Part 11

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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 Cæsar 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.