Part 8

GOOD-MORROW, my neighbours all, what news is this I heard tell As I past through Westminster-hall by the House that’s neck to hell? They told John Lambert {72} was there with his bears, and deeply he swore (As Cromwell had done before) those vermin should sit there no more. Sing hi ho, Wil. Lenthall, {73} who shall our general be? For the House to the Devil is sent all, and follow, good faith, mun ye! Sing hi ho, my honey, my heart shall never rue, Here’s all pickt ware for the money, and yet a hard pennyworth too.

Then, Muse, strike up a sonnet, come, piper, and play us a spring, For now I think upon it, these R’s turn’d out their King; But now is come about, that once again they must turn out, And not without justice and reason, that every one home to his prison. Sing hi ho, Harry Martin, {74} a burgess of the bench, There’s nothing here is certain, you must back and leave your wench. Sing, hi ho, etc.

He there with the buffle head is called lord and of the same House, Who (as I have heard it said) was chastised by his ladye spouse; Because he ran at sheep, she and her maid gave him the whip, And beat his head so addle, you’d think he had a knock in the cradle. Sing hi ho, Lord Munson, {75} you ha’ got a park of the King’s; One day you’l hang like a hounson, for this and other things, Sing hi, ho, etc.

It was by their master’s orders at first together they met, Whom piously they did murder, and since by their own they did set. The cause of this disaster is ’cause they were false to their master; Nor can they their gens-d’armes blame for serving them the same. Sing hi ho, Sir Arthur, {76} no more in the House you shall prate; For all you kept such a quarter, {77} you are out of the councell of state. Sing hi ho, etc.

Old Noll once gave them a purge (forgetting OCCIDISTI), (The furies be his scourge!) so of the cure must he; And yet the drug he well knew it, for he gave it to Dr Huit; {78} Had he given it them, he had done it, and they had not turn’d out his son yet; Sing hi ho, brave Dick, Lenthall, and Lady Joane, Who did against lovalty kick is now for a new-year’s gift gone. Sing hi ho, etc.

For had Old Noll been alive, he had pull’d them out by the ears, Or else had fired their hive, and kickt them down the staires; Because they were so bold to vex his righteous soul, When he so deeply had swore that there they should never sit more. But hi ho, Noll’s dead, and stunk long since above ground, Though lapt in spices and lead that cost us many a pound. Sing hi ho, etc.

Indeed, brother burgess, your ling did never stink half so bad, Nor did your habberdin when it no pease-straw had; Ye both were chose together, ’cause ye wore stuff cloaks in hard weather, And Cambridge needs would have a burgess fool and knave. Sing hi ho, John Lowry, {79} concerning habberdin, No member spake before ye, yet you ne’re spoke againe. Sing hi, ho, etc.

Ned Prideaux {80} he went post to tell the Protector the news, That Fleetwood ruld the rost, having tane off Dicke’s shoes. And that he did believe, Lambert would him deceive As he his brother had gull’d, and Cromwell Fairfax bull’d. Sing hi ho, the attorney was still at your command; In flames together burn ye, still dancing hand in hand! Sing hi ho, etc.

Who’s that would hide his face, and his neck from the collar pull? He must appear in this place, if his cap be made of wool. Who is it? with a vengeance! it is the good Lord St Johns, {81} Who made God’s house to fall, to build his own withall. Sing hi ho, who comes there? who ’tis I must not say; But by his dark lanthorn, I sweare he’s as good in the night as day. Sing hi ho, etc.

Edge, brethren, room for one that looks as big as the best; ’Tis pity to leave him alone, for he is as good as the rest; No picklock of the laws, he builds among the daws, If you ha’ any more kings to murder, for a President look no further. Sing hi ho, John Bradshaw, in blood none further engages; The Devil from whom he had’s law, will shortly pay him his wages. Sing hi ho, etc.

Next, Peagoose Wild, {82} come in to show your weesle face, And tell us Burley’s sin, whose blood bought you your place; When loyalty was a crime, he lived in a dangerous time, Was forced to pay his neck to make you baron of the cheque. Sing hi ho, Jack Straw, we’ll put it in the margent, ’Twas not for justice or law that you were made a sergeant. Sing hi ho, etc.

Noll served not Satan faster, nor with him did better accord; For he was my good master, and the Devil was his good lord. Both Slingsby, Gerard, and Hewet, {83} were sure enough to go to it, According to his intent, that chose me President. Sing hi ho, Lord Lisle, {84} sure law had got a wrench, And where was justice the while, when you sate on the bench. Sing hi ho, etc.

Next comes the good Lord Keble, of the Triumvirate, Of the seal in the law but feeble, though on the bench he sate; For when one puts him a case, I wish him out of the place, And, if it were not a sin, an able lawyer in. Sing, give the seal about, I’de have it so the rather, Because we might get out the knave, my lord, my father. Sing hi ho, etc.

