Part 2

Now our lives, Children, wives, And estate, Are a prey to the lust and plunder, To the rage Of our age; And the fate Of our land Is at hand; ’Tis too late To tread these usurpers under. First down goes the crown, Then follows the gown, Thus levell’d are we by the Roundhead; While Church and State must Feed their pride and their lust, And the kingdom and king be confounded.

Shall we still Suffer ill And be dumb, And let every varlet undo us? Shall we doubt Of each lout That doth come, With a voice Like the noise Of a drum, And a sword or a buff-coat, to us? Shall we lose our estates By plunder and rates, To bedeck those proud upstarts that swagger? Rather fight for your meat Which those locusts do eat, Now every man’s a beggar.

THE ROYALIST.

By Alex. Brome. Written 1646.

COME pass about the bowl to me, A health to our distressed King; Though we’re in hold let cups go free, Birds in a cage may freely sing. The ground does tipple healths afar When storms do fall, and shall not we? A sorrow dares not show its face When we are ships, and sack’s the sea.

Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let’s sing; Shall’s kill ourselves for fear of death? We’ll live by th’ air which songs do bring, Our sighing does but waste our breath. Then let us not be discontent, Nor drink a glass the less of wine; In vain they’ll think their plagues are spent When once they see we don’t repine.

We do not suffer here alone, Though we are beggar’d, so’s the King; ’Tis sin t’ have wealth when he has none, Tush! poverty’s a royal thing! When we are larded well with drink, Our head shall turn as round as theirs, Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink Clean down the wind like Cavaliers.

Fill this unnatural quart with sack, Nature all vacuums doth decline; Ourselves will be a zodiac, And every mouth shall be a sign. Methinks the travels of the glass Are circular, like Plato’s year; Where everything is as it was Let’s tipple round: and so ’tis here.

THE NEW COURTIER.

By Alex. Brome. 1648.

SINCE it must be so Then so let it go, Let the giddy-brain’d times turn round; Since we have no king let the goblet be crown’d, Our monarchy thus will recover: While the pottles are weeping We’ll drench our sad souls In big-bellied bowls; Our sorrows in sack shall lie steeping, And we’ll drink till our eyes do run over; And prove it by reason That it can be no treason To drink and to sing A mournival of healths to our new-crown’d King.

Let us all stand bare;— In the presence we are, Let our noses like bonfires shine; Instead of the conduits, let the pottles run wine, To perfect this new coronation; And we that are loyal In drink shall be peers, While that face that wears Pure claret, looks like the blood-royal, And outstares the bones of the nation: In sign of obedience, Our oath of allegiance Beer-glasses shall be, And he that tipples ten is of the nobility.

But if in this reign The halberted train Or the constable should rebel, And should make their turbill’d militia to swell, And against the King’s party raise arms; Then the drawers, like yeomen Of the guards, with quart pots Shall fuddle the sots, While we make ’em both cuckolds and freemen; And on their wives beat up alarums. Thus as each health passes We’ll triple the glasses, And hold it no sin To be loyal and drink in defence of our King.

UPON THE CAVALIERS DEPARTING OUT OF LONDON.

By Alex. Brome.

NOW fare thee well, London, Thou next must be undone, ’Cause thou hast undone us before; This cause and this tyrant Had never play’d this high rant Were’t not for thy _argent d’or_.

Now we must desert thee, With the lines that begirt thee, And the red-coated saints domineer; Who with liberty fool thee, While a monster doth rule thee, And thou feel’st what before thou didst fear.

Now justice and freedom, With the laws that did breed ’em, Are sent to Jamaica for gold, And those that upheld ’em Have power but seldom, For justice is barter’d and sold.

Now the Christian religion Must seek a new region, And the old saints give way to the new; And we that are loyal Vail to those that destroy all, When the Christian gives place to the Jew.

But this is our glory, In this wretched story Calamities fall on the best; And those that destroy us Do better employ us, To sing till they are supprest.

A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

From the King’s pamphlets, British Museum.

