Part 6

Full twelve years and more these rooks they have sat, To gull and to cozen all true-hearted people; Our gold and our silver has made them so fat, That they lookt more big and mighty than Paul’s steeple. The freedome of subject they much did pretend, But since they bore sway we never had any; For every member promoted self-end, Twelve Parliament men are now sold for one peny.

Their acts and their orders which they have contrived, Was still in conclusion to multiply riches: The Common-wealth sweetly by these men have thrived, As Lancashire did with the juncto of witches. {38} Oh! our freedome was chain’d to the Egyptian yoak, As it hath been felt and endured by many, Still making religion their author and cloak, Twelve Parliament men shall be sold for a peny.

Both citie and countrey are almost undone By these caterpillars, which swarm’d in the nation; Their imps and their goblins did up and downe run, Excise-men, I meane, all knaves of a fashion: For all the great treasure that dayly came in, The souldier wants pay, ’tis well knowne by a many; To cheat and to cozen they held it no sinne, Twelve Parliament men shall be sold for a peny.

The land and the livings which these men have had, ’Twould make one admire what use they’ve made of it, With plate and with jewels they have bin well clad, The souldier fared hard whilst they got the profit. Our gold and our silver to Holland they sent, But being found out, this is knowne by a many, That no one would owne it for feare of a shent, Twelve Parliament men are sold for a peny.

’Tis judged by most people that they were the cause Of England and Holland, their warring together, {39} Both friends and dear lovers to break civill lawes, And in cruell manner to kill one another. What cared they how many did lose their dear lives, So they by the bargain did get people’s money, Sitting secure like bees in their hives? But twelve Parliament men are now sold for a peny.

THE SECOND PART

To the same tune.

THEY voted, unvoted, as fancy did guide, To passe away time, but increasing their treasure (When Jack is on cock-horse hee’l galloping ride, But falling at last, hee’l repent it at leisure). The widow, the fatherlesse, gentry and poore, The tradesman and citizen, with a great many, Have suffer’d full dearly to heap up their store; But twelve Parliament men shall be sold for a peny.

These burdens and grievances England hath felt, So long and so heavy, our hearts are e’en broken, Our plate, gold and silver, to themselves they’ve dealt (All this is too true, in good time be it spoken). For a man to rise high and at last to fall low, It is a discredit: this lot fals to many, But ’tis no great matter these men to serve so, Twelve Parliament men now are sold for a peny.

The generall {40} perceiving their lustfull desire To covet more treasure, being puft with ambition, By their acts and their orders to set all on fire, Pretending religion to rout superstition: He bravely commanded the souldiers to goe In the Parliament-house, in defiance of any; To which they consented, and now you doe know That twelve Parliament men may be sold for a peny.

The souldiers undaunted laid hold on the mace, And out of the chaire they removed the speaker: The great ones was then in a pittifull case, And Tavee cryd out, All her cold must forsake her. {41} Thus they were routed, pluckt out by the eares, The House was soone empty and rid of a many Usurpers, that sate there this thirteen long yeares; Twelve Parliament men may be sold for a peny.

To the Tower of London away they were sent, As they have sent others by them captivated; Oh what will become of this old Parliament And all their compeers, that were royally stated. What they have deserved I wish they may have, And ’tis the desire I know of a many; For us to have freedome, oh that will be brave! But twelve Parliament men may be sold for a peny.

Let’s pray for the generall and all his brave traine, He may be an instrument for England’s blessing, Appointed in heaven to free us againe,— For this is the way of our burdens redressing: For England to be in glory once more, It would satisfy, I know, a great many; But ending I say, as I said before, Twelve Parliament men now are sold for a peny.

A CHRISTMAS SONG WHEN THE RUMP WAS FIRST DISSOLVED.

From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum. The Rump Parliament, in an excess of Puritanic acerbity, had abolished the observance of Christmas, and forbidden the eating of puddings and pies, as savouring of Popery.

