Chapter I: HAVE been a traveller long, (1)

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.

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.

But twelve good men and true,
Caveliers, Caveliers,
He excepts against you;
Justice he fears.
From bar and pulpit hee
Craves such as do for fee
Serve all turns, for he’l be
Try’d by his peers.

Satan, y’ are guilty found
By your peers, by your peers,
And must die above ground!
Look for no pity;
Some of our ministry,
Whose spir’ts with yours comply,
As Owen, Caryl, Nye, {49}
For death shall fit ’ee.

Dread judges, mine own limb
I but took, I but took,
I was forced without him
To use a crutch;
Some of the robe can tell
How to supply full well
His place here, but in hell
I had none such.

Divel, you are an asse,
Plain it is, plain it is,
And weakly plead the case;
Your wits are lost.
Some lawyers will outdo’t,
When shortly they come to’t;
Your craft, our gold to boot,
They have ingross’d.

Should all men take their right,
Well-a-day, well-a-day,
We were in a sad plight,
O’ th’ holy party!
Such practise hath a scent
Of kingly government,
Against it we are bent,
Out of home char’ty.

But if I die, who am
King of hell, King of hell,
You will not quench its flame,
But find it worse:
Confused anarchy
Will a new torment be;
Ne’r did these kingdoms three
Feel such a curse.

To our promotion, sir,
There as here, there as here,
Through some confused stir
Doth the high-road lie;
In hell we need not fear
Nor King nor Cavalier,
Who then shall dominere
But we the godly?

Truth, then, sirs, which of old
Was my shame, was my shame,
Shall now to yours be told:
You caused his death;
The house being broken by
Yourselves (there’s burglary),
Wrath enter’d forcibly,
And stopt his breath.

Sir, as our president,
Taught by you, taught by you,
’Gainst the King away went
Most strange and new;
Charging him with the guilt
Of all the blond we spilt,
With swords up to the hilt,
So we’le serve you.

For mercy then I call,
Good my lords, good my lords,
And traytors I’le leave all
Duly to end it;
Sir, sir, ’tis frivolous,
As well for you as us,
To beg for mercy thus,—
Our crimes transcend it.

You must die out of hand,
Satanas, Satanas:
This our decree shall stand
Without controll;
And we for you will pray,
Because the Scriptures say,
When some men curse you, they
Curse their own soul.

The fiend to Tiburn’s gone,
There to die, there to die;
Black is the north, anon
Great storms will be;
Therefore together now
I leave him and th’ gallow,—
So, newes-man, take ’em now,
Soon they’l take thee.

Finis, Fustis, Funis.

A NEW BALLAD TO AN OLD TUNE,—TOM OF BEDLAM.

January 17th, 1659.—From the King’s Ballads, British Museum.

MAKE room for an honest red-coat
(And that you’ll say’s a wonder),
The gun and the blade
Are the tools, and his trade
Is, for _pay_, to _kill_ and _plunder_.
Then away with the laws,
And the “Good old Cause;”
Ne’er talk of the Rump or the Charter;
’Tis the cash does the feat,
All the rest’s but a cheat,
Without _that_ there’s no faith nor quarter.

’Tis the mark of our coin “_God with us_,”
And the grace of the Lord goes along with’t.
When the _Georges_ are flown
Then the Cause goes down,
For the Lord has departed from it.
Then away, etc.

For Rome, or for Geneva,
For the table or the altar,
This spawn of a vote,
He cares not a groat—
For the _pence_ he’s your dog in a halter,
Then away, etc.

Tho’ the name of King or Bishop
To nostrils pure may be loathsome,
Yet many there are
That agree with the May’r,
That their lands are wondrous toothsome.
Then away, etc.

When our masters are poor we leave ’em,
’Tis the Golden Calf we bow to;
We kill and we slay
Not for conscience, but pay;
Give us _that_, we’ll fight for you too.
Then away, etc.

’Twas _that_ first turn’d the King out;
The Lords next; then the Commons:
’Twas that kept up Noll,
Till the Devil fetch’d his soul,
And then it set the _Rump_ on’s.
Then away, etc.

Drunken Dick was a lame Protector,
And Fleetwood a back-slider;
These we served as the rest,
But the City’s the beast
That will never cast her rider.
Then away, etc.

