Among the rest a grazier, who Had lately been at town To 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 mad To murther one another.

By their contrivances and arts They'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 used For more than twenty year, But never did such murmurings And 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 hankerings To mend the Commonwealth, and make An 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 rebuked No longer could contain; But thus replies, - To knaves like you All arguments are vain.

The Church must use her arm of flesh, The other will not do; The clergy waste their breath and time On miscreants like you.

You are so stubborn and so proud, So dull and prepossest, That no instructions can prevail How well soe'er addrest.

Who would reform such reprobates, Must drub them soundly first; I know no other way but that To make them wise or just.

Fie, vicar, fie, his patron said, Sure that is not the way; You should instruct your auditors To suffer or obey.

Those were the doctrines that of old The learned fathers taught; And 'twas by them the Church at first Was to perfection brought.

Come, vicar, lay your feuds aside, And calmly take your cup; And let us try in friendly wise To make the matter up.

That's certainly the wiser course, And better too by far; All men of prudence strive to quench The sparks of civil war.

By furious heats and ill advice Our neighbours are undone, Then let us timely caution take From their destruction.

If we would turn our heads about, And look towards forty-one, We soon should see what little jars Those cruel wars begun.

A one-eyed cobbler then was one Of that rebellious crew, That did in Charles the martyr's blood Their wicked hands imbrue.

I mention this not to deface This cobbler's reputation, Whom I have always honest found, And useful in his station.

But this I urge to let you see The danger of a fight Between 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 soals Must quickly want repair; And all the neighbourhood around Would the misfortune share.

Sir, quoth the grazier, I believe Our outward soals indeed May quickly want the cobbler's help To be from leakings freed.

But for our inward souls, I think They're of a worth too great To be committed to the care Of any holy cheat,

Who only serves his God for gain, Religion is his trade; And 'tis by such as these our Church So scandalous is made.

Why should I trust my soul with one That preaches, swears, and prays, And the next moment contradicts Himself in all he says?

His solemn oaths he looks upon As only words of course! Which like their wives our fathers took For 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 you In my respective call.

I know your character, quoth he, You proud insulting vicar, Who only huff and domineer And 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'er And mitigate your rage; You scandalize your cloth too much A cobbler to engage.

All people's eyes are on your tribe, And every little ill They multiply and aggravate And 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 talk And 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 satisfaction For drubbing and for damages In this ungodly action.

I think that you can do no less Than send them to the stocks; And I'll assist the constable In 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-magistrate Take 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 sit Till they with us compound.

Thus fixt, well leave them for a time, Whilst we with grief relate, How at a wake this knight and squire Got each a broken pate.



Ballad: The Geneva Ballad



From Samuel Butler's Posthumous Works.

Of all the factions in the town Moved by French springs or Flemish wheels, None turns religion upside down, Or tears pretences out at heels, Like SPLAYMOUTH with his brace of caps, Whose conscience might be scann'd perhaps By 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 ever SIKE A BEAUK-LEARN'D clerk That 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 stript His sovereign-liege of power and land; And, having smote his master, slipt His sword into his fellow's hand; But he that wears his eyes may note Oft-times the butcher binds a goat, And leaves his boy to cut her throat.

Poor England felt his fury then Outweigh'd Queen Mary's many grains; His very preaching slew more men Than 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 grace Can blanch an Ethiopian's face.

Ripe for rebellion, he begins To 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, and MULTITUDE.

Magistrates he regards no more Than St George or the King of Colon, Vowing he'll not conform before The old wives wind their dead in woollen: He calls the bishop gray-hair'd coff, And makes his power as mere a scoff As Dagon when his hands were off.

Hark! how he opens with full cry, Halloo, my hearts, beware of Rome! Cowards that are afraid to die Thus make domestic brawls at home. How quietly great Charles might reign, Would all these Hotspurs cross the main And 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 to THEE and THOU; 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 first Was 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 thing But may be cover'd with pretence; Yet when all's said, one thing I'll swear, No subject like th' old Cavalier, No traytor like JACK-PRESBYTER.



