From the King’s pamphlets, British Museum. Satires in the form of a litany were common from 1646 to 1746, and even later.
Froman extempore prayer and a godly ditty,From the churlish government of a city,From the power of a country committee,Libera nos, Domine.
From the Turk, the Pope, and the Scottish nation,From being govern’d by proclamation,And from an old Protestant, quite out of fashion,Libera, etc.
From meddling with those that are out of our reaches,From a fighting priest, and a soldier that preaches,From an ignoramus that writes, and a woman that teaches,Libera, etc.
From the doctrine of deposing of a king,From theDirectory,[2]or any such thing,From a fine new marriage without a ring,Libera, etc.
From a city that yields at the first summons,From plundering goods, either man or woman’s,Or having to do with the House of Commons,Libera, etc.
From a stumbling horse that tumbles o’er and o’er,From ushering a lady, or walking before,From an English-Irish rebel, newly come o’er,[3]Libera, etc.
From compounding, or hanging in a silken altar,From oaths and covenants, and being pounded in a mortar,From contributions, or free-quarter,Libera, etc.
From mouldy bread, and musty beer,From a holiday’s fast, and a Friday’s cheer,From a brother-hood, and a she-cavalier,Libera, etc.
From Nick Neuter, for you, and for you,From Thomas Turn-coat, that will never prove true,From a reverend Rabbi that’s worse than a Jew,Libera, etc.
From a country justice that still looks big,From swallowing up the Italian fig,Or learning of the Scottish jig,Libera, etc.
From being taken in a disguise,From believing of the printed lies,From the Devil and from the Excise,[4]Libera, etc.
From a broken pate with a pint pot,For fighting for I know not what,And from a friend as false as a Scot,Libera, etc.
From one that speaks no sense, yet talks all that he can,From an old woman and a Parliament man,From an Anabaptist and a Presbyter man,Libera, etc.
From Irish rebels and Welsh hubbub-men,From Independents and their tub-men,From sheriffs’ bailiffs, and their club-men,Libera, etc.
From one that cares not what he saith,From trusting one that never payeth,From a private preacher and a public faith,Libera, etc.
From a vapouring horse and a Roundhead in buff,From roaring Jack Cavee, with money little enough,From beads and such idolatrous stuff,Libera, etc.
From holydays, and all that’s holy,From May-poles and fiddlers, and all that’s jollyFrom Latin or learning, since that is folly,Libera, etc.
And now to make an end of all,I wish the Roundheads had a fall,Or else were hanged in Goldsmith’s Hall.Amen.
Benedicat Dominus.
Against all sectariesAnd their defendants,Both PresbyteriansAnd Independents.
Mr Walter Wilkins, in his Political Ballads of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, says, the imprint of this broadsideintimates that it was published in “the year of Hope, 1647,” and Thomson, the collector, added the precise date, the 7th of September.
Thatthou wilt be pleased to grant our requests,And quite destroy all the vipers’ nests,That England and her true religion molests,Te rogamus audi nos.
That thou wilt be pleased to censure with pityThe present estate of our once famous city;Let her still be govern’d by men just and witty,Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased to consider the Tower,And all other prisons in the Parliament’s power,Where King Charles his friends find their welcome but sour,Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased to look on the griefOf the King’s old servants, and send them relief,Restore to the yeomen o’ th’ Guard chines of beef,Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased very quickly to bringUnto his just rights our so much-wrong’d King,That he may be happy in everything,Te rogamus, etc.
That Whitehall may shine in its pristine lustre,That the Parliament may make a general muster,That knaves may be punish’d by men who are juster,Te rogamus, etc.
That now the dog-days are fully expired,That those cursed curs, which our patience have tired,May suffer what is by true justice required,Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased to incline conquering Thomas(Who now hath both city and Tower gotten from us),That he may be just in performing his promise,Te rogamus, etc.
That our hopeful Prince and our gracious Queen(Whom we here in England long time have not seen)May soon be restored to what they have been,Te rogamus, etc.
That the rest of the royal issue may beFrom their Parliamentary guardians set free,And be kept according to their high degree,Te rogamus, etc.