Pull out the other three, it is Nathaniel Fines {85} (Who Bristol lost for fear), we’ll not leave him behind’s; ’Tis a chip of that good old block, who to loyalty gave the first knock, Then stole away to Lundey, whence the foul fiend fetches him one day. Sing hi ho, canting Fines, you and the rest to mend ’um, Would ye were served in your kinds with an _ense rescidendum_. Sing hi ho, etc.

He that comes down-stairs, is Lord Chief Justice Glin; {86} If no man for him cares, he cares as little again: The reason too I know’t, he helpt cut Strafford’s throat, And take away his life, though with a cleaner knife. Sing hi ho, Britain bold, straight to the bar you get, Where it is not so cold as where your justice set. Sing hi ho, etc.

He that will next come in, was long of the Council of State, Though hardly a hair on his chin when first in the council he sate; He was sometime in Italy, and learned their fashions prettily, Then came back to’s own nation, to help up reformation. Sing hi ho, Harry Nevil, {87} I prythee be not too rash With atheism to court the Divel, you’re too bold to be his bardash. Sing hi ho, etc.

He there with ingratitude blackt is one Cornelius Holland, {88} Who, but for the King’s house, lackt wherewith to appease his colon; The case is well amended since that time, as I think, When at court gate he tended with a little stick and a short link. Sing hi ho, Cornelius, your zeal cannot delude us; The reason pray now tell ye us why thus you play’d the Judas. Sing hi ho, etc.

At first he was a grocer who now we Major call, Although you would think no, Sir, if you saw him in Whitehall, Where he has great command, and looks for cap in hand, And if our eggs be not addle, shall be of the next new moddel. Sing hi ho, Mr Salloway, {89} the Lord in heaven doth know When that from hence you shall away, where to the Devil you’l go. Sing hi ho, etc.

Little Hill, {90} since set in the House, is to a mountain grown; Not that which brought forth the mouse, but thousands the year of his own. The purchase that I mean, where else but at Taunton Dean; Five thousand pounds per annum, a sum not known to his grannam. Sing hi, the Good old Cause, {91} ’tis old enough not true You got more by that then the laws, so a good old cause to you. Sing hi ho, etc.

Master Cecil, {92} pray come behind, because on your own accord The other House you declined, you shall be no longer a lord; The reason, as I guess, you silently did confess, Such lords deserved ill the other House to fill. Sing hi ho, Mr Cecil, your honour now is gone; Such lords are not worth a whistle, we have made better lords of our own. Sing hi ho, etc.

Luke Robinson {93} shall go before ye, that snarling northern tyke; Be sure he’ll not adore ye, for honour he doth not like; He cannot honour inherit, and he knows he can never merit, And therefore he cannot bear it that any one else should wear it. Sing hi ho, envious lown, you’re of the beagle’s kind, Who always bark’d at the moon, because in the dark it shined. Sing hi ho, etc.

’Tis this that vengeance rouses, that, while you make long prayers, You eat up widows’ houses, and drink the orphan’s tears; Long time you kept a great noise, of God and the Good old Cause; But if God to you be so kind, then I’me of the Indian’s mind. Sing hi ho, Sir Harry, {94} we see, by your demeanour, If longer here you tarry, you’ll be Sir Harry Vane, Senior. Sing hi ho, etc.

Now if your zeal do warme ye, pray loud for fairer weather; Swear to live and die with the army, for these birds are flown together; The House is turn’d out a doe, (and I think it was no sin, too); If we take them there any more, we’ll throw the House out of the window. Sing hi ho, Tom Scot, {95} you lent the Devil your hand; I wonder he helpt you not, but suffred you t’ be trapand. Sing hi ho, etc.

They’re once again conduced, and we freed from the evil To which we long were used; God blesse us next from the Devil! If they had not been outed the array had been routed, And then this rotten Rump had sat until the last trump. But, hi ho, Lambert’s here, the Protector’s instrument bore, And many there be who swear that he will do it no more. Sing hi ho, etc.

Come here, then, honest Peters, {96} say grace for the second course, So long as these your betters must patience have upon force, Long time he kept a great noise with God and the Good old Cause, But if God own such as these, then where’s the Devil’s fees? Sing hi ho, Hugo, I hear thou art not dead; Where now to the Devil will you go, your patrons being fled? Sing hi ho, my honey, my heart shall never rue, Four-and-twenty now for a penny, and into the bargain Hugh.

THE TALE OF THE COBBLER AND THE VICAR OF BRAY.

Rara est concordia fratrum. Ovid.

By Samuel Butler.