Tune—“I tell thee, Dick.”

THIS Christmas time ’tis fit that we Should feast, and sing, and merry be. It is a time of mirth; For never since the world began More joyful news was brought to man Than at our Saviour’s birth.

But such have been these times of late, That holidays are out of date, And holiness to boot; For they that do despise and scorn To keep the day that Christ was born, Want holiness no doubt.

That Parliament that took away The observation of that day, We know it was not free; For if it had, such acts as those Had ne’er been seen in verse or prose, You may conclude with me.

’Twas that Assembly did maintain ’Twas law to kill their sovereign, Who by that law must die; Though God’s anointed ones are such, Which subjects should not dare to touch, Much less to crucify.

’Twas that which turn’d our bishops out Of house and home, both branch and root, And gave no reason why; And all our clergy did expel, That would not do like that rebel— This no man can deny.

It was that Parliament that took Out of our churches our _Service book_, A book without compare; And made God’s house (to all our griefs), That house of prayer, a den of thiefs’ Both here and everywhere.

They had no head for many years, Nor heart (I mean the House of Peers), And yet it did not die; Of these long since it was bereft, And nothing but the tail was left, You know as well as I.

And in this tail was a tongue, Lenthal {42} I mean, whose fame hath rung In country and in city; Not for his worth or eloquence, But for a rebel to his prince, And neither wise nor witty.

This Speaker’s words must needs be wind, Since they proceeded from behind; Besides, you way remember, From thence no act could be discreet, Nor could the sense o’ the House be sweet Where Atkins was a member.

This tale’s now done, the Speaker’s dumb, Thanks to the trumpet and the drum; And now I hope to see A Parliament that will restore All things that were undone before, That we may Christians be.

A FREE PARLIAMENT LITANY.

From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.—(A. D. 1655.) To the tune of “An Old Courtier of the Queen’s.”

MORE ballads!—here’s a spick and span new supplication, By order of a Committee for the Reformation, To be read in all churches and chapels of this nation, Upon pain of slavery and sequestration. From fools and knaves in our Parliament free, _Libera nos_, _Domine_.

From those that ha’ more religion and less conscience than their fellows; From a representative that’s fearful and zealous; From a starting jadish people that is troubled with the yellows, And a priest that blows the coal (a crack in his bellows); From fools and knaves, etc.

From shepherds that lead their flocks into the briars, And then fleece ’em; from vow-breakers and king-tryers; Of Church and Crown lands, from both sellers and buyers; From the children of him that is the father of liars; From fools and knaves, etc.

From the doctrine and discipline of _now and anon_, Preserve us and our wives from John T. and Saint John, Like master like man, every way but one,— The master has a large conscience, and the man has none; From fools and knaves, etc.

From major-generals, army officers, and that phanatique crew; From the parboil’d pimp Scot, and from Good-face the Jew; From old Mildmay, that in Cheapside mistook his queu, And from him that won’t pledge—Give the devil his due; From fools and knaves, etc.

From long-winded speeches, and not a wise word; From a gospel ministry settled by the sword; From the act of a Rump, that stinks when ’tis stirr’d; From a knight of the post, and a cobbling lord; From fools and knaves, etc.

From all the rich people that ha’ made us poor; From a Speaker that creeps to the House by a back-door; From that badger, Robinson (that limps and bites sore); And that dog in a doublet, Arthur—that will do so no more; From fools and knaves, etc.

From a certain sly knave with a beastly name; From a Parliament that’s wild, and a people that’s tame; From Skippon, Titchbourne, Ireton,—and another of the same; From a dung-hill cock, and a hen of the game; From fools and knaves, etc.

From all those that sat in the High Court of Justice; From usurpers that style themselves the people’s trustees; From an old Rump, in which neither profit nor gust is, And from the recovery of that which now in the dust is; From fools and knaves, etc.

