Part 4

The Parliament to vote it down Conceived it very fitting, For fear it should fall, and kill them all In the House as they were sitting. They were told god-wot, it had a plot, Which made them so hard-hearted, To give command it should not stand, But be taken down and carted.

Men talk of plots, this might have been worse, For anything I know, Than that _Tomkins_ and _Chaloner_ Were hang’d for long agoe. Our Parliament did that prevent, And wisely them defended, For plots they will discover still Before they were intended.

But neither man, woman, nor child Will say, I’m confident, They ever heard it speak one word Against the Parliament. An informer swore it letters bore, Or else it had been freed; In troth I’ll take my Bible oath It could neither write nor read.

The Committee said that verify To Popery it was bent: For ought I know, it might be so, For to church it never went. What with excise, and such device, The kingdom doth begin To think you’ll leave them ne’er a cross Without doors nor within.

Methinks the Common-council should Of it have taken pity, ’Cause, good old cross, it always stood So firmly to the city. Since crosses you so much disdain, Faith, if I were as you, For fear the King should rule again I’d pull down Tiburn too.

Whitlocke says, “May 3rd, 1643, Cheapside Cross and other crosses were voted down,” &c. When this vote was put in execution does not appear; probably not till many mouths after Tomkins and Chaloner had suffered.

We had a very curious account of the pulling down of Cheapside Cross lately published in one of the Numbers of the _Gentlemen’s Magazine_, 1766.—_Percy’s Reliques_.

THE LONG PARLIAMENT.

By John Cleveland.

MOST gracious and omnipotent, And everlasting Parliament, Whose power and majesty Are greater than all kings by odds; And to account you less than gods Must needs be blasphemy.

Mosses and Aaron ne’er did do More wonder than is wrought by you For England’s Israel; But though the Red Sea we have past, If you to Canaan bring’s at last, Is’t not a miracle—?

In six years’ space you have done more Than all the parliaments before; You have quite done the work. The King, the Cavalier, and Pope, You have o’erthrown, and next we hope You will confound the Turk.

By you we have deliverance From the design of Spain and France, Ormond, Montrose, the Danes; You, aided by our brethren Scots, Defeated have malignant plots, And brought your sword to Cain’s.

What wholesome laws you have ordain’d, Whereby our property’s maintain’d, ’Gainst those would us undo; So that our fortunes and our lives, Nay, what is dearer, our own wives, Are wholly kept by you.

Oh! what a flourishing Church and State Have we enjoy’d e’er since you sate, With a glorious King (God save him!): Have you not made his Majesty, Had he the grace but to comply, And do as you would have him!

Your _Directory_ how to pray By the spirit shows the perfect way; In real you have abolisht The Dagon of the _Common Prayer_, And next we see you will take care That churches be demolisht.

A multitude in every trade Of painful preachers you have made, Learned by revelation; Cambridge and Oxford made poor preachers, Each shop affordeth better teachers,— O blessed reformation!

Your godly wisdom hath found out The true religion, without doubt; For sure among so many We have five hundred at the least; Is not the gospel much increast? All must be pure, if any.

Could you have done more piously Than sell church lands the King to buy, And stop the city’s plaints? Paying the Scots church-militant, That the new gospel helpt to plant; God knows they are poor saints!

Because th’ Apostles’ Creed is lame, Th’ Assembly doth a better frame, Which saves us all with ease; Provided still we have the grace To believe th’ House in the first place, Our works be what they please.

’Tis strange your power and holiness Can’t the Irish devils dispossess, His end is very stout: But tho’ you do so often pray, And ev’ry month keep fasting-day, You cannot cast them out.

THE PURITAN.

By John Cleveland. To the tune of “An old Courtier of the Queen’s.”

WITH face and fashion to be known, For one of sure election; With eyes all white, and many a groan, With neck aside to draw in tone, With harp in’s nose, or he is none: See a new teacher of the town, Oh the town, oh the town’s new teacher!

