Gilbertson.
Or, King and peoples happinesse. Being a brief relation of King Charles’s royall progresse from Dover to London, how the Lord Generall and the Lord Mayor, with all the nobility and gentry of the land, brought him thorow the famous city of London to his pallace at Westminster, the 29th of May last, being his Majesties birth-day, to the great comfort of his loyall subjects.
One of the six curious broadsides found by Sir W. C. Trevelyan in the lining of a trunk, and now in the British Museum.
The new Parliament met on the twenty-fifth of April, and on the first of May the King’s letter from Breda was read, and the Restoration determined by a vote of the House. The King immediately repaired to the coast, and, after meeting with some obstruction from the roughness of the weather, went onboard theNazebyon the 23rd of May. On the 25th he landed at Dover. He made his entry into London on the 29th.
To the tune of “When the King enjoys his own again.”
Where’sthose that did prognosticate,And did envy fair England’s state,And said King Charles no more should reign?Their predictions were but in vain,For the King is now return’d,For whom fair England mourn’d;His nobles royally him entertain.Now blessed be the day!Thus do his subjects say,That God hath brought him home again.
The twenty-second of lovely MayAt Dover arrived, fame doth say,Where our most noble generallDid on his knees before him fall,Craving to kiss his hand,So soon as he did land.Royally they did him entertain,With all their pow’r and might,To bring him to his right,And place him in his own again.
Then the King, I understand,Did kindly take him by the handAnd lovingly did him embrace,Rejoycing for to see his face.Hee lift him from the groundWith joy that did abound,And graciously did him entertain;Rejoycing that once moreHe was o’ th’ English shore,To enjoy his own in peace again.
From Dover to Canterbury they past,And so to Cobham-hall at last;From thence to London march amain,With a triumphant and glorious train,Where he was received with joy,His sorrow to destroy,In England once more for to raign;Now all men do sing,God save Charles our King,That now enjoyes his own again.
At Deptford the maidens theyStood all in white by the high-wayTheir loyalty to Charles to show,They with sweet flowers his way to strew.Each wore a ribbin blew,They were of comely hue,With joy they did him entertain,With acclamations to the skyeAs the King passed by,For joy that he receives his own again.
In Wallworth-fields a gallant bandOf London ’prentices did stand,All in white dublets very gay,To entertain King Charles that day,With muskets, swords, and pike;I never saw the like,Nor a more youthfull gallant train;They up their hats did fling,And cry, “God save the King!Now he enjoys his own again.”
At Newington-Buts the Lord Mayor willedA famous booth for to be builded,Where King Charles did make a stand,And received the sword into his hand;Which his Majesty did take,And then returned backUnto the Mayor with love again.A banquet they him make,He doth thereof partake,Then marcht his triumphant train.
The King with all his noblemen,Through Southwark they marched then;First marched Major Generall Brown,[106]Then Norwich Earle of great renown,[107]With many a valiant knightAnd gallant men of might,Richly attired, marching amain,There Lords Mordin, Gerard, andThe good Earle of Cleavland,[108]To bring the King to his own again.
Near sixty flags and streamers thenWas born before a thousand men,In plush coats and chaines of gold,These were most rich for to behold;With every man his page,The glory of his age;With courage bold they marcht amain,Then with gladnesse theyBrought the King on his wayFor to enjoy his own again.
Then Lichfields and Darbyes Earles,[109]Two of fair England’s royall pearles;Major Generall Massey thenCommanded the life guard of men,The King for to defend,If any should contend,Or seem his comming to restrain;But also joyfull wereThat no such durst appear,Now the King enjoyes his own again.
Four rich maces before them went,And many heralds well content;The Lord Mayor and the generallDid march before the King withall.His brothers on each sideAlong by him did ride;The Southwark-waits did play amain,Which made them all to smileAnd to stand still awhile,And then they marched on again.
Then with drawn swords all men did side,And flourishing the same, then cryed,“Charles the Second now God save,That he his lawfull right may have!And we all on him attend,From dangers him to defend,And all that with him doth remain.Blessed be God that weDid live these days to see,That the King enjoyes his own again!”
