Part 5

FROM all the mischiefs that I mention here, Preserve us, Heaven, in this approaching year: From civil wars and those uncivil things That hate the race of all our queens and kings; From those who for self-ends would all betray, From saints that curse and flatter when they pray; From those that hold it merit to rebel, In treason, murthers, and in theft excel; From those new teachers have destroy’d the old, And those that turn the gospel into gold; From a High-Court, and that rebellious crew That did their hands in royal blood imbrue,— Defend us, Heaven, and to the throne restore The rightful heir, and we will ask no more.

THE SALE OF REBELLION’S HOUSE-HOLD STUFF.

Printed in “Percy’s Reliques,” from an old black-letter copy in Mr Pepys’ collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in a Choice Collection of 120 Loyal Songs—1684

To the tune of “Old Sir Simon the King.”

REBELLION hath broken up house, And hath left me old lumber to sell; Come hither and take your choice, I’ll promise to use you well. Will you buy the old Speaker’s chair? Which was warm and easy to sit in, And oft has been clean’d, I declare, Whereas it was fouler than fitting. Says old Simon the King, Says old Simon the King, With his ale-dropt hose, and his Malmsey nose, Sing, hey ding, ding-a-ding, ding.

Will you buy any bacon flitches, The fattest that ever were spent? They’re the sides of the old committees Fed up in the Long Parliament. Here’s a pair of bellows and tongs, And for a small matter I’ll sell ye ’um, They are made of the presbyter’s lungs, To blow up the coals of rebellion. Says old Simon, etc.

I had thought to have given them once To some blacksmith for his forge; But now I have consider’d on’t, They are consecrate to the Church: So I’ll give them unto some quire, They will make the big organs roar, And the little pipes to squeak higher Than ever they could before. Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s a couple of stools for sale, One’s square, and t’other is round; Betwixt them both, the tail Of the Rump fell down to the ground. Will you buy the State’s council-table, Which was made of the good wain-Scot? The frame was a tottering Babel, To uphold th’ Independent plot. Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s the besom of Reformation, Which should have made clean the floor; But it swept the wealth out of the nation, And left us dirt good store. Will you buy the state’s spinning-wheel, Which spun for the roper’s trade? But better it had stood still, For now it has spun a fair thread. Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s a glyster-pipe well tried, Which was made of a butcher’s stump, And has been safely applied To cure the colds of the Rump. Here’s a lump of pilgrim’s-salve, Which once was a justice of peace, Who Noll and the devil did serve, But now it is come to this, Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s a roll of the State’s tobacco, If any good fellow will take it; No Virginia had e’er such a Smack-o, And I’ll tell you how they did make it: ’Tis th’ Engagement and Covenant cook’t Up with the abjuration oath, And many of them that have took’t Complain it was foul in the mouth. Says old Simon, etc.

Yet the ashes may happily serve To cure the scab of the nation, Whene’er’t has an itch to swerve To rebellion by innovation. A lanthorn here is to be bought, The like was scarce ever gotten, For many plots it has found out Before they ever were thought on. Says old Simon, etc.

Will you buy the Rump’s great saddle, With which it jockey’d the nation? And here is the bit and the bridle, And curb of dissimulation; And here’s the trunk-hose of the Rump, And their fair dissembling cloak; And a Presbyterian jump, With an Independent smock. Says old Simon, etc.

Will you buy a conscience oft turn’d, Which served the High-Court of justice, And stretch’d until England it mourn’d, But hell will buy that if the worst is. Here’s Joan Cromwell’s kitchen-stuff tub, Wherein is the fat of the Rumpers, With which old Noll’s horns she did rub, When he was got drunk with false bumbers. Says old Simon, etc.

Here’s the purse of the public faith; Here’s the model of the Sequestration, When the old wives upon their good troth Lent thimbles to ruin the nation. Here’s Dick Cromwell’s Protectorship, And here are Lambert’s commissions, And here is Hugh Peters his scrip, Cramm’d with tumultuous petitions. Says old Simon, etc.

And here are old Noll’s brewing vessels, And here are his dray and his flings; Here are Hewson’s {36} awl and his bristles, With diverse other odd things: And what is the price doth belong To all these matters before ye? I’ll sell them all for an old song, And so I do end my story. Says old Simon, etc.

THE CAVALIER’S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS, BEING CALLED TO THE WARRS.

The following song was extracted from the MS. Diary of the Rev. John Adamson (afterwards Rector of Burton Coggles, Lincolnshire), commencing in 1658; by a correspondent of Notes and Queries, First Series, Jan. 18, 1851.

FAIR Fidelia, tempt no more, I may no more thy deity adore Nor offer to thy shrine, I serve one more divine And farr more great than you: I must goe, Lest the foe Gaine the cause and win the day. Let’s march bravely on, Charge ym in the van, Our cause God’s is, Though their odds is Ten to one.