The “Sir Samuel” of this Ballad is the same person—Sir Samuel Luke of Bedfordshire—who is supposed to have been the unconscious model of the portrait which is drawn so much more fully in the inimitable Hudibras. Ralph is also the well-known Squire in the same poem. The Ballad, though published in Butler’s “Posthumous Works,” 1724, was rejected by Thyer in the edition of 1784, and is not included in the “Genuine Remains,” published from the original manuscripts, formerly in the possession of William Longueville, Esq. If not by Butler, it is a successful imitation of his style, and abounds in phrases of sturdy colloquial English, and is of a date long anterior to the popular song, “The Vicar of Bray.”

IN Bedfordshire there dwelt a knight, Sir Samuel by name, Who by his feats in civil broils Obtain’d a mighty fame.

Nor was he much less wise and stout, But fit in both respects To humble sturdy Cavaliers, And to support the sects.

This worthy knight was one that swore He would not cut his beard Till this ungodly nation was From kings and bishops clear’d:

Which holy vow he firmly kept, And most devoutly wore A grizly meteor on his face Till they were both no more.

His worship was, in short, a man Of such exceeding worth, No pen or pencil can describe, Or rhyming bard set forth.

Many and mighty things he did Both sober and in liquor,— Witness the mortal fray between The Cobbler and the Vicar;

Which by his wisdom and his power He wisely did prevent, And both the combatants at once In wooden durance pent.

The manner how these two fell out And quarrell’d in their ale, I shall attempt at large to show In the succeeding tale.

A strolling cobbler, who was wont To trudge from town to town, Happen’d upon his walk to meet A vicar in his gown.

And as they forward jogg’d along, The vicar, growing hot, First asked the cobbler if he knew Where they might take a pot?

Yes, marry that I do, quoth he; Here is a house hard by, That far exceeds all Bedfordshire For ale and landlady.

Thither let’s go, the vicar said; And when they thither came, He liked the liquor wondrous well, But better far the dame.

And she, who, like a cunning jilt, Knew how to please her guest, Used all her little tricks and arts To entertain the priest.

The cobbler too, who quickly saw The landlady’s design, Did all that in his power was To manage the divine.

With smutty jests and merry songs They charm’d the vicar so, That he determined for that night No further he would go.

And being fixt, the cobbler thought ’Twas proper to go try If he could get a job or two His charges to supply.

So going out into the street, He bawls with all his might,— If any of you tread awry I’m here to set you right.

I can repair your leaky boots, And underlay your soles; Backsliders, I can underprop And patch up all your holes.

The vicar, who unluckily The cobbler’s outcry heard, From off the bench on which he sat With mighty fury rear’d.

Quoth he, What priest, what holy priest Can hear this bawling slave, But must, in justice to his coat, Chastise the saucy knave?

What has this wretch to do with souls, Or with backsliders either, Whose business only is his awls, His lasts, his thread, and leather?

I lose my patience to be made This strolling varlet’s sport; Nor could I think this saucy rogue Could serve me in such sort.

The cobbler, who had no design The vicar to displease, Unluckily repeats again,— I’m come your soals to ease:

The inward and the outward too I can repair and mend; And all that my assistance want, I’ll use them like a friend.

The country folk no sooner heard The honest cobbler’s tongue, But from the village far and near They round about him throng.

Some bring their boots, and some their shoes, And some their buskins bring: The cobbler sits him down to work, And then begins to sing.

Death often at the cobbler’s stall Was wont to make a stand, But found the cobbler singing still, And on the mending hand;

Until at length he met old Time, And then they both together Quite tear the cobbler’s aged sole From off the upper leather.

Even so a while I may old shoes By care and art maintain, But when the leather’s rotten grown All art and care is vain.

And thus the cobbler stitched and sung, Not thinking any harm; Till out the angry vicar came With ale and passion warm.

Dost thou not know, vile slave! quoth he, How impious ’tis to jest With sacred things, and to profane The office of a priest?

How dar’st thou, most audacious wretch! Those vile expressions use, Which make the souls of men as cheap As soals of boots and shoes?

Such reprobates as you betray Our character and gown, And would, if you had once the power, The Church itself pull down.

The cobbler, not aware that he Had done or said amiss, Reply’d, I do not understand What you can mean by this.

Tho’ I but a poor cobbler be, And stroll about for bread, None better loves the Church than I That ever wore a head.

But since you are so good at names, And make so loud a pother, I’ll tell you plainly I’m afraid You’re but some cobbling brother.

Come, vicar, tho’ you talk so big, Our trades are near akin; I patch and cobble outward soals As you do those within.

And I’ll appeal to any man That understands the nation, If I han’t done more good than you In my respective station.

Old leather, I must needs confess, I’ve sometimes used as new, And often pared the soal so near That I have spoil’d the shoe.

You vicars, by a different way, Have done the very same; For you have pared your doctrines so You made religion lame.

Your principles you’ve quite disown’d, And old ones changed for new, That no man can distinguish right Which are the false or true.