That our ancient Liturgy may be restored,That the organs (by sectaries so much abhorr’d)May sound divine praises, according to the word,Te rogamus, etc.
That the ring in marriage, the cross at the font,Which the devil and the Roundheads so much affront,May be used again, as before they were wont,Te rogamus, etc.
That Episcopacy, used in its right kind,In England once more entertainment may find,That Scots and lewd factions may go down the wind,Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt be pleased again to restoreAll things in due order, as they were before,That the Church and the State may be vex’d no more,Te rogamus, etc.
That all the King’s friends may enjoy their estates,And not be kept, as they have been, at low rates,That the poor may find comfort again at their gates,Te rogamus, etc.
That thou wilt all our oppressions remove,And grant us firm faith and hope, join’d with true love,Convert or confound all which virtue reprove,Te rogamus, etc.
That all peevish sects that would live uncontroll’d,And will not be govern’d, as all subjects should,To New England may pack, or live quiet i’ th’ Old,Te rogamus, etc.
That gracious King Charles, with his children and wife,Who long time have suffer’d through this civil strife,May end with high honour their natural life,Te rogamus, etc.
That they who have seized on honest men’s treasure,Only for their loyalty to God and to Cæsar,May in time convenient find measure for measure,Te rogamus, etc.
That thou all these blessings upon us wilt send,We are noIndependents, on Thee we depend,And as we believe, from all harm us defend;Te rogamus, etc.
From a collection of songs, 1640 to 1660. It is also to be found in the additional MSS., No. 11, 608, p. 54, in the collection in the British Museum. It was sung to the air of Love lies bleeding,—and was, says Mr Chappell, “the God save the King” of Charles I., Charles II., and James II.
Whatthough the zealots pull down the prelates,Push at the pulpit, and kick at the crown,Shall we not never once more endeavour,Strive to purchase our royall renown?Shall not the Roundhead first be confounded?Sa, sa, sa, say, boys, ha, ha, ha, ha, boys,Then we’ll return with triumph and joy.Then we’ll be merry, drink white wine and sherry,Then we will sing, boys, God bless the King, boys,Cast up our caps, and cry,Vive le Roy.
What though the wise make Alderman IsaacPut us in prison and steal our estates,Though we be forced to be unhorsed,And walk on foot as it pleaseth the fates;In the King’s army no man shall harm ye.Then come along, boys, valiant and strong, boys,Fight for your goods, which the Roundheads enjoy;And when you venture London to enter,And when you come, boys, with fife and drum, boys,Isaac himself shall cry,Vive le Roy.
If you will choose them, do not refuse them,Since honest Parliament never made thieves,Charles will not further have rogues dipt in murder,Neither by leases, long lives, nor reprieves.’Tis the conditions and propositionsWill not be granted, then be not daunted,We will our honest old customs enjoy;Paul’s not rejected, will be respected,And in the quier voices rise higher,Thanks to the heavens, and (cry),Vive le Roy.
By Samuel Butler. From his Posthumous Works. A somewhat different version appears in Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time.
Hethat is a clearCavalierWill not repine,AlthoughHis pocket growSo very lowHe cannot get wine.
Fortune is a lassWill embrace,But soon destroy;Born free,In libertyWe’ll always be,SingingVive le Roy.
Virtue is its own reward,And Fortune is a whore;There’s none but knaves and fools regard her,Or her power implore.But he that is a trustyRoger,And will serve the King;Altho’ he be a tatter’d soldier,Yet may skip and sing:Whilst we that fight for love,May in the way of honour proveThat they who make sport of usMay come short of us;Fate will flatter them,And will scatter them;Whilst our loyaltyLooks upon royalty,We that live peacefully,May be successfullyCrown’d with a crown at last.
Tho’ a real honest manMay be quite undone,He’ll show his allegiance,Love, and obedience;Those will raise him up,Honour stays him up,Virtue keeps him up,And we praise him up.Whilst the vain courtiers dine,With their bottles full of wine,Honour will make him fast.Freely thenLet’s be honest menAnd kick at fate,For we may live to seeOur loyaltyValued at a higher rate.He that bears a swordOr a word against the throne,And does profanely prateTo abuse the state,Hath no kindness for his own.