From a backsliding saint that pretend t’ acquiesce; From crossing of proverbs (let ’um hang that confess); From a sniveling cause, in a pontificall dress, And two lawyers, with the devil and his dam in a mess; From fools and knaves, etc.

From those that trouble the waters to mend the fishing, And fight the Lord’s battles under the devil’s commission, Such as eat up the nation, whilst the government’s a-dishing; And from a people when it should be doing, stands wishing; From fools and knaves, etc.

From an everlasting mock-parliament—and from _none_; From Strafford’s old friends—Harry, Jack, and John; From our solicitor’s wolf-law deliver our King’s son; And from the resurrection of the Rump that is dead and gone; From fools and knaves, etc.

From foreign invasion and commotions at home; From our present distraction, and from work to come; From the same hand again Smectymnus, or the bum, And from taking Geneva in our way to Rome; From fools and knaves, etc.

From a hundred thousand pound tax to keep knaves by the score (But it is well given to these that turn’d those out of door); From undoing ourselves in plaistering old sores; He that set them a-work, let him pay their scores; From fools and knaves, etc.

From saints and tender consciences in buff; From Mounson in a foam, and Haslerig in a huff; From both men and women that think they never have enough; And from a fool’s head that looks through a chain and a duff; From fools and knaves, etc.

From those that would divide the gen’ral and the city; From Harry Martin’s girl, that was neither sweet nor pretty; From a faction that has neither brain nor pity: From the mercy of a phanatique committee; From fools and knaves, etc.

Preserve us, good Heaven, from entrusting those That ha’ much to get and little to lose; That murther’d the father, and the son would depose (Sure they can’t be our friends that are their country’s foes); From fools and knaves, etc.

From Bradshaw’s presumption, and from Hoyle’s despairs; From rotten members, blind guides, preaching aldermen, and false may’rs; From long knives, long ears, long parliaments, and long pray’rs; In mercy to this nation—Deliver us and our heirs; From fools and knaves, etc.

THE MOCK SONG.

By T. J. With a reply by Alex. Brome.—(A.D. 1657.)

HOLD, hold, quaff no more, But restore If you can what you’ve lost by your drinking: Three kingdoms and crowns, With their cities and towns, While the King and his progeny’s sinking. The studs in your cheeks have obscured his star, boys, Your drinking miscarriages in the late war, boys, Have brought his prerogative now to the war, boys.

Throw, throw down the glass! He’s an ass That extracts all his worth from Canary; That valour will shrink That’s only good in drink; ’Twas the cup made the camp to miscarry. You thought in the world there’s no power could tame ye, You tippled and whored till the foe overcame ye; God’s nigs and Ne’er stir, sirs, has vanquish’d God damn me.

Fly, fly from the coast, Or you’re lost, And the water will run where the drink went; From hence you must slink, If you have no chink, ’Tis the course of the royal delinquent; You love to see beer-bowls turn’d over the thumb well, You like three fair gamesters, four dice, and a drum well, But you’d as lief see the devil as Fairfax or Cromwell.

Drink, drink not the round, You’ll be drown’d In the source of your sack and your sonnets; Try once more your fate For the King against the State, And go barter your beavers for bonnets. You see how they’re charm’d by the King’s enchanters, And therefore pack hence to Virginia for planters, For an act and two red-coats will rout all the ranters.

THE ANSWER.

By Alex. Brome.

STAY, stay, prate no more, Lest thy brain, like thy purse, run the score, Though thou strain’st it; Those are traitors in grain That of sack do complain, And rail by its own power against it. Those kingdoms and crowns which your poetry pities, Are fall’n by the pride and hypocrisy of cities, And not by those brains that love sack and good ditties; The K. and his progeny had kept them from sinking, Had they had no worse foes than the lads that love drinking, We that tipple ha’ no leisure for plotting or thinking.