When the Mayor holds the stirrup
And the Shrieves cry, God save your honours;
Then ’tis but a jump
And up goes the Rump,
That will spur to the Devil upon us.
Then away, etc.

And now for fling at your thimbles,
Your bodkins, rings, and whistles;
In truck for your toys
We’ll fit you with boys
(’Tis the doctrine of Hugh’s _Epistles_).
Then away, etc.

When your plate is gone, and your jewels,
You must be next entreated
To part with your bags,
And to strip you to rags,
And yet not think you’re cheated.
Then away, etc.

The truth is, the town deserves it,
’Tis a brainless, heartless monster:
At a club they may bawl,
Or declare at their hall,
And yet at a push not one stir.
Then away, etc.

Sir Arthur vow’d he’ll treat ’em
Far worse than the men of Chester;
He’s bold now they’re cow’d,
But he was nothing so loud
When he lay in the ditch at Lester.
Then away, etc.

The Lord has left John Lambert,
And the spirit, Feak’s anointed;
But why, O Lord,
Hast thou sheath’d thy sword?
Lo! thy saints are disappointed.
Then away, etc.

Though Sir Henry be departed,
Sir John makes good the place now;
And to help out the work
Of the glorious Kirk,
Our brethren march apace too.
Then away, etc.

Whilst divines and statesmen wrangle,
Let the Rump-ridden nation bite on’t;
There are none but we
That are sure to go free,
For the soldier’s still in the right on’t.
Then away, etc.

If our masters won’t supply us
With money, food, and clothing,
Let the State look to’t,
We’ll find one that will do’t,
Let him live—we will not damn.
Then away, etc.

SAINT GEORGE AND THE DRAGON, ANGLICE MERCURIUS POETICUS.

“The following ballad,” says Mr Wright in the Political Ballads of the Commonwealth, published for the Percy Society, “was written on the occasion of the overthrow of the Rump by Monck. He arrived in London on the third of February, and professed himself a determined supporter of the party then uppermost. On the ninth and tenth he executed their orders against the city; but suddenly on the eleventh he joined the city and the Presbyterian party, and demanded the readmission of the members who were secluded formerly from the Long Parliament. This measure put an end to the reign of the Rump, and immediately afterwards the Parliament dissolved itself, and a new one was called.—(February 28th, 1659.)”—All the notes to this Ballad are from the pen of Mr Wright.

To the tune of “The Old Courtier of the Queen’s,” etc.

NEWS! news! here’s the occurrences and a new Mercurius,
A dialogue betwixt Haselrigg the baffled and Arthur the furious;
With Ireton’s {50} readings upon legitimate and spurious,
Proving that a saint may be the son of a whore, for the satisfaction
of the curious.
From a Rump insatiate as the sea,
Libera nos, Domine.

Here’s the true reason of the citie’s infatuation,
Ireton has made it drunk with the cup of abomination;
That is, the cup of the whore, after the Geneva Interpretation,
Which with the juyce of Titchburn’s grapes {51} must needs cause
intoxication.
From a Rump, etc.

Here’s the Whipper whipt by a friend to George, that whipp’d Jack,
{52} that whipp’d the breech,
That whipp’d the nation as long as it could stand over it—after which
It was itself re-jerk’d by the sage author of this speech:
“Methinks a Rump should go as well with a Scotch spur as with a
switch.”
From a Rump, etc.

This Rump hath many a rotten and unruly member;
“Give the generall the oath!” cries one (but his conscience being a
little tender);
“I’ll abjure you with a pestilence!” quoth George, “and make you
remember
The ’leaventh of February {53} longer than the fifth of November!”
From a Rump, etc.

With that, Monk leaves (in Rump assembled) the three estates,
But oh! how the citizens hugg’d him for breaking down their gates,
For tearing up their posts and chaynes, and for clapping up their
mates {54}
(When they saw that he brought them plasters for their broken pates).
From a Rump, etc.

In truth this ruffle put the town in great disorder,
Some knaves (in office) smiled, expecting ’twould go furder;
But at the last, “My life on’t! George is no Rumper,” said the
Recorder,
“For there never was either honest man or monk of that order.”
From a Rump, etc.