What tho’ painted plumes and prayersAre the prosp’rous men,Yet we’ll attend our own affairs’Till they come to ’t agen;Treachery may be faced with light,And letchery lined with furr;A cuckold may be made a knight,SingFortune de la Guerre.But what’s that to us, brave boys,That are right honest men?We’ll conquer and come again,Beat up the drum again;Hey forCavaliers,Hoe forCavaliers,Drink forCavaliers,Fight forCavaliers,Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub,Have at OldBeelzebub,Oliverstinks for fear.
Fifth Monarchy-menmust down, boys,With bulleys of every sect in town, boys;We’ll rally and to ’t again,Give ’em the rout again;Fly like light about,Face to the right-about,Charge them home againWhen they come on again;Sing Tantara rara,boys,Tantara rara,boys,This is the life of an Old Cavalier.
From the Posthumous Works of Samuel Butler.
Icometo charge yeThat fight the clergy,And pull the mitre from the prelate’s head,That you will be waryLest you miscarryIn all those factious humours you have bred;But as forBrownistswe’ll have none,But take them all and hang them one by one.
Your wicked actionsJoin’d in factionsAre all but aims to rob the King of his due;Then give this reasonFor your treason,That you’ll be ruled, if he’ll be ruled by you.Then leave these factions, zealous brother,Lest you be hanged one against another.
This song, says Mr Chappell, in his Popular Music of the Olden Time, which describes with some humour the taste of the Puritans, might pass for a Puritan song, if it were not contained in the “Shepherds’ Oracles,” by Francis Quarles, 1646. He was cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I., and afterwards chronologer to the city of London. He died in 1644, and his Shepherds’ Oracles were a posthumous publication. It was often reprinted during the Restoration, and reproduced and slightly altered by Thomas Durfey, in his “Pills to Purge Melancholy,” where the burthen is, “Hey, boys, up go we.”
Knowthis, my brethren, heaven is clear,And all the clouds are gone;The righteous man shall flourish now,Good days are coming on.Then come, my brethren, and be glad,And eke rejoyce with me;Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down,And hey, then, up go we.
We’ll break the windows which the whoreOf Babylon hath painted,And when the popish saints are downThen Barrow shall be sainted;There’s neither cross nor crucifixShall stand for men to see,Rome’s trash and trumpery shall go down,And hey, then, up go we.
Whate’er the Popish hands have builtOur hammers shall undo;We’ll break their pipes and burn their copes,And pull down churches too;We’ll exercise within the groves,And teach beneath a tree;We’ll make a pulpit of a cask,And hey, then, up go we.
We’ll put down Universities,Where learning is profest,Because they practise and maintainThe language of the Beast;We’ll drive the doctors out of doors,And all that learned be;We’ll cry all arts and learning down,And hey, then, up go we.
We’ll down with deans and prebends, too,And I rejoyce to tell yeWe then shall get our fill of pig,And capons for the belly.We’ll burn the Fathers’ weighty tomes,And make the School-men flee;We’ll down with all that smells of wit,And hey, then, up go we.
If once the Antichristian crewBe crush’d and overthrown,We’ll teach the nobles how to stoop,And keep the gentry down:Good manners have an ill report,And turn to pride, we see,We’ll therefore put good manners down,And hey, then, up go we.
The name of lords shall be abhorr’d,For every man’s a brother;No reason why in Church and StateOne man should rule another;But when the change of governmentShall set our fingers free,We’ll make these wanton sisters stoop,And hey, then, up go we.
What though the King and ParliamentDo not accord together,We have more cause to be content,This is our sunshine weather:For if that reason should take place,And they should once agree,Who would be in a Roundhead’s case,For hey, then, up go we.
What should we do, then, in this case?Let’s put it to a venture;If that we hold out seven years’ spaceWe’ll sue out our indenture.A time may come to make us rue,And time may set us free,Except the gallows claim his due,And hey, then, up go we.
To the air of “Hey, then, up go we.”From a Collection of Loyal Songs written against the Rump Parliament.
Fighton, brave soldiers, for the cause,Fear not the Cavaliers;Their threat’nings are as senseless asOur jealousies and fears.Tis you must perfect this great work,And all malignants slay;You must bring back the King againThe clean contrary way.