Ballad: The Devil's Progress On Earth, Or Huggle Duggle



From Durfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy."

FRIER BACON walks again, And Doctor FORSTER (99) too; PROSPERINE and PLUTO, And many a goblin crew: With that a merry devil, To make the AIRING, 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 gallants Had spy'd such pretty sport; There was such cunning jugling, And ladys gon so proud; Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that into the city Away the Devil went; To view the merchants' dealings It was his full intent: And there along the brave Exchange He crept into the croud. Huggle Duggle, etc.

He went into the city To see all there was well; Their scales were false, their weights were light, Their conscience fit for hell; And PANDERS chosen magistrates, And PURITANS allow'd. Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that unto the country Away the Devil goeth; For there is all plain dealing, For that the Devil knoweth: But the rich man reaps the gains For which the poor man plough'd. Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that the Devil in haste Took 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.



Ballad: A Bottle Definition Of That Fallen Angel, Called A Whig



From a collection of Historical and State Poems, Satyrs, Songs, and Epigrams, by Ned Ward, A. D. 1717.

What is a Whig? A cunning rogue That 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 rest In power, or when he's dispossess'd; A knave, who foolishly has lost What 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 phiz Appears more dreadful than it is; But now propitious stars repel Those ills it lastly did fortel.

'Twill burst with unregarded spight, And, since the Parliament proves right, Will turn to smoke, which shone of late So bright and flaming in the State.



Ballad: The Desponding Whig



From Ned Ward's Works, vol. iv. 1709.

When owles are strip'd of their disguise, And wolves of shepherd's cloathing, Those birds and beasts that please our eyes Will then beget our loathing; When foxes tremble in their holes At dangers that they see, And those we think so wise prove fools, Then low, boys, down go we.

If those designs abortive prove We've been so long in hatching, And cunning knaves are forced to move From home for fear of catching; The rabble soon will change their tone When our intrigues they see, And cry God save the Church and Throne, Then low, boys, down go we.

The weaver then no more must leave His loom and turn a preacher, Nor with his cant poor fools deceive To make himself the richer. Our leaders soon would disappear If such a change should be, Our scriblers too would stink for fear, Then low, boys, down go we.

No canvisars would dare to shew Their 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 home With double compensation; For as we never could forgive, I fear we then should see That what we lent we must receive, Then low, boys, down go we.

Should honest brethren once discern Our 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 parts Like wary cunning foxes, And gain'd the common people's hearts By 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 gall On those that do oppose us, And cant of grace, in spite of all The shame the Devil owes us: The just, the loyal, and the wise With us shall Papists be, For if the HIGH CHURCH once should rise, Then, LOW CHURCH, down go we.



Ballad: Phanatick Zeal, Or A Looking-glass For The Whigs



From a Collection of 180 Loyal Songs. Tune, "A Swearing we will go."

Who would not be a Tory When the loyal are call'd so: And a Whig now is known To 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 eyes Though 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 meetings To 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 note Have long a raree-show. And a Tory I will be, etc.

These mushrooms now have got Their champion turn-coat hick; But if the naked truth were known They're assisted by old Nick. And a Tory I will be, etc.

To be and to be not At 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 traytor Against 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 thimbles Now let your tubsters cant; Their confounded tired cause Had never yet more want. So a Tory I will be, etc.

For ignoramus Toney Has 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 Paul With 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 make Of nothing and a plot. And a Tory I will be, etc.

But now your holy cheat Is known throughout the nation; And a Whig is known to be A thing quite out of fashion. And a Tory I will be, etc.



Ballad: A New Game At Cards: Or, Win At First And Lose At Last



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."

Ye merry hearts that love to play At cards, see who hath won the day; You that once did sadly sing The 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 Pride Were 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 snatches To 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 fret That 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, but The 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 game Some 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 strives To save the stakes, or lose their lives; But, oh sad fate! they were undone By 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 believe Sir Arthur has a knave in's sleeve.

When General Monk did understand The 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'd That 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 say They 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 parts And turn'd up the king of hearts.

After this game was done, I think The 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.