He is an ass That doth throw down himself with a glass Of Canary; He that’s quiet will think Much the better of drink, ’Cause the cups made the camp to miscarry. You whore while we tipple, and there, my friend, you lie, Your sports did determine in the month of July; There’s less fraud in plain damme than your sly by my truly; ’Tis sack makes our bloods both purer and warmer, We need not your priest or the feminine charmer, For a bowl of Canary’s a whole suit of armour.

Hold, hold, not so fast, Tipple on, for there is no such haste To be going; We drowning may fear, But your end will be there Where there is neither swimming nor rowing. We were gamesters alike, and our stakes were both down, boys, But Fortune did favour you, being her own, boys; And who would not venture a cast for a crown, boys? Since we wear the right colours, he the worst of our foes is That goes to traduce, and fondly supposes That Cromwell’s an enemy to sack and red noses.

Then, then, quaff it round, No deceit in a brimmer is found; Here’s no swearing: Beer and ale makes you prate Of the Church and the State, Wanting other discourse worth the hearing. This strumpet your muse is, to ballad or flatter, Or rail, and your betters with froth to bespatter, And your talk’s all dismals and gunpowder matter; But we, while old sack does divinely inspire us, Are active to do what our rulers require us, And attempt such exploits as the world shall admire us.

AS CLOSE AS A GOOSE.

By Samuel Butler.—(A.D. 1657.) This ballad ridicules the tender of the Crown of England to Oliver Cromwell by Alderman Pack, M.P. for London.

AS close as a goose Sat the Parliament-house, To hatch the royal gull; After much fiddle-faddle The egg proved addle, And Oliver came forth _Noll_.

Yet old Queen Madge, {43} Though things do not fadge, Will serve to be queen of a May-pole; Two Princes of Wales, {44} For Whitsun-ales, And her grace, Maid Marion Claypole. {45}

In a robe of cow hide Sat yeasty Pride, {46} With his dagger and his sling; He was the pertinenst peer Of all that were there, T’ advise with such a king.

A great philosopher Had a goose for his lover That follow’d him day and night: If it be a true story, Or but an allegory, It may be both ways right.

Strickland {47} and his son, Both cast into one, Were meant for a single baron; But when they came to sit, There was not wit Enough in them both to serve for one.

Wherefore ’twas thought good To add Honeywood, But when they came to trial Each one proved a fool, Yet three knaves in the whole, And that made up a _pair-royal_.

THE PRISONERS.

Written when O. C. attempted to be King. By Alex. Brome.

COME, a brimmer (my bullies), drink whole ones or nothing, Now healths have been voted down; ’Tis sack that can heat us, we care not for clothing, A gallon’s as warm as a gown; ’Cause the Parliament sees Nor the former nor these Could engage us to drink their health, They may vote that we shall Drink no healths at all, Not to King nor to Commonwealth, So that now we must venture to drink ’em by stealth.

But we’ve found out a way that’s beyond all their thinking; To keep up good fellowship still, We’ll drink their destruction that would destroy drinking,— Let ’um vote _that_ a health if they will. Those men that did fight, And did pray day and night For the Parliament and its attendant, Did make all that bustle The King out to justle, And bring in the Independent, But now we all clearly see what was the end on’t.

Now their idols thrown down with their sooter-kin also, About which they did make such a pother; And tho’ their contrivance did make one thing to fall so, We have drank ourselves into another; And now (my lads) we May still Cavaliers be, In spite of the Committee’s frown; We will drink and we’ll sing, And each health to our King Shall be loyally drunk in the ‘_Crown_,’ Which shall be the standard in every town.

Their politick would-be’s do but show themselves asses That other men’s calling invade; We only converse with pots and with glasses, Let the rulers alone with their trade; The Lyon of the Tower There estates does devour, Without showing law for’t or reason; Into prison we get For the crime called debt, Where our bodies and brains we do season, And that is ne’er taken for murder or treason.