’Tis for religion that you fight,And for the kingdom’s good;By robbing churches, plundering them,And shedding guiltless blood.Down with the orthodoxal train,All loyal subjects slay;When these are gone, we shall be blestThe clean contrary way.
WhenCharleswe have made bankrupt,Of power and crown bereft him,And all his loyal subjects slain,And none but rebels left him;When we have beggar’d all the land,And sent our trunks away,We’ll make him then a glorious princeThe clean contrary way.
’Tis to preserve his MajestyThat we against him fight,Nor ever are we beaten back,Because our cause is right:If any make a scruple atOur Declarations, say,—Who fight for us, fight for the KingThe clean contrary way.
AtKeinton,Brainsford,Plymouth,York,And divers places more,What victories we saints obtain,The like ne’er seen before:How often we PrinceRupertkill’d,And bravely won the day,The wicked Cavaliers did runThe clean contrary way.
The true religion we maintain,The kingdom’s peace and plenty;The privilege of ParliamentNot known to one and twenty;The ancient fundamental laws,And teach men to obeyTheir lawful sovereign, and all theseThe clean contrary way.
We subjects’ liberties preserveBy imprisonment and plunder,And do enrich ourselves and stateBy keeping th’ wicked under.We must preserve mechanicks nowTo lectorize and pray;By them the gospel is advancedThe clean contrary way.
And though the King be much misledBy that malignant crew,He’ll find us honest at the last,Give all of us our due.For we do wisely plot, and plotRebellion to alloy,He sees we stand for peace and truthThe clean contrary way.
The publick faith shall save our soulsAnd our good works together;And ships shall save our lives, that stayOnly for wind and weather:But when our faith and works fall downAnd all our hopes decay,Our acts will bear us up to heavenThe clean contrary way.
A well-known song from Hogg’s Jacobite Relics; and popular among the Cavaliers both of England and Scotland in the days of the Commonwealth. It was usually sung to a psalm tune; the singers imitating the style and manner of a precentor at a Presbyterian church.
Therewas a Cameronian catWas hunting for a prey,And in the house she catch’d a mouseUpon the Sabbath-day.
The Whig, being offendedAt such an act profane,Laid by his book, the cat he took,And bound her in a chain.
Thou damn’d, thou cursed creature,This deed so dark with thee,Think’st thou to bring to hell belowMy holy wife and me?
Assure thyself that for the deedThou blood for blood shalt pay,For killing of the Lord’s own mouseUpon the Sabbath-day.
The presbyter laid by the book,And earnestly he pray’dThat the great sin the cat had doneMight not on him be laid.
And straight to executionPoor pussy she was drawn,And high hang’d up upon a tree—The preacher sung a psalm.
And when the work was ended,They thought the cat near dead,She gave a paw, and then a mew,And stretched out her head.
Thy name, said he, shall certainlyA beacon still remain,A terror unto evil onesFor evermore, Amen.
A Loyall Song of the Royall Feast kept by the Prisoners in the Towre, August last, with the Names, Titles, and Characters of every Prisoner. By Sir F. W., Knight and Baronet, Prisoner. (Sept. 16th, 1647.)
“In the negotiations between the King and the Parliament during the summer and autumn of this year,” says Mr Thomas Wright in his Political Ballads of the Commonwealth, published for the Percy Society, “the case of the royalist prisoners in the Tower was frequently brought into question. The latter seized the occasion of complaining against the rigours (complaints apparently exaggerated) which were exerted against them, and on the 16th June, 1647, was published ‘A True Relation of the cruell and unparallel’d Oppression which hath been illegally imposed upon the Gentlemen Prisoners in the Tower of London.’ The several petitions contained in this tract have the signatures of Francis Howard, Henry Bedingfield, Walter Blount, Giles Strangwaies, Francis Butler, Henry Vaughan, Thomas Lunsford, Richard Gibson, Tho. Violet, John Morley, Francis Wortley, Edw. Bishop, John Hewet, Wingfield Bodenham, Henry Warren, W. Morton, John Slaughter, Gilbert Swinhow.”