Ballad: The Cavaleers Litany



(March 25th, 1660.) - From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum.

From pardons 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 none Of our oppressours should attone (The losses sure were not their own), God bless, etc.

From Christians which can soon forget Our injuries, but not one bit Of 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 catch Some 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' arrears Of the State-troops for many years, But grudge one tax for Cavaleers, God bless, etc.

THE SECOND PART.

A crown of 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 grace To send, etc.

A people still as true and kind As 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 before May hope to do the same no more, God send, etc.

A searching judgement to divine, Of persons whether they do joyn For love, for fear, or for design, God send, etc.

A well-complexion'd Parliament, That shall (like Englishmen) resent What 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 King May our increase of traffick bring, 'Tis that will make the people sing Long live, etc.

London, printed for Robert Crofts, at the Crown, in Chancery Lane, 1661.



Ballad: The Cavalier's Complaint



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 tale Will 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 find Some of my friends in place; And walking there, I had a sight Of 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 markes Of their integritie; And suffer'd ruine of estate, It was my damn'd unhappy fate That I not one could see.

Not one, upon my life, among My old acquaintance all along At Truro and before; And I suppose the place can show As few of those whom thou didst know At Yorke or Marston-moore.

But truly there are swarmes of those Who lately were our chiefest foes, Of pantaloons and muffes; Whilst the old rusty Cavaleer Retires, 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 unkind To Royalists, the King may find More faithfull friends than they.



Ballad: An Echo To The Cavalier's Complaint



I marvel, Dick, that having been So long abroad, and having seen The world as thou hast done, Thou should'st acquaint mee with a tale As old as Nestor, and as stale As 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 dwells In camps, in villages, and cells; Alas! it dwells not there.

Desert is nice in its addresse, And merit ofttimes doth oppresse Beyond what guilt would do; But they are sure of their demands That come to Court with golden hands, And brazen faces, too.

The King, they say, doth still professe To give his party some redresse, And cherish honestie; But his good wishes prove in vain, Whose service with his servants' gain Not 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 interest In 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 reflect On 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.



Ballad: A Relation



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."

Hee that can impose a thing, And shew forth a reason For what was done against the King, From the palace to the prison; Let him here with me recite, For my pen is bent to write The horrid facts of treason.

Since there is no learned scribe Nor arithmaticion Ever able to decide The usurp'd base ambition, Which in truth I shall declare, Traytors here which lately were, Who wanted a phisitian.

For the grand disease that bred Nature 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 beleeve That 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 last To 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 dexterity Was gently turned over.

THE SECOND PART - To the same tune.

Monday was the fifteenth day, As Carew then did follow, (102) Of whom all men I thinke might say In 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 thing To 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 treachery Received their absolution.

Being against the King and States, The Commons all condemn'd 'um, And their quarters on the gates Hangeth 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 make To 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.



Ballad: The Glory Of These Nations



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 on board the NAZEBY on 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's those 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 May At Dover arrived, fame doth say, Where our most noble generall Did 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 hand And lovingly did him embrace, Rejoycing for to see his face. Hee lift him from the ground With joy that did abound, And graciously did him entertain; Rejoycing that once more He 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 they Stood all in white by the high-way Their 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 skye As the King passed by, For joy that he receives his own again.

In Wallworth-fields a gallant band Of 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 willed A 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 back Unto 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 knight And gallant men of might, Richly attired, marching amain, There Lords Mordin, Gerard, and The good Earle of Cleavland, (108) To bring the King to his own again.

Near sixty flags and streamers then Was 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 they Brought the King on his way For to enjoy his own again.

Then Lichfields and Darbyes Earles, (109) Two of fair England's royall pearles; Major Generall Massey then Commanded the life guard of men, The King for to defend, If any should contend, Or seem his comming to restrain; But also joyfull were That 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 generall Did march before the King withall. His brothers on each side Along by him did ride; The Southwark-waits did play amain, Which made them all to smile And 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 we Did 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 all Unto their trades may fall, Their famylies for to maintain, And from wrong be free, 'Cause we have liv'd to see The King enjoy his own again.