WE have a King, and yet no King, For he hath lost his power; For ’gainst his will his subjects are Imprison’d in the Tower.

We had some laws (but now no laws) By which he held his crown; And we had estates and liberties, But now they’re voted down.

We had religion, but of late That’s beaten down with clubs; Whilst that profaneness authorized Is belched forth in tubs.

We were free subjects born, but now We are by force made slaves, By some whom we did count our friends, But in the end proved knaves.

And now to such a grievous height Are our misfortunes grown, That our estates are took away By tricks before ne’er known.

For there are agents sent abroad Most humbly for to crave Our alms; but if they are denied, And of us nothing have,

Then by a vote _ex tempore_ We are to prison sent, Mark’d with the name of enemy, To King and Parliament:

And during our imprisonment, Their lawless bulls do plunder A license to their soldiers, Our houses for to plunder.

And if their hounds do chance to smell A man whose fortunes are Of some account, whose purse is full, Which now is somewhat rare;

A _monster_ now, _delinquent_ term’d, He is declared to be, And that his lands, as well as goods, Sequester’d ought to be.

As if our prisons were too good, He is to Yarmouth sent, By virtue of a warrant from The King and Parliament.

Thus in our royal sovereign’s name, And eke his power infused, And by the virtue of the same, He and all his abused.

For by this means his castles now Are in the power of those Who treach’rously, with might and main, Do strive him to depose.

Arise, therefore, brave British men, Fight for your King and State, Against those trait’rous men that strive This realm to ruinate.

’Tis Pym, ’tis Pym and his colleagues, That did our woe engender; Nought but their lives can end our woes, And us in safety render.

THE MAN O’ THE MOON.

Hogg, in his second series of Jacobite Relics, states that he “got this song among some old papers belonging to Mr Orr of Alloa,” and that he never met with it elsewhere. In his first series he printed a Scottish song beginning,—

“Then was a man came fron the moon And landed in our town, sir, And he has sworn a solemn oath That all but knaves must down, sir.”

In Martin Parker’s foregoing ballad, “When the King enjoys his own again,” there is also an allusion to the man in the moon:—

“The Man in the Moon May wear out his shoon By running after Charles his wain;”

as it would appear that the “Man in the Moon,” was the title assumed by an almanack-maker of the time of the Commonwealth, who, like other astronomers and astrologers, predicted the King’s restoration. In this song the “Man o’ the Moon” clearly signifies King Charles.

The man o’ the moon for ever! The man o’ the moon for ever! We’ll drink to him still In a merry cup of ale,— Here’s the man o’ the moon for ever!

The man o’ the moon, here’s to him! How few there be that know him! But we’ll drink to him still In a merry cup of ale,— The man o’ the moon, here’s to him!

Brave man o’ the moon, we hail thee, The true heart ne’er shall fail thee; For the day that’s gone And the day that’s our own— Brave man o’ the moon, we hail thee.

We have seen the bear bestride thee, And the clouds of winter hide thee, But the moon is changed And here we are ranged,— Brave man o’ the moon, we bide thee.

The man o’ the moon for ever! The man o’ the moon for ever! We’ll drink to him still In a merry cup of ale,— Here’s the man o’ the moon for ever!

We have grieved the land should shun thee, And have never ceased to mourn thee, But for all our grief There was no relief,— Now, man o’ the moon, return thee.

There’s Orion with his golden belt, And Mars, that burning mover, But of all the lights That rule the nights, The man o’ the moon for ever!

THE TUB-PREACHER.

By Samuel Butler (Author of Hudibras). To the tune of “The Old Courtier of the Queen’s.”

WITH face and fashion to be known, With eyes all white, and many a groan, With neck awry and snivelling tone, And handkerchief from nose new-blown, And loving cant to sister Joan; ’Tis a new teacher about the town, Oh! the town’s new teacher!

With cozening laugh, and hollow cheek, To get new gatherings every week, With paltry sense as man can speak, With some small Hebrew, and no Greek, With hums and haws when stuff’s to seek; ’Tis a new teacher, etc.