Tempt no more, I may not yeeld Altho’ thine eyes A kingdome may surprize: Leave off thy wanton toiles, The high-borne Prince of Wales Is mounted in the field, Where the royall gentry flocke. Though alone Nobly borne Of a ne’re decaying stocke. Cavaliers, be bold, Bravely keep your hold, He that loyters Is by traytors Bought and sold.

One kisse more, and then farewell; Oh no, no more, I prithee give me o’er,— Why cloudest thou thy beames? I see by these extreames A woman’s heaven or hell. Pray the King may have his owne, And 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 thee Once agen.

THE LAST NEWS FROM FRANCE.

[From vol. iii. of the Roxburgh Ballads, in the British Museum.]

The last news from France, being a true relation of the escape of the King of Scots from Worcester to London and from London to France,—who was conveyed away by a young gentleman in woman’s apparel; the King of Scots attending on this supposed gentlewoman in manner of a serving-man.

Tune, “When the King enjoys his own again.”

ALL you that do desire to know What is become of the King o’ Scots, I unto you will truly show After the fight of Northern Rats. ’Twas I did convey His Highness away, And from all dangers set him free;— In woman attire, As reason did require, And the King himself did wait on me.

He of me a service did crave, And oftentimes to me stood bare; In woman’s apparel he was most brave, And on his chin he had no hare; Wherever I came My speeches did frame So well my waiting-man to free, The like was never known I think by any I one, For the King himself did wait on me.

My waiting-man a jewel had, Which I for want of money sold; Because my fortune was so bad We turn’d our jewel into gold. A good shift indeed, In time of our need, Then glad was I and glad was he; Our cause it did advance Until we came to France, And the King himself did wait on me.

We walked through Westminster Hall, Where law and justice doth take place Our grief was great, our comfort small, We lookt grim death all in the face. I lookt round about, And made no other doubt But I and my man should taken be; The people little knew, As I may tell to you, The King himself did wait on me.

From thence we went to the fatal place Where his father lost his life; And then my man did weep apace, And sorrow with him then was rife. I bid him peace, Let sorrow cease, For fear that we should taken be. The gallants in Whitehall Did little know at all That the King himself did wait on me.

The King he was my serving-man, And thus the plot we did contrive: I went by the name of Mistress Anne When we took water at Queenhythe. A boat there we took, And London forsook, And now in France arrived are we. We got away by stealth, And the King is in good health, And he shall no longer wait on me.

The King of Denmark’s dead, they say, Then Charles is like to rule the land; In France he will no longer stay, As I do rightly understand. That land is his due, If they be but true, And he with them do well agree: I heard a bird sing If he once be their king, My man will then my master be.

Now Heaven grant them better success With their young king than England had; Free from war and from distress, Their fortune may not be so bad; Since the case thus stands, Let neighbouring lands Lay down their arms and at quiet be; But as for my part, I am glad with all my heart That my King must now my master be.

And thus I have declared to you By what means we escaped away; Now we bid our cares adieu, Though the King did lose the day. To him I was true, And that he well knew; ’Tis God that must his comfort be, Else all our policy Had been but foolery, For the King no longer waits on me.

SONG TO THE FIGURE TWO.

From vol. ii. of the Roxburgh Ballads, in the British Museum.

A merry new song wherein you may view The drinking healths of a joviall crew, To t’ happie return of the figure of TWO.

The figure of TWO is a palpable allusion to Charles II. Tune, “Ragged, and torn, and true.”

I HAVE been a traveller long, And seen the conditions of all; I see how each other they wrong, And the weakest still goes to the wall. And here I’ll begin to relate The crosse condition of those That hinder our happy fate, And now are turned our foes. Here’s a health to the figure of TWO, To the rest of the issue renown’d; We’ll bid all our sorrows adieu, When the figure of TWO shall be crown’d.

I crossed the ocean of late, And there I did meet with a crosse, But having a pretty estate, I never lamented my losse: I never lamented my harmes, And yet I was wondrous sad; I found all the land up in arms, And I thought all the folke had bin mad. Here’s a health, etc.

Kind countrymen, how fell ye out? I left you all quiet and still; But things are now brought so about, You nothing but plunder and kill; Some doe seem seemingly holy, And would be reformers of men, But wisdom doth laugh at their folly, And sayes they’ll be children agen, Here’s a health, etc.

But woe to the figure of One! King Solomon telleth us so; But he shall be wronged by none That hath two strings to his bow. How I love this figure of TWO Among all the figures that be, I’ll make it appear unto you If that you will listen to me. Here’s a health, etc.

Observe when the weather is cold I wear a cap on my head, But wish, if I may be so bold, The figure of TWO in my bed. TWO in my bed I do crave, And that is myself and my mate; But pray do not think I would have TWO large great hornes on my pate. Here’s a health, etc.