London, printed for Charles Tyns, on London Bridge.



Ballad: The Noble Progress



Or, A True Relation Of The Lord General Monk's Political Proceedings.

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."

Good people, hearken to my call, I'le tell you all what did befall And hapned of late; Our noble valiant General Monk Came to the Rump, who lately stunk With 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 brought To 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 men To cut a thong out of another man's skin. The sectarian, etc.

They sent him then with all his hosts To break our posts and raise our ghosts, Which was their intent; To cut our gates and chain all downe Unto the ground - this trick they found To make him be shent: This plot the Rump did so accord To 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 night What was their spight, he brought to light Their knaveries all; This Parliament of forty-eight, Which long did wait, came to him straight, To give them a fall, And some phanatical people knew That 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 Parliament With good intent they boldly went To vote home the King, And many hundred people more Stood at the doore, and waited for Good 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 known That those that were for him were twenty to one. But the sectarian, etc.

They call'd the League and Covenant in To 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 stand In triumph and joy. Good Lord, what a sumptuous sight 'twas to see Our good Lord General fall on his knee To welcome home his Majestie, And own his sacred sovereignty. But the sectarian, etc.

When all the worthy noble train Came back again with Charlemain, Our sovereign great: The Lord Mayor in his scarlet gown, His chain so long, went through the town In pompe and state. The livery-men each line the way Upon 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 day Great plenty of wine; And every gentleman of note In's velvet coat that could be got In 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 along Throughout the throng, still he did come Unto White Hall; Attended by those noble-men, Bold heroes' kin that brought him in With the geneall; Who was the man that brought him home And placed him on his royal throne; - 'Twas General Monk did doe the thing, So God preserve our gracious King, Now the sacristan, etc.



Ballad: On The King's Return



By Alex. Brome.

Long have we waited for a happy end Of all our miseries and strife; - But still in vain; - the swordmen did intend To make them hold for term of life: That our distempers might be made Their everlasting livelihood and trade.

They entail their swords and guns, And pay, which wounded more, Upon their daughters and their sons, Thereby to keep us ever poor.

But when the Civil Wars were past, They civil government invade, To make our taxes and our slavery last, Both to their titles and their trade.

But now we are redeem'd from all By our indulgent King, Whose coming does prevent our fall, With loyal and with joyful hearts we'll sing:

CHORUS

Welcome, welcome, royal May, Welcome, long-desired Spring. Many Springs and Mays we've seen, Have brought forth what's gay and green; But none is like this glorious day, Which brings forth our gracious King.



Ballad: The Brave Barbary



A Ballad by Alex. Brome.

Old England is now a brave Barbary made, And every one has an ambition to ride her; King Charles was a horseman that long used the trade, But he rode in a snaffle, and that could not guide her.

Then the hungry Scot comes with spur and with switch, And would teach her to run a Geneva career; His grooms were all Puritan, Traytor, and Witch, But she soon threw them down with their pedlary geer.

The Long Parliament next came all to the block, And they this untameable palfrey would ride; But she would not bear all that numerous flock, At which they were fain themselves to divide.

Jack Presbyter first gets the steed by the head, While the reverend Bishops had hold of the bridle; Jack said through the nose they their flockes did not feed, But sat still on the beast and grew aged and idle.

And then comes the Rout, with broom-sticks inspired, And pull'd down their graces, their sleeves, and their train; And sets up Sir Jack, who the beast quickly tyr'd With a journey to Scotland and thence back again.

Jack rode in a doublet, with a yoke of prick-ears, A cursed splay-mouth and a Covenant spur, Rides switching and spurring with jealousies and fears, Till the poor famish'd beast was not able to stir.

Next came th' Independent - a dev'lish designer, And got himself call'd by a holier name - Makes Jack to unhorse, for he was diviner, And would make her travel as far's Amsterdam.

But Nol, a rank-rider, gets first in the saddle, And made her show tricks, and curvate, and rebound; She quickly perceived that he rode widdle waddle, And like his coach-horses threw his Highness to ground.