With pate cut shorter than the brow, With little ruff starch’d, you know how, With cloak like Paul, no cape I trow, With surplice none; but lately now With hands to thump, no knees to bow: See a new teacher, etc.

With coz’ning cough, and hollow cheek, To get new gatherings every week, With paltry change of _and_ to _eke_, With some small Hebrew, and no Greek, To find out words, when stuff’s to seek: See a new teacher, etc.

With shop-board breeding and intrusion, With some outlandish institution, With Ursine’s catechism to muse on, With system’s method for confusion, With grounds strong laid of mere illusion: See a new teacher, etc.

With rites indifferent all damned, And made unlawful, if commanded; Good works of Popery down banded, And moral laws from him estranged, Except the sabbath still unchanged: See a new teacher, etc.

With speech unthought, quick revelation, With boldness in predestination, With threats of absolute damnation Yet _yea_ and _nay_ hath some salvation For his own tribe, not every nation: See a new teacher, etc.

With after license cast a crown, When Bishop new had put him down; With tricks call’d repetition, And doctrine newly brought to town Of teaching men to hang and drown: See a new teacher, etc.

With flesh-provision to keep Lent, With shelves of sweetmeats often spent, Which new maid bought, old lady sent, Though, to be saved, a poor present, Yet legacies assure to event: See a new teacher, etc.

With troops expecting him at th’ door, That would hear sermons, and no more; With noting tools, and sighs great store, With Bibles great to turn them o’er, While he wrests places by the score: See a new teacher, etc.

With running text, the named forsaken, With _for_ and _but_, both by sense shaken, Cheap doctrines forced, wild uses taken, Both sometimes one by mark mistaken; With anything to any shapen: See a new teacher, etc.

With new-wrought caps, against the canon, For taking cold, tho’ sure he have none; A sermon’s end, where he began one, A new hour long, when’s glass had run one, New use, new points, new notes to stand on: See a new teacher, etc.

THE ROUNDHEAD.

From Samuel Butler’s Posthumous Works.

WHAT creature’s that, with his short hairs, His little band, and huge long ears, That this new faith hath founded? The saints themselves were never such, The prelates ne’er ruled half so much; Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that doth the bishops hate, And counts their calling reprobate, ’Cause by the Pope propounded; And thinks a zealous cobbler better Than learned Usher in ev’ry letter? Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that doth _high treason_ say, As often as his _yea_ and _nay_, And wish the King confounded; And dares maintain that Mr Pim Is fitter for a crown than him? Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that if he chance to hear A little piece of _Common Prayer_, Doth think his conscience wounded; Will go five miles to preach and pray, And meet a sister by the way? Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.

What’s he that met a holy sister And in a haycock gently kiss’d her? Oh! then his zeal abounded: ’Twas underneath a shady willow, Her Bible served her for a pillow, And there he got a Roundhead.

PRATTLE YOUR PLEASURE UNDER THE ROSE.

From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.

THERE is an old proverb which all the world knows, Anything may be spoke, if ’t be under the rose: Then now let us speak, whilst we are in the hint, Of the state of the land, and th’ enormities in’t.

Under the rose be it spoke, there is a number of knaves, More than ever were known in a State before; But I hope that their mischiefs have digg’d their own graves, And we’ll never trust knaves for their sakes any more.

Under the rose be it spoken, the city’s an ass So long to the public to let their gold run, To keep the King out; but ’tis now come to pass, I am sure they will lose, whosoever has won.

Under the rose be it spoken, there’s a company of men, Trainbands they are called—a plague confound ’em:— And when they are waiting at Westminster Hall, May their wives be beguiled and begat with child all!

Under the rose be it spoken, there’s a damn’d committee Sits in hell (Goldsmiths’ Hall), in the midst of the city, Only to sequester the poor Cavaliers— The devil take their souls, and the hangman their ears.

Under the rose be it spoken, if you do not repent Of that horrible sin, your pure Parliament, Pray stay till Sir Thomas doth bring in the King, Then Derrick {32} may chance have ’em all in a string.