With hair cut shorter than the brow, With little band, as you know how, With cloak like Paul, no coat I trow, With surplice none, nor girdle now, With hands to thump, nor knees to bow; ’Tis a new teacher, etc.

With shop-board breeding and intrusion, By some outlandish institution, With Calvin’s method and conclusion, To bring all things into confusion, And far-stretched sighs for mere illusion; ’Tis a new teacher, etc.

With threats of absolute damnation, But certainty of some salvation To his new sect, not every nation, With election and reprobation, And with some use of consolation; ’Tis a new teacher, etc.

With troops expecting him at door To hear a sermon and no more, And women follow him good store, And with great Bibles to turn o’er, Whilst Tom writes notes, as bar-boys score, ’Tis a new teacher, etc.

With double cap to put his head in, That looks like a black pot tipp’d with tin; While with antic gestures he doth gape and grin; The sisters admire, and he wheedles them in, Who to cheat their husbands think no sin; ’Tis a new teacher, etc.

With great pretended spiritual motions, And many fine whimsical notions, With blind zeal and large devotions, With broaching rebellion and raising commotions, And poisoning the people with Geneva potions; ’Tis a new teacher, etc.

THE NEW LITANY.

From the King’s pamphlets, British Museum. Satires in the form of a litany were common from 1646 to 1746, and even later.

FROM an extempore prayer and a godly ditty, From the churlish government of a city, From the power of a country committee, Libera nos, Domine.

From the Turk, the Pope, and the Scottish nation, From being govern’d by proclamation, And from an old Protestant, quite out of fashion, Libera, etc.

From meddling with those that are out of our reaches, From a fighting priest, and a soldier that preaches, From an ignoramus that writes, and a woman that teaches, Libera, etc.

From the doctrine of deposing of a king, From the _Directory_, {2} or any such thing, From a fine new marriage without a ring, Libera, etc.

From a city that yields at the first summons, From plundering goods, either man or woman’s, Or having to do with the House of Commons, Libera, etc.

From a stumbling horse that tumbles o’er and o’er, From ushering a lady, or walking before, From an English-Irish rebel, newly come o’er, {3} Libera, etc.

From compounding, or hanging in a silken altar, From oaths and covenants, and being pounded in a mortar, From contributions, or free-quarter, Libera, etc.

From mouldy bread, and musty beer, From a holiday’s fast, and a Friday’s cheer, From a brother-hood, and a she-cavalier, Libera, etc.

From Nick Neuter, for you, and for you, From Thomas Turn-coat, that will never prove true, From a reverend Rabbi that’s worse than a Jew, Libera, etc.

From a country justice that still looks big, From swallowing up the Italian fig, Or learning of the Scottish jig, Libera, etc.

From being taken in a disguise, From believing of the printed lies, From the Devil and from the Excise, {4} Libera, etc.

From a broken pate with a pint pot, For fighting for I know not what, And from a friend as false as a Scot, Libera, etc.

From one that speaks no sense, yet talks all that he can, From an old woman and a Parliament man, From an Anabaptist and a Presbyter man, Libera, etc.

From Irish rebels and Welsh hubbub-men, From Independents and their tub-men, From sheriffs’ bailiffs, and their club-men, Libera, etc.

From one that cares not what he saith, From trusting one that never payeth, From a private preacher and a public faith, Libera, etc.

From a vapouring horse and a Roundhead in buff, From roaring Jack Cavee, with money little enough, From beads and such idolatrous stuff, Libera, etc.

From holydays, and all that’s holy, From May-poles and fiddlers, and all that’s jolly From Latin or learning, since that is folly, Libera, etc.

And now to make an end of all, I wish the Roundheads had a fall, Or else were hanged in Goldsmith’s Hall. Amen.

Benedicat Dominus.

THE OLD PROTESTANT’S LITANY.

Against all sectaries And their defendants, Both Presbyterians And Independents.

Mr Walter Wilkins, in his Political Ballads of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, says, the imprint of this broadside intimates that it was published in “the year of Hope, 1647,” and Thomson, the collector, added the precise date, the 7th of September.