On the 19th of August (according to theModerate Intelligencerof that date) the King sent to the royal prisoners in the Tower two fat bucks for a feast. This circumstance was the origin of the present ballad. It was written by Sir Francis Wortley, one of the prisoners. This ballad, as we learn by the concluding lines, was to be sung to the popular tune of “Chevy Chace.”
Godsave the best of kings, King Charles!The best of queens, Queen Mary!The ladies all, Gloster and Yorke,Prince Charles, so like old harry![5]
God send the King his own again,His towre and all his coyners!And blesse all kings who are to reigne,From traytors and purloyners!The King sent us poor traytors here(But you may guesse the reason)Two brace of bucks to mend the cheere,Is’t not to eat them treason?
Let Selden search Cotton’s records,And Rowley in the Towre,They cannot match the president,It is not in their power.Old Collet would have joy’d to ’ve seenThis president recorded;For all the papers he ere sawScarce such an one afforded.The King sent us, etc.
But that you may these traytors know,I’ll be so bold to name them;That if they ever traytors proveThen this record may shame them:But these are well-try’d loyal blades(If England ere had any),Search both the Houses through and throughYou’ld scarcely finde so many.The King sent us, etc.
The first and chiefe a marquesse[6]is,Long with the State did wrestle;Had Ogle[7]done as much as he,Th’ad spoyl’d Will Waller’s castle.Ogle had wealth and title got,So layd down his commissions;The noble marquesse would not yield,But scorn’d all base conditions.The King sent us, etc.
The next a worthy bishop[8]is,Of schismaticks was hated;But I the cause could never know,Nor see the reason stated.The cryes were loud, God knowes the cause,They had a strange committee,Which was a-foot well neere a yeare,Who would have had small pitty.The King sent us, etc.
The next to him is a Welsh Judge,[9]Durst tell them what was treason;Old honest David durst be goodWhen it was out of season;He durst discover all the tricksThe lawyers use, and knavery,And show the subtile plots they useTo enthrall us into slavery.The King sent us, etc.
Frank Wortley[10]hath a jovial soule,Yet never was good club-man;He’s for the bishops and the church,But can endure no tub-man.He told Sir Thomas in the Towre,Though he by him was undone,It pleased him that he lost more menIn taking him then London.The King sent us, etc.
Sir Edward Hayles[11]was wond’rous rich,No flower in Kent yields honeyIn more abundance to the beeThen they from him suck money;Yet hee’s as chearfull as the best—Judge Jenkins sees no reasonThat honest men for wealth should beAccused of high treason.The King sent us, etc.
Old Sir George Strangways[12]he came in,Though he himself submitted,Yet as a traytor he must beExcepted and committed:Yet they th’ exception now take off,But not the sequestrations,Hee must forsooth to Goldsmith’s-hall,The place of desolation.The King sent us, etc.
Honest Sir Berr’s a reall man,As ere was lapt in leather;But he (God blesse us) loves the King,And therefore was sent hither.He durst be sheriff, and durst makeThe Parliament acquaintedWhat he intended for to doe,And for this was attainted.The King sent us, etc.
Sir Benefield,[13]Sir Walter Blunt,Are Romishly affected,So’s honest Frank of Howard’s race,And slaughter is suspected.[14]But how the devill comes this about,That Papists are so loyall,And those that call themselves God’s saintsLike devils do destroy all?The King sent us, etc.
Jack Hewet[15]will have wholesome meat,And drink good wine, if any;His entertainment’s free and neat,His choyce of friends not many;Jack is a loyall-hearted man,Well parted and a scholar;He’ll grumble if things please him not,But never grows to choller.The King sent us, etc.
Gallant Sir Thomas,[16]bold and stout(Brave Lunsford), children eateth;But he takes care, where he eats one,There he a hundred getteth;When Harlow’s wife brings her long bills,He wishes she were blinded;When shee speaks loud, as loud he swearsThe woman’s earthly-minded.The King sent us, etc.
Sir Lewis[17]hath an able pen,Can cudgell a committee;He makes them doe him reason, thoughThey others do not pitty.Brave Cleaveland had a willing minde,Frank Wortley was not able,But Lewis got foure pound per weekeFor’s children and his table.The King sent us, etc.