Then Dick, being lame, rode holding by the pummel, Not having the wit to get hold of the rein; But the jade did so snort at the sight of a Cromwell, That poor Dick and his kindred turn'd footmen again.

Next Fleetwood and Vane with their rascally pack, Would every one put their feet in the stirrup; But they pull'd the saddle quite off of her back, And were all got under her before they were up.

At last the King mounts her, and then she stood still; As his Bucephalus, proud of this rider, She cheerfully yields to his power and skill Who is careful to feed her, and skilful to guide her.



Ballad: A Catch



By Alex. Brome. A.D. 1660.

Let's leave off our labour, and now let's go play, For this is our time to be jolly; Our plagues and our plaguers are both fled away, To nourish our griefs is but folly: He that won't drink and sing Is a traytor to's King, And so he that does not look twenty years younger; We'll look blythe and trim With rejoicing at him That is the restorer and will be the prolonger Of all our felicity and health, The joy of our hearts, and increase of our wealth. 'Tis he brings our trading, our trading brings riches, Our riches brings honour, at which every mind itches, And our riches bring sack, and our sack brings us joy, And our joy makes us leap and sing, Vive le Roy!



Ballad: The Turn-Coat



By Samuel Butler. 1661.

Several lines in this song were incorporated in the better-known ballad of the Vicar of Bray, said by Nichols in his Select Poems to have been written by a soldier in Colonel Fuller's troop of dragoons, in the reign of George I. Butler's ballad, though unpublished, must therefore have been known at the time.

To the tune of "London is a fine town."

I loved no King since forty-one, When Prelacy went down; A cloak and band I then put on And preach'd against the crown. A turn-coat is a cunning man That cants to admiration, And prays for any king to gain The people's approbation.

I show'd the paths to heaven untrod, From Popery to refine 'em, And taught the people to serve God, As if the Devil were in 'em. A turn-coat, etc.

When Charles return'd into our land, The English Church supporter, I shifted off my cloak and band, And so became a courtier. A turn-coat, etc.

The King's religion I profest, And found there was no harm in 't; I cogg'd and flatter'd like the rest, Till I had got preferment. A turn-coat, etc.

I taught my conscience how to cope With honesty or evil; And when I rail'd against the Pope I sided with the Devil. A turn-coat, etc.



Ballad: The Claret Drinker's Song



Or The Good Fellow's Design. Being a pleasant song of the times, written by a person of quality. - From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. iii.

Wine the most powerfull'st of all things on earth, Which stifles cares and sorrows in their birth; No treason in it harbours, nor can hate Creep in when it bears away, to hurt the State. Though storms grow high, so wine is to be got, We are secure, their rage we value not; The Muses cherish'd up such nectar, sing Eternal joy to him that loves the King.

To the tune of "Let Caesar live long."

A pox of the fooling and plotting of late, What a pudder and stir has it kept in the State! Let the rabble run mad with suspicions and fears, Let 'em scuffle and rail till they go by the ears, - Their grievances never shall trouble my pate, So I but enjoy my dear bottle at quiet.

What coxcombs were those that would ruin their case And their necks for a toy, a thin wafer, and mass! For at Tyburn they never had needed to swing Had they been but true subjects to drink and their King: A friend and a bottle is all my design, - He's no room for treason that's top-full of wine.

I mind not the members and makers of laws, Let them sit or prorogue as his Majesty please; Let 'em damn us to Woolen, I'le never repine At my usage when dead, so alive I have wine; Yet oft in my drink I can hardly forbear To blame them for making my claret so dear.

I mind not grave allies who idly debate About rights and successions, the trifles of State; We've a good King already, and he deserves laughter That will trouble his head with who shall come after: Come, here's to his health! and I wish he may be As free from all cares and all troubles as we.

SECOND PART

What care I how leagues with Hollanders go, Or intrigues 'twist Mounsieurs or Dons for to? What concerns it my drinking if cities be sold, If the conqueror takes them by storming or gold? From whence claret comes is the place that I mind, And when the fleet's coming I pray for a wind.