Where our ditties still be, Give’s more drink, give’s more drink, boys. Let those that are frugal take care; Our gaolers and we will live by our chink, boys, While our creditors live by the air; Here we live at our ease, And get craft and grease, ’Till we’ve merrily spent all our store; Then, as drink brought us in, ’Twill redeem us agen; We got in because we were poor, And swear ourselves out on the very same score.

THE PROTECTING BREWER.

This was apparently written as a parody on the Brewer, in Pills to purge Melancholy, 1682. The original was too complimentary to Oliver Cromwell, asserted by the Royalists to have been a brewer in early life, to suit the taste of the Cavaliers, and hence the alteration made in it. Such compliments as the following must have proceeded from a writer of the opposite party.

Some Christian kings began to quake, And said With the brewer no quarrel we’ll make, We’ll let him alone; as he brews let him bake; Which nobody can deny.

He had a strong and a very stout heart, And thought to be made an Emperor for’t, * * * * * Which nobody can deny.

A BREWER may be a burgess grave, And carry the matter so fine and so brave, That he the better may play the knave, Which nobody can deny.

A brewer may put on a Nabal face, And march to the wars with such a grace That he may get a captain’s place; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may speak so wondrous well That he may rise (strange things to tell), And so be made a colonel; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may make his foes to flee, And rise his fortunes, so that he Lieutenant-general may be; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may be all in all, And raise his powers, both great and small, That he may be a lord general; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may be like a fox in a cub, And teach a lecture out of a tub, And give the wicked world a rub; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer, by’s excise and rate, Will promise his army he knows what, And set upon the college-gate; Which nobody, etc.

Methinks I hear one say to me, Pray why may not a brewer be Lord Chancellor o’ the University? Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may be as bold as Hector, When as he had drank his cup o’ Nectar, And a brewer may be a Lord Protector; Which nobody, etc.

Now here remains the strangest thing, How this brewer about his liquor did bring To be an emperor or a king; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may do what he will, And rob the Church and State, to sell His soul unto the devil in hell; Which nobody, etc.

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF THE DEVIL FOR STEALING AWAY PRESIDENT BRADSHAW.

John Bradshaw, who had presided over the court of justice which condemned Charles I. to the scaffold, and who by his extreme republican principles had rendered himself obnoxious to Cromwell, began again to be distinguished in public affairs after the Protector’s death, and was elected President of the Council of State. He did not live long to enjoy this honour, but died, according to some authorities, on the 31st October, 1659. Chalmers places his death on the 22nd of November in that year.

To the tune of “Well-a-day, well-a-day.”

IF you’ll hear news that’s ill, Gentlemen, gentlemen, Against the devil, I will Be the relator; Arraigned he must be, For that feloniously, ’Thout due solemnity, He took a traitor.

John Bradshaw was his name, How it stinks! how it stinks! Who’ll make with blacker fame Pilate unknown. This worse than worse of things Condemn’d the best of kings, And, what more guilt yet brings, Knew ’twas his own.

Virtue in Charles did seem Eagerly, eagerly, And villainy in him To vye for glory. Majesty so compleat And impudence so great Till that time never met:— But to my story.

Accusers there will be, Bitter ones, bitter ones, More than one, two, or three, All full of spight; Hangman and tree so tall, Bridge, tower, and city-wall, Kite and crow, which were all Robb’d of their right.

But judges none are fit, Shame it is, shame it is, That twice seven years did sit To give hemp-string dome; The friend they would befriend, That he might in the end To them like favour lend, In his own kingdome.

Sword-men, it must be you, Boldly to’t, boldly to’t, Must give the diver his due; Do it not faintly, But as you raised by spell Last Parliament from hell, And it again did quell Omnipotently.

The charge they wisely frame (On with it, on with it) In that yet unknown name Of supream power; While six weeks hence by vote Shall be or it shall not, When Monk’s to London got {48} In a good hour.