I dare be bold, you’re one of those Have took the Covenant; With Cavaliers are Cavalier, And with the saints a saint.

The vicar at this sharp rebuke Begins to storm and swear; Quoth he, Thou vile apostate wretch! Dost thou with me compare?

I that have care of many souls, And power to damn or save, Dar’st thou thyself compare with me, Thou vile, ungodly knave!

I wish I had thee somewhere else, I’d quickly make thee know What ’tis to make comparisons, And to revile me so.

Thou art an enemy to the State, Some priest in masquerade, That, to promote the Pope’s designs, Has learnt the cobbling trade:

Or else some spy to Cavaliers, And art by them sent out To carry false intelligence, And scatter lies about.

But whilst the vicar full of ire Was railing at this rate, His worship, good Sir Samuel, O’erlighted at the gate.

And asking of the landlady Th’ occasion of the stir; Quoth she, If you will give me leave I will inform you, Sir.

This cobbler happening to o’ertake The vicar in his walk, In friendly sort they forward march, And to each other talk.

Until the parson first proposed To stop and take a whet; So cheek by jole they hither came Like travellers well met.

A world of healths and jests went round, Sometimes a merry tale; Till they resolved to stay all night, So well they liked my ale.

Thus all things lovingly went on, And who so great as they; Before an ugly accident Began this mortal fray.

The case I take it to be this,— The vicar being fixt, The cobbler chanced to cry his trade, And in his cry he mixt

Some harmless words, which I suppose The vicar falsely thought Might be design’d to banter him, And scandalize his coat.

If that be all, quoth he, go out And bid them both come in; A dozen of your nappy ale Will set ’em right again.

And if the ale should chance to fail, For so perhaps it may, I have it in my powers to try A more effectual way.

These vicars are a wilful tribe, A restless, stubborn crew; And if they are not humbled quite, The State they will undo.

The cobbler is a cunning knave, That goes about by stealth, And would, instead of mending shoes, Repair the Commonwealth.

However, bid ’em both come in, This fray must have an end; Such little feuds as these do oft To greater mischiefs tend.

Without more bidding out she goes And told them, by her troth, There was a magistrate within That needs must see ’em both.

But, gentlemen, pray distance keep, And don’t too testy be; Ill words good manners still corrupt And spoil good company.

To this the vicar first replies, I fear no magistrate; For let ’em make what laws they will, I’ll still obey the State.

Whatever I can say or do, I’m sure not much avails; I stall still be Vicar of Bray Whichever side prevails.

My conscience, thanks to Heaven, is come To such a happy pass, That I can take the Covenant And never hang an ass.

I’ve took so many oaths before, That now without remorse I take all oaths the State can make, As meerly things of course.

Go therefore, dame, the justice tell His summons I’ll obey; And further you may let him know I Vicar am of Bray.

I find indeed, the cobbler said, I am not much mistaken; This vicar knows the ready way To save his reverend bacon. {97}

This is a hopeful priest indeed, And well deserves a rope; Rather than lose his vicarage He’d swear to Turk or Pope.

For gain he would his God deny, His country and his King; Swear and forswear, recant and lye, Do any wicked thing.

At this the vicar set his teeth, And to the cobbler flew; And with his sacerdotal fist Gave him a box or two.

The cobbler soon return’d the blows, And with both head and heel So manfully behaved himself, He made the vicar reel.

Great was the outcry that was made, And in the woman ran To tell his worship that the fight Betwixt them was began.

And is it so indeed? quoth he; I’ll make the slaves repent: Then up he took his basket hilt, And out enraged he went.

The country folk no sooner saw The knight with naked blade, But for his worship instantly An open lane was made;

Who with a stern and angry look Cry’d out, What knaves are these That in the face of justice dare Disturb the public peace?

Vile rascals! I will make you know I am a magistrate, And that as such I bear about The vengeance of the State.

Go, seize them, Ralph, and bring them in, That I may know the cause, That first induced them to this rage, And thus to break the laws.

Ralph, who was both his squire and clerk, And constable withal, I’ th’ name o’ th’ Commonwealth aloud Did for assistance bawl.

The words had hardly pass’d his mouth But they secure them both; And Ralph, to show his furious zeal And hatred to the cloth,

Runs to the vicar through the crowd, And takes him by the throat: How ill, says he, doth this become Your character and coat!

Was it for this not long ago You took the Covenant, And in most solemn manner swore That you’d become a saint?

And here he gave him such a pinch That made the vicar shout,— Good people, I shall murder’d be By this ungodly lout.

He gripes my throat to that degree I can’t his talons bear; And if you do not hold his hands, He’ll throttle me, I fear.

At this a butcher of the town Steps up to Ralph in ire,— What, will you squeeze his gullet through, You son of blood and fire?

You are the Devil’s instrument To execute the laws; What, will you murther the poor man With your phanatick claws?