Since Nature hath given two hands, But when they are foul I might scorn them; Yet people thus much understands, TWO fine white gloves will adorn them. TWO feet for to bear up my body, No more had the knight of the sun; But people would think me a noddy If two shoes I would not put on. Here’s a health, etc.

The figure of TWO is a thing That we cannot well live without, No more than without a good king, Though we be never so stout; And thus we may well understand, If ever our troubles should cease, Two needful things in a land Is a king and a justice of peace. Here’s a health, etc.

And now for to draw to an end, I wish a good happy conclusion, The State would so much stand our friend, To end this unhappy confusion; The which might be done in a trice, In giving of Cæsar his due; If we were so honest and wise As to think of the figure of TWO. Here’s a health, etc.

If any desire to know, This riddle I now will unfold, It is a man wrapped in woe, Whose father is wrapped in mould: So now to conclude my song, I mention him so much the rather Because he hath suffer’d some wrong, And bears up the name of his father. Here’s a health, etc.

THE REFORMATION.

Written in the year 1652, by Samuel Butler. From his Posthumous Works.

TELL me not of Lords and laws, Rules or reformation; All that’s done not worth two straws To the welfare of the nation; If men in power do rant it still, And give no reason but their will For all their domination; Or if they do an act that’s just, ’Tis not because they would, but must, To gratify some party’s lust.

All our expense of blood and purse Has yet produced no profit; Men are still as bad or worse, And will whate’er comes of it. We’ve shuffled out and shuffled in The person, but retain the sin, To make our game the surer; Yet spight of all our pains and skill, The knaves all in the pack are still, And ever were, and ever will, Though something now demurer.

And it can never be so, Since knaves are still in fashion; Men of souls so base and low, Meer bigots of the nation; Whose designs are power and wealth, At which by rapine, power, and stealth, Audaciously they vent’re ye; They lay their consciences aside, And turn with every wind and tide, Puff’d on by ignorance and pride, And all to look like gentry.

Crimes are not punish’d ’cause they’re crimes, But cause they’re low and little: Mean men for mean faults in these times Make satisfaction to tittle; While those in office and in power Boldly the underlings devour, Our cobweb laws can’t hold ’em; They sell for many a thousand crown Things which were never yet their own, And this is law and custom grown, ’Cause those do judge who sold ’em.

Brothers still with brothers brawl, And for trifles sue ’em; For two pronouns that spoil all Contentious _meum_ and _tuum_. The wary lawyer buys and builds While the client sells his fields To sacrifice his fury; And when he thinks t’ obtain his right, He’s baffled off or beaten quite By the judge’s will, or lawyer’s slight, Or ignorance of the jury.

See the tradesman how he thrives With perpetual trouble: How he cheats and how he strives, His estate t’ enlarge and double; Extort, oppress, grind and encroach, To be a squire and keep a coach, And to be one o’ th’ quorum; Who may with’s brother-worships sit, And judge without law, fear, or wit, Poor petty thieves, that nothing get, And yet are brought before ’em.

And his way to get all this Is mere dissimulation; No factious lecture does he miss, And ’scape no schism that’s in fashion: But with short hair and shining shoes, He with two pens and note-book goes, And winks and writes at random; Thence with short meal and tedious grace, In a loud tone and public place, Sings wisdom’s hymns, that trot and pace As if Goliah scann’d ’em.

But when Death begins his threats, And his conscience struggles To call to mind his former cheats, Then at Heaven he turns and juggles: And out of all’s ill-gotten store He gives a dribbling to the poor; An hospital or school-house; And the suborn’d priest for his hire Quite frees him from th’ infernal fire, And places him in th’ angel’s quire: Thus these Jack-puddings fool us!

All he gets by’s pains i’ th’ close, Is, that he dy’d worth so much; Which he on’s doubtful seed bestows, That neither care nor know much: Then fortune’s favourite, his heir, Bred base and ignorant and bare, Is blown up like a bubble: Who wondering at’s own sudden rise, By pride, simplicity, and vice, Falls to his sports, drink, drabs, and dice, And make all fly like stubble.

And the Church, the other twin, Whose mad zeal enraged us, Is not purified a pin By all those broils in which th’ engaged us: We our wives turn’d out of doors, And took in concubines and whores, To make an alteration; Our pulpitors are proud and bold, They their own wills and factions hold, And sell salvation still for gold, And here’s our _reformation_!

’Tis a madness then to make Thriving our employment, And lucre love for lucre’s sake, Since we’ve possession, not enjoyment: Let the times run on their course, For oppression makes them worse, We ne’er shall better find ’em; Let grandees wealth and power engross, And honour, too, while we sit close, And laugh and take our plenteous dose Of sack, and never mind ’em.