Giles Strangwayes[18]has a gallant soul,A brain infatigable;What study he ere undertakesTo master it hee’s able:He studies on his theoremes,And logarithmes for number;He loves to speake of Lewis Dives,[19]And they are ne’er asunder.The King sent us, etc.
Sir John Marlow’s[20]a loyall man(If England ere bred any),He bang’d the pedlar back and side,Of Scots he killed many.Had General King[21]done what he should,And given the blew-caps battail,Wee’d make them all run into TweedBy droves, like sommer cattell.The King sent us, etc.
Will Morton’s[22]of that Cardinal’s race,Who made that blessed maryage;He is most loyall to his King,In action, word, and carryage;His sword and pen defends the cause,If King Charles thinke not on him,Will is amongst the rest undone,—The Lord have mercy on him!The King sent us, etc.
Tom Conisby[23]is stout and stern,Yet of a sweet condition;To them he loves his crime was great,He read the King’s commission,And required Cranborn to assist;He charged, but should have pray’d him;Tom was so bold he did requireAll for the King should aid him.The King sent us, etc.
But I Win. Bodnam[24]had forgot,Had suffer’d so much hardship;There’s no man in the Towre had leftThe King so young a wardship;He’s firme both to the church and crowne,The crown law and the canon;The Houses put him to his shifts,And his wife’s father Mammon.The King sent us, etc.
Sir Henry Vaughan[25]looks as graveAs any beard can make him;Those come poore prisoners for to seeDoe for our patriarke take him.Old Harry is a right true-blue,As valiant as Pendraggon;And would be loyall to his King,Had King Charles ne’er a rag on.The King sent us, etc.
John Lilburne[26]is a stirring blade,And understands the matter;He neither will king, bishops, lords,Nor th’ House of Commons flatter:John loves no power prerogative,But that derived from Sion;As for the mitre and the crown,Those two he looks awry on.The King sent us, etc.
Tom Violet[27]swears his injuriesAre scarcely to be numbred;He was close prisoner to the StateThese score dayes and nine hundred;For Tom does set down all the dayes,And hopes he has good debters;’Twould be no treason (Jenkin sayes)To bring them peaceful letters.The King sent us, etc.
Poore Hudson[28]of all was the last,For it was his disaster,He met a turncoat swore that heWas once King Charles his master;So he to London soon was brought,But came in such a season,Their martial court was then cry’d down,They could not try his treason.The king sent us, etc.
Else Hudson had gone to the pot,Who is he can abide him?For he was master to the King,And (which is more) did guide him.Had Hudson done (as Judas did),Most loyally betray’d him,The Houses are so noble, theyAs bravely would have paid him.The King sent us, etc.
We’ll then conclude with hearty healthsTo King Charles and Queen Mary;To the black lad in buff (the Prince),So like his grandsire Harry;To York, to Glo’ster; may we notSend Turk and Pope defiance,Since we such gallant seconds haveTo strengthen our alliance?Wee’l drink them o’re and o’re again,Else we’re unthankfull creatures;Since Charles, the wise, the valiant King,Takes us for loyall traytors.
This if you will rhyme dogrell call,(That you please you may name it,)One of the loyal traytors hereDid for a ballad frame it:Old Chevy Chace was in his minde;If any suit it better,All those concerned in the songWill kindly thank the setter.
Charles I., after his surrender to the English Commissioners by the Scotch, was conveyed to Holmby House, Northamptonshire, 16th February, 1647.
Holdout, brave Charles, and thou shaft win the field;Thou canst not lose thyself, unless thou yieldOn such conditions as will force thy handTo give away thy sceptre, crown, and land.And what is worse, to hazard by thy fall,To lose a greater crown, more worth than all.
Thy poor distressed Cavaliers rejoycedTo hear thy royal resolution voiced,And are content far more poor to beThan yet they are, so it reflects from thee.Thou art our sovereign still, in spite of hate;Our zeal is to thyperson, not thystate.
We are not so ambitious to desireOur drooping fortunes to be mounted higher,And thou so great a monarch, to our grief,Must sue unto thy subjects for relief:And when they sit and long debate about it,Must either stay their time, or go without it.