The bully of France that aspires to renown By dull cutting of throats, and by venturing his own; Let him fight till he's ruined, make matches, and treat, To afford us still news, the dull coffee-house cheat: He's but a brave wretch, whilst that I am more free, More safe, and a thousand times happier than he.

In spite of him, or the Pope, or the Devil, Or faggot, or fire, or the worst of hell's evil, I still will drink healths to the lovers of wine, Those jovial, brisk blades that do never repine; I'll drink in defiance of napkin or halter, Tho' religion turn round still, yet mine shall ne'er alter.

But a health to good fellows shall still be my care, And whilst wine it holds out, no bumpers we'll spare. I'll subscribe to petitions for nothing but claret, That that may be cheap, here's both my hands for it; 'Tis my province, and with it I only am pleased, With the rest, scolding wives let poor cuckolds appease.

No doubt 'tis the best of all drinks, or so soon It ne'er had been chose by the Man in the Moon, (110) Who drinks nothing else, both by night and by day But claret, brisk claret, and most people say, Whilst glasses brimful to the stars they go round, Which makes them shine brighter with red juice still crown'd.

For all things in Nature doe live by good drinking, And he's a dull fool, and not worthy my thinking, That does not prefer it before all the treasure The Indies contain, or the sea without measure; 'Tis the life of good fellows, for without it they pine, When nought can revive them but brimmers of wine.

I know the refreshments that still it does bring, Which have oftentimes made us as great as a king In the midst of his armies where'er he is found, Whilst the bottles and glasses I've muster'd round; Who are Bacchus' warriors a conquest will gain Without the least bloodshed, or wounded, or slain.

Then here's a good health to all those that love peace, Let plotters be damn'd and all quarrels now cease Let me but have wine and I care for no more, 'Tis a treasure sufficient; there's none can be poor That has Bacchus to's friend, for he laughs at all harm, Whilst with high-proofed claret he does himself arm.

Printed for J. Jordan, at the Angel, Giltspur Street.



Ballad: The Loyal Subjects' Hearty Wishes To King Charles II.



From Sir W. C. Trevelyan's Broadsides in the British Museum.

He that write these verses certainly Did serve his royal father faithfully, Likewise himself he served at Worcester fight, And for his loyalty was put to flight.

But had he a haid of hair like Absolom, And every hair as strong as was Samson, I'd venture all for Charles the Second's sake, And for his Majesty my life forsake.

To the tune "When Cannons are roaring."

FIRST PART.

True subjects, all rejoice After long sadness, And now with heart and voice Show forth your gladness. That to King Charles were true And rebels hated, This song only to you Is dedicated; For Charles our sovereign dear Is safe returned True subjects' hearts to cheer, That long have mourned: Then let us give God praise That doth defend him, And pray with heart and voice, Angels, attend him.

The dangers he hath past From vile usurpers Now bring him joy at last, Although some lurkers Did seek his blood to spill By actions evil; But God we see is still Above the Devil: Though many serpents hiss Him to devour, God his defender is By His strong power: Then let us give him praise That doth defend him, And sing with heart and voice, Angels, defend him.

The joy that he doth bring, If true confessed, The tongues of mortal men Cannot confess it; He cures our drooping fears, Being long tormented, And his true Cavaliers Are well contented; For now the Protestant Again shall flourish; The King our nursing father He will us cherish: Then let us give God praise That did defend him, And sing with heart and voice, Angels, attend him.

Like Moses, he is meek And tender-hearted; And by all means doth seek To have foes converted; But, like the Israelites, There are a number That for his love to them 'Gainst him doth murmur: Read Exodus, - 'tis true The Israelites rather Yield to the Egyptian crew Than Moses their father: So many phanaticks, With hearts disloyal, Their hearts and minds do fix 'Gainst our King royal.

SECOND PART.

Like holy David, he Past many troubles, And by his constancy His joys redoubles; For now he doth bear sway By God appointed, For Holy Writ doth say, Touch not mine Anointed. He is God's anointed sure, Who still doth guide him In all his wayes most pure, Though some divide him. Then let us give God praise That doth defend him, And sing with heart and voice, Angels, attend him.