Under the rose be it spoken, let the synod now leave To wrest the whole Scripture, how souls to deceive; For all they have spoken or taught will ne’er save ’em, Unless they will leave that fault, hell’s sure to have ’em!

THE DOMINION OF THE SWORD.

A song made in the Rebellion.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. To the tune of “Love lies a bleeding.”

LAY by your pleading, Law lies a bleeding; Burn all your studies down, and Throw away your reading.

Small pow’r the word has, And can afford us Not half so much privilege as The sword does.

It fosters your masters, It plaisters disasters, It makes the servants quickly greater Than their masters.

It venters, it enters, It seeks and it centers, It makes a’prentice free in spite Of his indentures.

It talks of small things, But it sets up all things; This masters money, though money Masters all things.

It is not season To talk of reason, Nor call it loyalty, when the sword Will have it treason.

It conquers the crown, too, The grave and the gown, too, First it sets up a presbyter, and Then it pulls him down too.

This subtle disaster Turns bonnet to beaver; Down goes a bishop, sirs, and up Starts a weaver.

This makes a layman To preach and to pray, man; And makes a lord of him that Was but a drayman.

Far from the gulpit Of Saxby’s pulpit, This brought an Hebrew ironmonger To the pulpit.

Such pitiful things be More happy than kings be; They get the upper hand of Thimblebee And Slingsbee.

No gospel can guide it, No law can decide it, In Church or State, till the sword Has sanctified it.

Down goes your law-tricks, Far from the matricks, Sprung up holy Hewson’s power, And pull’d down St Patrick’s.

This sword it prevails, too, So highly in Wales, too, Shenkin ap Powel swears “Cots-splutterer nails, too.”

In Scotland this faster Did make such disaster, That they sent their money back For which they sold their master.

It batter’d their Gunkirk, And so it did their Spainkirk, That he is fled, and swears the devil Is in Dunkirk.

He that can tower, Or he that is lower, Would be judged a fool to put Away his power.

Take books and rent ’em, Who can invent ’em, When that the sword replies, _Negatur argumentum_.

Your brave college-butlers Must stoop to the sutlers; There’s ne’er a library Like to the cutlers’.

The blood that was spilt, sir, Hath gain’d all the gilt, sir; Thus have you seen me run my Sword up to the hilt, sir.

THE STATE’S NEW COIN.

The coinage issued during the Protectorate of Cromwell, consisted of pieces having on the obverse side a shield with St George’s cross, encircled by a laurel and palm branch, and the words, “The Commonwealth of England.” On the reverse side was the legend, “God with us,” and two shields, bearing the arms of England and Ireland.

SAW you the State’s money new come from the Mint? Some people do say it is wonderous fine; And that you may read a great mystery in’t, Of mighty King Nol, the lord of the coin.

They have quite omitted his politic head, His worshipful face, and his excellent nose; But the better to show the life he had led, They have fix’d upon it the print of his hose.

For, if they had set up his picture there, They needs must ha’ crown’d him in Charles’s stead; But ’twas cunningly done, that they did forbear, And rather would set up aught else than his head.

’Tis monstrous strange, and yet it is true, In this reformation we should have such luck; That crosses were always disdain’d by you, Who before pull’d them down, should now set them up.

On this side they have circumscribed “God with us,” And in this stamp and coin they confide; _Common-Wealth_ on the other, by which we may guess That God and the States were not both of a side.

On this side they have cross and harp, And only a cross on the other set forth; By which we may learn, it falls to our part Two crosses to have for one fit of mirth!

THE ANARCHIE, OR THE BLEST REFORMATION SINCE 1640.

Being a new song, wherein the people expresse their thankes and pray for the reformers.

To be said or sung of all the well-affected of the kingdome of England, and dominion of Wales, before the breaking up of this unhappy Parliament.

[From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum. It is printed but incorrectly in the “Rump Songs,” ed. 1665, under the title of “The Rebellion.”]

To a rare new Tune. (Oct. 24, 1648.)