No, sacred prince, thy friends esteem thee moreIn thy distresses than ere they did before;And though their wings be clipt, their wishes flyTo heaven by millions, for a fresh supply.That as thy cause was so betray’d bymen,It may byangelsbe restored agen.
OR
The city courting their own ruin,Thank the Parliament twice for their treble undoing.
The city courting their own ruin,Thank the Parliament twice for their treble undoing.
A street ballad. From a broadside, 1647.
Thehierarchy is out of date,Our monarchy was sick of late,But now ’tis grown an excellent state:Oh, God a-mercy, Parliament!
The teachers knew not what to say,The ’prentices have leave to play,The people have all forgotten to pray;Still, God a-mercy, Parliament!
The Roundhead and the CavalierHave fought it out almost seven year,And yet, methinks, they are never the near:Oh, God, etc.
The gentry are sequester’d all;Our wives you find at Goldsmith Hall,For there they meet with the devil and all;Still, God, etc.
The Parliament are grown to that heightThey care not a pin what his Majesty saith;And they pay all their debts with the public faith.Oh, God, etc.
Though all we have here is brought to nought,In Ireland we have whole lordships bought,There we shall one day be rich, ’tis thought:Still, God, etc.
We must forsake our father and mother,And for the State undo our own brotherAnd never leave murthering one another:Oh, God, etc.
Now the King is caught and the devil is dead;Fairfax must be disbanded,Or else he may chance be Hotham-ed.Still, God, etc.
They have made King Charles a glorious king,He was told, long ago, of such a thing;Now he and his subjects have reason to sing,Oh, God, etc.
(Aug. 13th, 1647.)
The city of London made several demonstrations this year to support the Presbyterian party in the Parliament against the Independents and the army. In the latter end of September, after the army had marched to London, and the Parliamentacted under its influence, the lord mayor and a large part of the aldermen were committed to the Tower on the charge of high treason; and a new mayor for the rest of the year was appointed by the Parliament.
To the tune of “London is a fine town and a gallant city.”
Whykept your train-bands such a stirre?Why sent you them by clusters?Then went into Saint James’s Parke?Why took you then their musters?Why rode my Lord up Fleet-streetWith coaches at least twenty,And fill’d they say with aldermen,As good they had been empty?London is a brave towne,Yet I their cases pitty;Their mayor and some few aldermenHave cleane undone the city.
The ’prentices are gallant blades,And to the king are clifty;But the lord mayor and aldermenAre scarce so wise as thrifty.I’le pay for the apprentices,They to the King were hearty;For they have done all that they canTo advance their soveraignes party.London, etc.
What’s now become of your brave Poyntz?And of your Generall Massey?[29]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 trusstThen 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 wellAs any other sinnerUp Holborne, and ride forwarde still,To Tyburne to their dinner.London, &c.
God send the valiant General mayRestore the King to glory![31]Then that name I have honour’d soWill famous be in story;While if he doe not, I much feareThe ruine of the nation,And (that I should be loth to see)His house’s desolation.London, etc.
From a Collection of Loyal Songs, 1610 to 1660.
Undone! undone! the lawyers cry,They ramble up and down;We know not the way toWestminsterNowCharing-Crossis 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 theRump.
And when they came to the bottom of the StrandThey were all at a loss:This is not the way toWestminster,We must go byCharing-Cross.Then fare thee well, etc.
The Parliament did vote it downAs a thing they thought most fitting,For fear it should fall, and so kill ’em allIn the House as they were sitting.Then fare thee well, etc.
Some letters about thisCrosswere 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.
TheWhigsthey do affirm and sayToPoperyit was bent;For what I know it might be so,For to church it never went,Then fare thee well, etc.
This cursedRump-Rebellious Crew,They were so damn’d hard-hearted;They pass’d a vote thatCharing-CrossShould 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 downTyburntoo.Then fare thee well, etc.
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. 24.—Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.
Undone! undone! the lawyers are,They wander about the towne,Nor can find the way to WestminsterNow 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 downConceived it very fitting,For fear it should fall, and kill them allIn 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,Than thatTomkinsandChalonerWere hang’d for long agoe.Our Parliament did that prevent,And wisely them defended,For plots they will discover stillBefore they were intended.