THAT thou wilt be pleased to grant our requests, And quite destroy all the vipers’ nests, That England and her true religion molests, Te rogamus audi nos.

That thou wilt be pleased to censure with pity The present estate of our once famous city; Let her still be govern’d by men just and witty, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased to consider the Tower, And all other prisons in the Parliament’s power, Where King Charles his friends find their welcome but sour, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased to look on the grief Of the King’s old servants, and send them relief, Restore to the yeomen o’ th’ Guard chines of beef, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased very quickly to bring Unto his just rights our so much-wrong’d King, That he may be happy in everything, Te rogamus, etc.

That Whitehall may shine in its pristine lustre, That the Parliament may make a general muster, That knaves may be punish’d by men who are juster, Te rogamus, etc.

That now the dog-days are fully expired, That those cursed curs, which our patience have tired, May suffer what is by true justice required, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased to incline conquering Thomas (Who now hath both city and Tower gotten from us), That he may be just in performing his promise, Te rogamus, etc.

That our hopeful Prince and our gracious Queen (Whom we here in England long time have not seen) May soon be restored to what they have been, Te rogamus, etc.

That the rest of the royal issue may be From their Parliamentary guardians set free, And be kept according to their high degree, Te rogamus, etc.

That our ancient Liturgy may be restored, That the organs (by sectaries so much abhorr’d) May sound divine praises, according to the word, Te rogamus, etc.

That the ring in marriage, the cross at the font, Which the devil and the Roundheads so much affront, May be used again, as before they were wont, Te rogamus, etc.

That Episcopacy, used in its right kind, In England once more entertainment may find, That Scots and lewd factions may go down the wind, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt be pleased again to restore All things in due order, as they were before, That the Church and the State may be vex’d no more, Te rogamus, etc.

That all the King’s friends may enjoy their estates, And not be kept, as they have been, at low rates, That the poor may find comfort again at their gates, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou wilt all our oppressions remove, And grant us firm faith and hope, join’d with true love, Convert or confound all which virtue reprove, Te rogamus, etc.

That all peevish sects that would live uncontroll’d, And will not be govern’d, as all subjects should, To New England may pack, or live quiet i’ th’ Old, Te rogamus, etc.

That gracious King Charles, with his children and wife, Who long time have suffer’d through this civil strife, May end with high honour their natural life, Te rogamus, etc.

That they who have seized on honest men’s treasure, Only for their loyalty to God and to Cæsar, May in time convenient find measure for measure, Te rogamus, etc.

That thou all these blessings upon us wilt send, We are no _Independents_, on Thee we depend, And as we believe, from all harm us defend; Te rogamus, etc.

VIVE LE ROY.

From a collection of songs, 1640 to 1660. It is also to be found in the additional MSS., No. 11, 608, p. 54, in the collection in the British Museum. It was sung to the air of Love lies bleeding,—and was, says Mr Chappell, “the God save the King” of Charles I., Charles II., and James II.

WHAT though the zealots pull down the prelates, Push at the pulpit, and kick at the crown, Shall we not never once more endeavour, Strive to purchase our royall renown? Shall not the Roundhead first be confounded? Sa, sa, sa, say, boys, ha, ha, ha, ha, boys, Then we’ll return with triumph and joy. Then we’ll be merry, drink white wine and sherry, Then we will sing, boys, God bless the King, boys, Cast up our caps, and cry, _Vive le Roy_.

What though the wise make Alderman Isaac Put us in prison and steal our estates, Though we be forced to be unhorsed, And walk on foot as it pleaseth the fates; In the King’s army no man shall harm ye. Then come along, boys, valiant and strong, boys, Fight for your goods, which the Roundheads enjoy; And when you venture London to enter, And when you come, boys, with fife and drum, boys, Isaac himself shall cry, _Vive le Roy_.

