Part 13
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A NEW DROLL.
From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Edited by J. O. Halliwell.
COME let’s drink, the time invites, Winter and cold weather; For to spend away long nights, And to keep good wits together. Better far than cards or dice, Isaac’s balls are quaint device, Made up with fan and feather.
Of strange actions on the seas Why should we be jealous? Bring us liquor that will please, And will make us braver fellows Than the bold Venetian fleet, When the Turks and they do meet Within their Dardanellos.
Valentian, that famous town, Stood the French man’s wonder; Water they employ’d to drown, So to cut their troops assunder; Turein gave a helpless look, While the lofty Spaniard took La Ferta and his plunder.
As for water, we disclaim Mankind’s adversary; Once it caused the world’s whole frame In the deluge to miscarry; And that enemy of joy Which sought our freedom to destroy And murder good Canary.
We that drink have no such thoughts, Black and void of reason: We take care to fill our vaults With good wine of every season; And with many a chirping cup We blow one another up, And that’s our only treason.
Hear the squibs and mind the bells, The fifth of November; The parson a sad story tells, And with horror doth remember How some hot-brain’d traitor wrought Plots that would have ruin brought To King and every member.
THE ROYALIST.
A song made in the Rebellion.
From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.
STAY, shut the gate! T’other quart, boys, ’tis not so late As you are thinking; The stars which you see in the hemisphere be Are but studs in your cheeks by good drinking; The sun’s gone to tipple all night in the sea, boys, To-morrow he’ll blush that he’s paler than we, boys; Drink wine, give him water, ’Tis sack makes us the boys.
Fill up the glass, To the next merry lad let it pass; Come, away wi’t; Let’s set foot to foot and but give our minds to’t, ’Tis heretical sir, that doth slay wit; Then hang up good faces, let’s drink till our noses Give’s freedom to speak what our fancy disposes, Beneath whose protection now under the rose is.
Drink off your bowl, ’Twill enrich both your head and your soul with Canary; For a carbuncled face saves a tedious race, And the Indies about us we carry; No Helicon like to the juice of good wine is, For Phoebus had never had wit that divine is, Had his face not been bow-dy’d as thine is and mine is.
This must go round, Off with your hats till the pavement be crown’d with your beavers; A red-coated face frights a sergeant and his mace, Whilst the constables tremble to shivers. In state march our faces like some of that quorum, While the . . . do fall down and the vulgar adore ’um, And our noses like link-boys run shining before ’um.
THE ROYALIST’S RESOLVE.
From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society.
COME, drawer, some wine, Or we’ll pull down the sign, For we are all jovial compounders; We’ll make the house ring With healths to our King, And confusion light on his confounders.
Since former committee Afforded no pity, Our sorrows in wine we will steep ’um; They force us to take Two oaths, but we’ll make A third, that we ne’er mean to keep ’um.
And next, whoe’er sees, We’ll drink on our knees To the King; may he thirst that repines: A fig for those traytors That look to our waters, They have nothing to do with our wines.
And next here’s three bowls To all gallant souls That for the King did and will venture; May they flourish when those That are his and our foes Are hang’d, and ram’d down to the center.
And may they be found In all to abound, Both with Heaven and the country’s anger; May they never want fractions, Doubts, fears, and distractions, Till the gallows-tree frees them from danger.
LOYALTY TURNED UP TRUMP, OR THE DANGER OVER.
From the Loyal Garland, reprinted from a Black-Letter copy, printed 1686. Reprinted for the Percy society, 1850.
IN vain ill men attempt us, Their day is out of date; The fates do now exempt us From what we felt of late. The nation is grown wiser Than to believe their shame; He that was the deviser Themselves begin to blame.
They thought the trumps would ever Turn on rebellion’s side, But kinder power deliver Us from their foolish pride; For see, they are deceived, And can no more prevail; Those who the Rump believed, Ashamed are of the tale.
THE LOYALIST’S ENCOURAGEMENT.
From the Loyal Garland. To the tune of “Now, now the fight’s done.”
YOU Royalists all, now rejoice and be glad, The day is our own, there’s no cause to be sad, The tumult of faction is crush’d in its pride, And the grand promoters their noddles all hide, For fear of a swing, which does make it appear Though treason they loved yet for hemp they don’t care.
Then let us be bold still, and baffle their plots, That they in the end may prove impotent sots; And find both their wit and their malice defeated, Nay, find how themselves and their pupils they cheated, By heaping and thrusting to unhinge a State, Of which Heaven’s guardian fixt is by fate.
Though once they the rabble bewitch’d with their cant, Whilst cobler and weaver set up for a saint; Yet now the stale cheat they can fasten no more, The juggle’s discover’d and they must give o’er; Yet give them their due that such mischief did work, Who revile Christian princes and pray for the Turk.
Oh! give them their due, and let none of ’em want A cup of Geneva or Turkish turbant, That, clad in their colours, they may not deceive The vulgar, too prone and too apt to believe The fears they suggest on a groundless pretence, On purpose to make ’em repine or their prince.