But neither man, woman, nor childWill say, I’m confident,They ever heard it speak one wordAgainst the Parliament.An informer swore it letters bore,Or else it had been freed;In troth I’ll take my Bible oathIt could neither write nor read.
The Committee said that verifyTo 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 beginTo think you’ll leave them ne’er a crossWithout doors nor within.
Methinks the Common-council shouldOf it have taken pity,’Cause, good old cross, it always stoodSo firmly to the city.Since crosses you so much disdain,Faith, if I were as you,For fear the King should rule againI’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 theGentlemen’s Magazine, 1766.—Percy’s Reliques.
By John Cleveland.
Mostgracious and omnipotent,And everlasting Parliament,Whose power and majestyAre greater than all kings by odds;And to account you less than godsMust needs be blasphemy.
Mosses and Aaron ne’er did doMore wonder than is wrought by youFor 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 moreThan all the parliaments before;You have quite done the work.The King, the Cavalier, and Pope,You have o’erthrown, and next we hopeYou will confound the Turk.
By you we have deliveranceFrom 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 StateHave 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!
YourDirectoryhow to prayBy the spirit shows the perfect way;In real you have abolishtThe Dagon of theCommon Prayer,And next we see you will take careThat churches be demolisht.
A multitude in every tradeOf 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 outThe true religion, without doubt;For sure among so manyWe have five hundred at the least;Is not the gospel much increast?All must be pure, if any.
Could you have done more piouslyThan 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 graceTo believe th’ House in the first place,Our works be what they please.
’Tis strange your power and holinessCan’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.
By John Cleveland.To the tune of “An old Courtier of the Queen’s.”
Withface 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 nowWith 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 ofandtoeke,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 damnationYetyeaandnayhath some salvationFor 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 townOf 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,Withforandbut, 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.
From Samuel Butler’s Posthumous Works.
Whatcreature’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 betterThan learned Usher in ev’ry letter?Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.
What’s he that dothhigh treasonsay,As often as hisyeaandnay,And wish the King confounded;And dares maintain that Mr PimIs fitter for a crown than him?Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.
What’s he that if he chance to hearA little piece ofCommon 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 sisterAnd 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.
From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.
Thereis 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 assSo 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 committeeSits 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 repentOf 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 leaveTo 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!
A song made in the Rebellion.
From the Loyal Garland, 1686.To the tune of “Love lies a bleeding.”
Layby your pleading,Law lies a bleeding;Burn all your studies down, andThrow away your reading.
Small pow’r the word has,And can afford usNot half so much privilege asThe sword does.
It fosters your masters,It plaisters disasters,It makes the servants quickly greaterThan their masters.
It venters, it enters,It seeks and it centers,It makes a’prentice free in spiteOf his indentures.
It talks of small things,But it sets up all things;This masters money, though moneyMasters all things.
It is not seasonTo talk of reason,Nor call it loyalty, when the swordWill have it treason.
It conquers the crown, too,The grave and the gown, too,First it sets up a presbyter, andThen it pulls him down too.
This subtle disasterTurns bonnet to beaver;Down goes a bishop, sirs, and upStarts a weaver.
This makes a laymanTo preach and to pray, man;And makes a lord of him thatWas but a drayman.
Far from the gulpitOf Saxby’s pulpit,This brought an Hebrew ironmongerTo the pulpit.
Such pitiful things beMore happy than kings be;They get the upper hand of ThimblebeeAnd Slingsbee.
No gospel can guide it,No law can decide it,In Church or State, till the swordHas 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 fasterDid make such disaster,That they sent their money backFor which they sold their master.
It batter’d their Gunkirk,And so it did their Spainkirk,That he is fled, and swears the devilIs in Dunkirk.
He that can tower,Or he that is lower,Would be judged a fool to putAway his power.
Take books and rent ’em,Who can invent ’em,When that the sword replies,Negatur argumentum.
Your brave college-butlersMust stoop to the sutlers;There’s ne’er a libraryLike to the cutlers’.
The blood that was spilt, sir,Hath gain’d all the gilt, sir;Thus have you seen me run mySword up to the hilt, sir.