If you will choose them, do not refuse them, Since honest Parliament never made thieves, Charles will not further have rogues dipt in murder, Neither by leases, long lives, nor reprieves. ’Tis the conditions and propositions Will not be granted, then be not daunted, We will our honest old customs enjoy; Paul’s not rejected, will be respected, And in the quier voices rise higher, Thanks to the heavens, and (cry), _Vive le Roy_.

THE CAVALIER.

By Samuel Butler. From his Posthumous Works. A somewhat different version appears in Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time.

HE that is a clear Cavalier Will not repine, Although His pocket grow So very low He cannot get wine.

Fortune is a lass Will embrace, But soon destroy; Born free, In liberty We’ll always be, Singing _Vive le Roy_.

Virtue is its own reward, And Fortune is a whore; There’s none but knaves and fools regard her, Or her power implore. But he that is a trusty _Roger_, And will serve the King; Altho’ he be a tatter’d soldier, Yet may skip and sing: Whilst we that fight for love, May in the way of honour prove That they who make sport of us May come short of us; Fate will flatter them, And will scatter them; Whilst our loyalty Looks upon royalty, We that live peacefully, May be successfully Crown’d with a crown at last.

Tho’ a real honest man May be quite undone, He’ll show his allegiance, Love, and obedience; Those will raise him up, Honour stays him up, Virtue keeps him up, And we praise him up. Whilst the vain courtiers dine, With their bottles full of wine, Honour will make him fast. Freely then Let’s be honest men And kick at fate, For we may live to see Our loyalty Valued at a higher rate. He that bears a sword Or a word against the throne, And does profanely prate To abuse the state, Hath no kindness for his own.

What tho’ painted plumes and prayers Are the prosp’rous men, Yet we’ll attend our own affairs ’Till they come to ’t agen; Treachery may be faced with light, And letchery lined with furr; A cuckold may be made a knight, Sing _Fortune de la Guerre_. But what’s that to us, brave boys, That are right honest men? We’ll conquer and come again, Beat up the drum again; Hey for _Cavaliers_, Hoe for _Cavaliers_, Drink for _Cavaliers_, Fight for _Cavaliers_, Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, Have at Old _Beelzebub_, _Oliver_ stinks for fear.

_Fifth Monarchy-men_ must down, boys, With bulleys of every sect in town, boys; We’ll rally and to ’t again, Give ’em the rout again; Fly like light about, Face to the right-about, Charge them home again When they come on again; _Sing Tantara rara_, _boys_, _Tantara rara_, _boys_, This is the life of an Old Cavalier.

A CAVEAT TO THE ROUNDHEADS.

From the Posthumous Works of Samuel Butler.

I COME to charge ye That fight the clergy, And pull the mitre from the prelate’s head, That you will be wary Lest you miscarry In all those factious humours you have bred; But as for _Brownists_ we’ll have none, But take them all and hang them one by one.

Your wicked actions Join’d in factions Are all but aims to rob the King of his due; Then give this reason For your treason, That you’ll be ruled, if he’ll be ruled by you. Then leave these factions, zealous brother, Lest you be hanged one against another.

HEY, THEN, UP GO WE.

This song, says Mr Chappell, in his Popular Music of the Olden Time, which describes with some humour the taste of the Puritans, might pass for a Puritan song, if it were not contained in the “Shepherds’ Oracles,” by Francis Quarles, 1646. He was cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I., and afterwards chronologer to the city of London. He died in 1644, and his Shepherds’ Oracles were a posthumous publication. It was often reprinted during the Restoration, and reproduced and slightly altered by Thomas Durfey, in his “Pills to Purge Melancholy,” where the burthen is, “Hey, boys, up go we.”

KNOW this, my brethren, heaven is clear, And all the clouds are gone; The righteous man shall flourish now, Good days are coming on. Then come, my brethren, and be glad, And eke rejoyce with me; Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down, And hey, then, up go we.

We’ll break the windows which the whore Of Babylon hath painted, And when the popish saints are down Then Barrow shall be sainted; There’s neither cross nor crucifix Shall stand for men to see, Rome’s trash and trumpery shall go down, And hey, then, up go we.