THE TROUPER.
From the Loyal Garland. A pleasant song revived.
COME, come, let us drink, ’Tis vain to think Like fools of grief or sadness; Let our money fly And our sorrows dye, All worldly care is madness; But wine and good cheer Will, in spite of our fear, Inspire us all with gladness.
Let the greedy clowns, That do live like hounds, They know neither bound nor measure, Lament every loss, For their wealth is their cross, Whose delight is in their treasure; Whilst we with our own Do go merrily on, And spend it at our leisure.
Then trout about the bowl To every loyal soul, And to his hand commend it. A fig for chink, ’Twas made to buy drink, Before we depart we’ll end it. When we’ve spent our store, The nation yields no more, And merrily we will spend it.
ON THE TIMES, OR THE GOOD SUBJECT’S WISH.
From the Loyal Garland. To the tune of “Young Phaon.”
GOOD days we see, let us rejoice, In peace and loyalty, And still despise the factious noise Of those that vainly try To undermine our happiness, That they may by it get; Knavery has great increase When honesty does set.
But let us baffle all their tricks, Our King and country serve; And may he never thrive that likes Sedition in reserve: Then let each in his station rest, As all good subjects should; And he that otherwise designs, May he remain unblest.
May traytors ever be deceived In all they undertake, And never by good men believed; May all the plots they make Fall heavy on themselves, and may They see themselves undone, And never have a happy day, That would the King dethrone.
THE JOVIALISTS’ CORONATION.
From the Loyal Garland.
SINCE it must be so, why then so let it go, Let the giddy-brain’d times turn round; Now we have our King, let the goblets be crowned, And our monarchy thus we recover; Whilst the pottles are weeping We’ll drench our sad souls In big-belly’d bowls, And our sorrows in wine shall lie steeping. And we’ll drink till our eyes do run over, And prove it by reason, It can be no treason To drink or to sing A mournifal of healths to our new-crowned King.
Let us all stand bare in the presence we are, Let our noses like bonfires shine; Instead of the conduits, let pottles run wine, To perfect this true coronation; And we that are loyal, in drink shall be peers; For that face that wears claret Can traytors defie all, And out-stares the bores of our nation; In sign of obedience Our oaths of allegiance Beer glasses shall be, And he that tipples tends to jollitry.
But if in this reign a halberdly train, Or a constable, chance to revel, And would with his twyvels maliciously swell, And against the King’s party raise arms: Then the drawers, like yeomen o’ the guard, With quart-pots Shall fuddle the sots, Till they make ’um both cuckolds and freemen, And on their wives beat up alarms, Thus as the health passes, We’ll triple our glasses, And count it no sin To drink and be loyal in defence of our King.
THE LOYAL PRISONER.
From the Loyal Garland.
HOW happy’s that pris’ner that conquers his fate With silence, and ne’er on bad fortune complains, But carelessly plays with keys on his grate, And he makes a sweet concert with them and his chains! He drowns care in sack, while his thoughts are opprest, And he makes his heart float like a cork in his breast. Then since we are slaves, and all islanders be, And our land a large prison enclosed by the sea, We’ll drink off the ocean, and set ourselves free, For man is the world’s epitomy.
Let tyrants wear purple, deep-dy’d in the blood Of those they have slain, their scepters to sway, If our conscience be clear, and our title be good, With the rags that hang on us we are richer than they; We’ll drink down at night what we beg or can borrow, And sleep without plotting for more the next morrow. Then since, etc.
Let the usurer watch o’er his bags and his house, To keep that from robbers he rak’d from his debtors, Which at midnight cries thieves at the noise of a mouse, And he looks if his trunks are fast bound to their fetters; When once he’s grown rich enough for a State’s plot, But in one hour plunders what threescore years got. Then since, etc.
Come, drawer, fill each man a peck of old sherry, This brimmer shall bid all our senses good-night; When old Aristotle was frolic and merry, By the juice of the grape, he stagger’d out-right; Copernicus once, in a drunken fit, found By the course of’s brains that the world did turn round. Then since, etc.
’Tis sack makes our faces like comets to shine, And gives tincture beyond a complexion mask. Diogenes fell so in love with his wine, That when ’twas all out he dwelt in the cask, And being shut up within a close room, He, dying, requested a tub for his tomb. Then since, etc.
Let him never so privately muster his gold, His angels will their intelligence be; How closely they’re prest in their canvas hold, And they want the State-souldier to set them all free: Let them pine and be hanged, we’ll merrily sing, Who hath nothing to lose, may cry, God bless the King. Then since, etc.
CANARY’S CORONATION.
From the Loyal Garland.
COME, let’s purge our brains From ale and grains, That do smell of anarchy; Let’s chuse a King From whose blood may spring Such a sparkling progeny; It will be fit, strew mine in it, Whose flames are bright and clear; We’ll not bind our hands with drayman’s bands, When as we may be freer; Why should we droop, or basely stoop To popular ale or beer?