Part 12

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.