NOW that, thankes to the powers below! We have e’ne done out our doe, The mitre is downe, and so is the crowne, And with them the coronet too; Come clownes, and come boyes, come hober-de-hoyes, Come females of each degree; Stretch your throats, bring in your votes, And make good the anarchy. And “thus it shall goe,” sayes Alice; “Nay, thus it shall goe,” sayes Amy; “Nay, thus it shall goe,” sayes Taffie, “I trow;” “Nay, thus it shall goe,” sayes Jamy.

Ah! but the truth, good people all, The truth is such a thing; For it wou’d undoe both Church and State too, And cut the throat of our King. Yet not the spirit, nor the new light, Can make this point so cleare, But thou must bring out, thou deified rout, What thing this truth is, and where. Speak Abraham, speak Kester, speak Judith, speak Hester, Speak tag and rag, short coat and long; Truth’s the spell made us rebell, And murther and plunder, ding-dong. “Sure I have the truth,” sayes Numph; “Nay, I ha’ the truth,” sayes Clemme; “Nay, I ha’ the truth,” sayes Reverend Ruth; “Nay, I ha’ the truth,” sayes Nem.

Well, let the truth be where it will, We’re sure all else is ours; Yet these divisions in our religions May chance abate our powers. Then let’s agree on some one way, It skills not much how true; Take Pryn and his clubs; or Say and his tubs, {33} Or any sect old or new; The devil’s i’ th’ pack, if choyce you can lack, We’re fourscore religions strong; Take your choyce, the major voyce Shall carry it, right or wrong. “Then wee’le be of this,” sayes Megg; “Nay, wee’le be of that,” sayes Tibb; “Nay, wee’le be of all,” sayes pitifull Paul; “Nay, wee’le be of none,” sayes Gibb.

Neighbours and friends, pray one word more, There’s something yet behinde; And wise though you be, you doe not well see In which doore sits the winde. As for religion to speake right, And in the Houses sence, The matter’s all one to have any or none, If ’twere not for the pretence. But herein doth lurke the key of the worke, Even to dispose of the crowne, Dexteriously, and as may be, For your behoofe and your owne. “Then let’s ha’ King Charles,” sayes George; “Nay, let’s have his son,” sayes Hugh; “Nay, let’s have none,” sayes Jabbering Jone; “Nay, let’s be all kings,” sayes Prue.

Oh we shall have (if we go on In plunder, excise, and blood) But few folke and poore to domineere ore, And that will not be so good; Then let’s resolve on some new way, Some new and happy course, The country’s growne sad, the city horne-mad, And both the Houses are worse. The synod hath writ, the generall hath spit, And both to like purposes too; Religion, lawes, the truth, the cause, Are talk’t of, but nothing we doe. “Come, come, shal’s ha’ peace?” sayes Nell; “No, no, but we won’t,” sayes Madge; “But I say we will,” sayes firy-faced Phill; “We will and we won’t,” sayes Hodge.

Thus from the rout who can expect Ought but division? Since unity doth with monarchy Begin and end in one. If then when all is thought their owne, And lyes at their behest, These popular pates reap nought but debates, From that many round-headed beast; Come, Royalists, then, doe you play the men, And Cavaliers give the word; Now let us see at what you would be, And whether you can accord. “A health to King Charles!” sayes Tom; “Up with it,” sayes Ralph, like a man; “God blesse him,” sayes Doll; “and raise him,” sayes Moll; “And send him his owne!” sayes Nan.

Now for these prudent things that sit Without end and to none, And their committees, that townes and cities Fill with confusion; For the bold troopes of sectaries, The Scots and their partakers, Our new British states, Col. Burges and his mates, The covenant and its makers; For all these wee’le pray, and in such a way, As if it might granted be, Jack and Gill, Mat and Will, And all the world would agree. “A plague take them all!” sayes Besse; “And a pestilence too!” sayes Margery, “The devill!” sayes Dick; “And his dam, {34} too!” sayes Nick; “Amen! and Amen!” say I.

It is desired that the knights and burgesses would take especial care to send down full numbers hereof to their respective counties and burroughs, for which they have served apprenticeship, that all the people may rejoyce as one man for their freedom.