The bells likewise did loudly ring,Bonefires did burn and people sing;London conduits did run with wine,And all men do to Charles incline;Hoping now that allUnto their trades may fall,Their famylies for to maintain,And from wrong be free,’Cause we have liv’d to seeThe King enjoy his own again.
London, printed for Charles Tyns, on London Bridge.
The Noble Progresse, or a True Relation of the Lord General Monk’s Political Proceedings with the Rump, the calling in the secluded Members, their transcendant vote for his sacred Majesty, with his reception at Dover, and royal conduct through the City of London to his famous Palace at Whitehall. One of the broadsides in the British Museum, found in the lining of an old trunk by Sir W. C. Trevelyan.
Tune—“When first the Scottish wars began.”
Goodpeople, hearken to my call,I’le tell you all what did befallAnd hapned of late;Our noble valiant General MonkCame to the Rump, who lately stunkWith their council of state.Admiring what this man would doe,His secret mind there’s none could know,They div’d into him as much as they could,—George would not be won with their silver nor gold:The sectarian saints at this lookt blew,With all the rest of the factious crew,They vapour’d awhile, and were in good hope,But now they have nothing left but the rope.
Another invention then they sought,Which long they wrought for to be broughtTo claspe him with they;Quoth Vane and Scot, I’le tell you what,Wee’l have a plot and he shall not,Wee’l carry the sway:Let’s vote him a thousand pound a yeare,And Hampton Court for him and his Heire.Indeed, quoth George, ye’re Free Parliament menTo cut a thong out of another man’s skin.The sectarian, etc.
They sent him then with all his hostsTo break our posts and raise our ghosts,Which was their intent;To cut our gates and chain all downeUnto the ground—this trick they foundTo make him be shent:This plot the Rump did so accordTo cast an odium on my lord,But in the task he was hard put untoo’t,’Twas enough to infect both his horse and his foot,The sectarian, etc.
But when my lord perceived that nightWhat was their spight, he brought to lightTheir knaveries all;This Parliament of forty-eight,Which long did wait, came to him straight,To give them a fall,And some phanatical people knewThat George would give them their fatall due;Indeed he did requite them agen,For he pul’d the Monster out of his den.The sectarian, etc.
To the House our worthy ParliamentWith good intent they boldly wentTo vote home the King,And many hundred people moreStood at the doore, and waited forGood tidings to bring;Yet some in the House had their hands much in blood,And in great opposition like traytors they stood;But yet I believe it is very well knownThat those that were for him were twenty to one.But the sectarian, etc.
They call’d the League and Covenant inTo read again to every man;But what comes next?All sequestrations null be void,The people said none should be paid,For this was the text.For, as I heard all the people say,They voted King Charles the first of May;Bonfires burning, bells did ring,And our streets did echo with God bless ye King.At this the sectarian, etc.
Our general then to Dover goes,In spite of foes or deadly blowes,Saying Vive le Roy;And all the glories of the land,At his command they there did standIn triumph and joy.Good Lord, what a sumptuous sight ’twas to seeOur good Lord General fall on his kneeTo welcome home his Majestie,And own his sacred sovereignty.But the sectarian, etc.
When all the worthy noble trainCame back again with Charlemain,Our sovereign great:The Lord Mayor in his scarlet gown,His chain so long, went through the townIn pompe and state.The livery-men each line the wayUpon this great triumphant day;Five rich maces carried before,And my Lord himselfe the sword he bore.Then Vive le Roy the gentry did sing,For General Monk rode next to the King;With acclamations, shouts, and cryes,I thought they would have rent the skyes.
The conduits, ravished with joy,As I may say, did run all dayGreat plenty of wine;And every gentleman of noteIn’s velvet coat that could be gotIn glory did shine.There were all the peeres and barrons bold,Richly clad in silver and gold,Marched through the street so brave,No greater pompe a king could have.At this, the sacristan, etc.
And thus conducted all alongThroughout the throng, still he did comeUnto White Hall;Attended by those noble-men,Bold heroes’ kin that brought him inWith the geneall;Who was the man that brought him homeAnd placed him on his royal throne;—’Twas General Monk did doe the thing,So God preserve our gracious King,Now the sacristan, etc.