Many there are, we know, Within this nation, Lip-love to him do show In 'simulation; Of such vile hereticks There are a number, Whose hearts and tongues, we know, Are far asunder; Some do pray for the King Being constrained; Who lately against him Greatly complained; They turn both seat and seam To cheat poor tailors, But the fit place for them Is under strong jailors.

Let the King's foes admire Who do reject him; Seeing God doth him inspire, And still direct him, To heal those evil sores, And them to cure By his most gracious hand And prayers pure. Though simple people say Doctors do as much, None but our lawful King Can cure with a touch; As plainly hath been seen Since he returned, - Many have cured been Which long have mourned.

The poorest wretch that hath This evil, sure May have ease from the King And perfect cure; His Grace is meek and wise, Loving and civil, And to his enemies Doth good for evil; For some that were his foes Were by him healed; His liberal cause to bless Is not concealed; He heals both poor and rich By God's great power, And his most gracious touch Doth them all cure.

Then blush, you infidels, That late did scorn him; And you that did rebel, Crave pardon of him; With speed turn a new leaf For your transgresses; Hear what the preacher sayes In Ecclesiastes, - The Scripture's true, and shall Ever be taught; Curse not the King at all, No, not in thy thought: And holy Peter Two commandments doth bring, - Is first for to fear God, And then honour the King.

When that we had no King To guide the nation, Opinions up did spring By toleration; And many heresies Were then advanced, And cruel liberties By old Noll granted. Even able ministers Were not esteemed; Many false prophets Good preachers were deemed. The Church some hated; A barn, house, or stable Would serve the Quakers, With their wicked rabble.

And now for to conclude: The God of power Preserve and guide our King Both day and hour; That he may rule and reign Our hearts to cherish; And on his head, good Lord, Let his crown flourish. Let his true subjects sing With hearts most loyal, God bless and prosper still Charles our King royal. So now let's give God praise That doth defend him, And sing with heart and voice, Angels defend him.

London, printed for John Andrews, at the White Lion, near Pye- Court.



Ballad: King Charles The Second's Restoration, 29th May.



Tune, "Where have you been, my lovely sailor bold?"

You brave loyal Churchmen, That ever stood by the crown, Have you forgot that noble prince Great Charles of high renown, That from his rights was banish'd By Presbyterians, who Most cruelty his father kill'd? - O cursed, damned crew! So let the bells in steeples ring, And music sweetly play, That loyal Tories mayn't forget The twenty-ninth of May.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: The Jubilee, Or The Coronation Day



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

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

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



Ballad: The King Enjoys His Own Again



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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: A Country Song, Intituled The Restoration



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: Here's A Health Unto His Majesty



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

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



Ballad: The Whigs Drowned In An Honest Tory Health



From Col. 180 Loyal Songs.

Tune, "Hark, the thundering canons roar."

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: The Cavalier



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

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

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

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



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

London, printed for Charles Gustavus, 1660.



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Printed for P. Brooksly, at the Golden Ball in West Smithfield, 1672.



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



Being a most pleasant and new song.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: The Royal Admiral



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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: The Unfortunate Whigs



1682. - From the Roxburgh Ballads.

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

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

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

And yet they are sham-pretenders, And they swear they'll support our laws; These be the great defenders of IGNORAMUS and the OLD CAUSE: They'll defend the King By swearing of the thing, These are the cursed rogues in grain; For since it is so, They have wrought their overthrow, Old Tony WILL NE'R ENJOY HIS OWN AGAIN.

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

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

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

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

Printed for S. Maurel, in the year 1682.



Ballad: The Downfall Of The Good Old Cause



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: Old Jemmy



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

To the tune of "Young Jemmy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: The Cloak's Knavery



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: The Time-Server, Or A Medley



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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: The Soldier's Delight



(Made in the late times.)

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

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

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

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



Ballad: The Loyal Soldier



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: The Polititian



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

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

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

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

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

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

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