A COFFIN FOR KING CHARLES, A CROWN FOR CROMWELL, AND A PIT FOR THE PEOPLE.

From a broadside in the King’s Pamphlets, vol. viii. in the British Museum, with the direction, “You may sing this to the tune of ‘Faine I would.’” The tune sometimes called “Parthenia,” and “The King’s Complaint,” is to be found in Mr Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time. The King was beheaded in January, 1649. This Ballad is dated the 23rd of April in the same year.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

SO, so, the deed is done, The royal head is sever’d, As I meant when I first begun, And strongly have endeavour’d. Now Charles the First is tumbled down, The Second I do not fear; I grasp the sceptre, wear the crown, Nor for Jehovah care.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Think’st thou, base slave, though in my grave Like other men I lie, My sparkling fame and royal name Can (as thou wishest) die? Know, caitif, in my son I live (The Black Prince call’d by some), And he shall ample vengeance give To those that did my doom.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Supprest, deprest, involved in woes, Great Charles, thy people be Basely deceived with specious shows By those that murther’d thee. We are enslaved to tyrants’ hests, Who have our freedom won: Our fainting hope now only rests On thy succeeding son.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Base vulgar! know, the more you stir, The more your woes increase, Your rashness will your hopes deter, ’Tis we must give you peace. Black Charles a traitor is proclaim’d Unto our dignity; He dies (if e’er by us he’s gain’d) Without all remedy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou And thy degenerate train, By mankind’s Saviour’s body vow To me thy sovereign, To make me the most glorious king That e’er o’er England reign’d; That me and mine in everything By you should be maintain’d?

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave Of thy beloved shade; ’Tis we that brought thee to the grave, Thou wert by us betray’d. We did believe ’twas reformation These monsters did desire; Not knowing that thy degradation And death should be our hire.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Ye sick-brain’d fools! whose wit does lie In your small guts; could you Imagine our conspiracy Did claim no other due, But for to spend our dearest bloods To make rascallions flee? No, we sought for your lives and goods, And for a monarchy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

But there’s a Thunderer above, Who, though he winks awhile, Is not with your black deeds in love, He hates your damned guile. And though a time you perch upon The top of Fortune’s wheel, You shortly unto Acharon (Drunk with your crimes) shall reel.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth) We languishing do die: _Excise_ doth give free-quarters birth, While soldiers multiply. Our lives we forfeit every day, Our money cuts our throats; The laws are taken clean away, Or shrunk to traitor’s votes.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Like patient mules resolve to bear Whate’er we shall impose; Your lives and goods you need not fear, We’ll prove your friends, not foes. We (the _elected_ ones) must guide A thousand years this land; You must be props unto our pride, And slaves to our command.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

But you may fail of your fair hopes, If fates propitious be; And yield your loathed lives in ropes To vengeance and to me. When as the Swedes and Irish join, The Cumbrian and the Scot Do with the Danes and French combine, Then look unto your lot.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Our wrongs have arm’d us with such strength, So sad is our condition, That could we hope that now at length We might find intermission, And had but half we had before, Ere these mechanics sway’d; To our revenge, knee-deep in gore, We would not fear to wade.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

In vain (fond people) do you grutch And tacitly repine. For why? my skill and strength are such Both poles of heaven are mine. Your hands and purses both cohered To raise us to this height: You must protect those you have rear’d, Or sink beneath their weight.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Singing with angels near the throne Of the Almighty Three I sit, and know perdition (Base Cromwell) waits on thee, And on thy vile associates: Twelve months {35} shall full conclude Your power—thus speak the powerful fates, Then _vades_ your interlude.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Yea, powerful fates, haste, haste the time, The most auspicious day, On which these monsters of our time To hell must post away. Meanwhile, so pare their sharpen’d claws, And so impair their stings, We may no more fight for the Cause Or other _novel_ things!

A SHORT LITANY FOR THE YEAR 1649.

By Samuel Butler. (From his Posthumous Works.)