UPON THE GENERAL PARDON PASSED BY THE RUMP.

From a broadside in the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum. After Cromwell’s victory at Worcester, he prevailed on the Parliament to pass a general, or quasi-general, amnesty for all political offences committed prior to that time.

REJOICE, rejoice, ye Cavaliers, For here comes that dispels your fears; A general pardon is now past, What was long look’d for, comes at last.

It pardons all that are undone; The Pope ne’er granted such a one: So long, so large, so full, so free, Oh what a glorious State have we!

Yet do not joy too much, my friends, First see how well this pardon ends; For though it hath a glorious face, I fear there’s in’t but little grace.

’Tis said the mountains once brought forth,— And what brought they? a mouse, in troth; Our States have done the like, I doubt, In this their pardon now set out.

We’ll look it o’er, then, if you please, And see wherein it brings us ease: And first, it pardons words, I find, Against our State—words are but wind.

Hath any pray’d for th’ King of late, And wish’d confusion to our State? And call’d them rebels? He may come in And plead this pardon for that sin.

Has any call’d King Charles that’s dead A martyr—he that lost his head? And villains those that did the fact? That man is pardon’d by this Act.

Hath any said our Parliament I such a one as God ne’er sent? Or hath he writ, and put in print, That he believes the devil’s in’t?

Or hath he said there never were Such tyrants anywhere as here? Though this offence of his be high, He’s pardon’d for his blasphemy.

You see how large this pardon is, It pardons all our _Mercuries_, {37} And poets too, for you know they Are poor, and have not aught to pay.

For where there’s money to be got, I find this pardon pardons not; Malignants that were rich before, Shall not be pardon’d till they’re poor.

Hath any one been true to th’ Crown, And for that paid his money down, By this new Act he shall be free, And pardon’d for his loyalty.

Who have their lands confiscate quite, For not compounding when they might; If that they know not how to dig, This pardon gives them leave to beg.

Before this Act came out in print, We thought there had been comfort in’t; We drank some healths to the higher powers, But now we’ve seen’t they’d need drink ours.

For by this Act it is thought fit That no man shall have benefit, Unless he first engage to be A rebel to eternity.

Thus, in this pardon it is clear That nothing’s here and nothing’s there: I think our States do mean to choke us With this new Act of _hocus pocus_.

Well, since this Act’s not worth a pin, We’ll pray our States to call it in, For most men think it ought to be Burnt by the hand of Gregory.

Then, to conclude, here’s little joy For those that pray _Vive le Roy_! But since they’ll not forget our crimes, We’ll keep our mirth till better times.

AN OLD SONG ON OLIVER’S COURT.

Written in the year 1654, by Samuel Butler.

HE that would a new courtier be And of the late coyn’d gentry; A brother of the prick-eared crew, Half a presbyter, half a Jew, When he is dipp’d in Jordan’s flood, And wash’d his hands in royal blood, Let him to our court repair, Where all trades and religions are.

If he can devoutly pray, Feast upon a fasting day, Be longer blessing a warm bit Than the cook was dressing it; With covenants and oaths dispense, Betray his lord for forty pence, Let him, etc.

If he be one of the eating tribe, Both a Pharisee and a Scribe, And hath learn’d the snivelling tone Of a flux’d devotion; Cursing from his sweating tub The Cavaliers to Beelzebub, Let him, etc.

Who sickler than the city ruff, Can change his brewer’s coat to buff, His dray-cart to a coach, the beast Into Flanders mares at least; Nay, hath the art to murder kings, Like David, only with his slings, Let him, etc.

If he can invert the word, Turning his ploughshare to a sword, His cassock to a coat of mail; ’Gainst bishops and the clergy rail; Convert Paul’s church into the mews; Make a new colonel of old shoes, Let him, etc.

Who hath commission to convey Both sexes to _Jamaica_, There to beget new babes of grace On wenches hotter than the place, Who carry in their tails a fire Will rather scorch than quench desire, Let him, etc.

THE PARLIAMENT ROUTED, OR HERE’S A HOUSE TO BE LET.

I hope that England, after many jarres, Shall be at peace, and give no way to warres: O Lord, protect the generall, that he May be the agent of our unitie.

Written upon the dissolution of the Long Parliament by Cromwell, on the 20th April, 1653, and extracted from the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum. June 3rd, 1653.

To the tune of “Lucina, or, Merrily and Cherrily.”

CHEARE up, kind countrymen, be not dismay’d, True news I can tell ye concerning the nation; Hot spirits are quench’d, the tempest is layd, (And now we may hope for a good reformation). The Parliament bold and the counsell of state Doe wish them beyond sea, or else at Virginie; For now all their orders are quite out of date, Twelve Parliament men shall be sold for peny.