And so it proved; for, “Gentlemen,” says the general, “I’ll make you
amends;
Our greeting was a little untoward, but we’ll part friends;
A little time shall show you which way my design tends,
And that, besides the good of Church and State, I have no other ends.”
From a Rump, etc.

His Excellence had no sooner pass’d this declaration and promise,
But in steps Secretary Scot, the Rump’s man Thomas,
With Luke, their lame evangelist (the Devil keep ’um from us!) {55}
To shew Monk what precious members of Church and State the Bumm has.
From a Rump, etc.

And now comes the supplication of the members under the rod:
“Nay, my Lord!” cryes the brewer’s clerk; “good, my Lord, for the love
of God!
Consider yourself, us, and this poor nation, and that tyrant abroad;
Don’t leave us:”—but George gave him a shrugg instead of a nodd.
From a Rump, etc.

This mortal silence was followed with a most hideous noyse,
Of free Parliament bells and Rump-confounding boyes,
Crying, “Cut the rogues! singe their tayles!” when, with a low voyce,
“Fire and sword! by this light,” cryes Tom, “Lets look to our toyes!”
From a Rump, etc.

Never were wretched members in so sad a plight;
Some were broyl’d, some toasted, others burnt outright; {56}
Nay against Rumps so pittylesse was their rage and spite,
That not a citizen would kisse his wife that night.
From a Rump, etc.

By this time death and hell appear’d in the ghastly looks
Of Scot and Robinson (those legislative rooks);
And it must needs put the Rump most damnably off the hooks
To see that when God has sent meat the Devil should send cooks.
From a Rump, etc.

But Providence, their old friend, brought these saints off at last,
And through the pikes and the flames undismember’d they past,
Although (God wet) with many struglings and much hast,—
For, members, or no members, was but a measuring cast.
From a Rump, etc.

Being come to Whitehall, there’s the dismal mone,
“Let Monk be damn’d!” cries Arthur in a terrible tone {57}—
“That traytor, and those cuckoldy rogues that set him on!”
(But tho’ the knight spits blood, ’tis observed that he draws none.)
From a Rump, etc.

“The plague bawle you!” cries Harry Martin, “you have brought us to
this condition, {58}
You must be canting and be plagued, with your Barebones petition, {59}
And take in that bull-headed, splay-footed member of the circumcision,
That bacon-faced Jew, Corbet, {60} that son of perdition!”
From a Rump, etc.

Then in steps driv’ling Mounson to take up the squabble,
That lord which first taught the use of the woodden dagger and ladle:
{61}
He that out-does Jack Pudding {62} at a custard or a caudle,
And were the best foole in Europe but that he wants a bauble.
From a Rump, etc.

More was said to little purpose,—the next news is, a declaration
From the Rump, for a free state according to the covenant of the
nation,
And a free Parliament under oath and qualification,
Where none shall be elect but members of reprobation.
From a Rump, &c.

Here’s the tail firk’d, a piece acted lately with great applause,
With a plea for the prerogative breech and the Good old Cause,
Proving that Rumps and members are antienter than laws,
And that a bumme divided is never the worse for the flawes.
From a Rump, etc.

But all things have their period and fate,
An Act of Parliament dissolves a Rump of state,
Members grow weak, and tayles themselves run out of date,
And yet thou shalt not dye (dear breech), thy fame I’ll celebrate.
From a Rump, etc.

Here lies a pack of saints that did their souls and country sell
For dirt, the Devil was their good lord, him they served well;
By his advice they stood and acted, and by his president they fell
(Like Lucifer), making but one step betwixt heaven and hell.
From a Rump insatiate as the sea
Liberasti nos, Domine.

THE SECOND PART OF ST GEORGE FOR ENGLAND.

To the tune of “To drive the cold winter away.”
(March 7, 1659.)

NOW the Rump is confounded
There’s an end of the Roundhead,
Who hath been such a bane to our nation;
He hath now play’d his part,
And’s gone out like a f—,
Together with his reformation;
For by his good favour
He hath left a bad savour;
But’s no matter, we’ll trust him no more.
Kings and queens may appear
Once again in our sphere,
Now the knaves are turn’d out of door,
And drive the cold winter away.

Scot, Nevil, and Vane,
With the rest of that train,
Are into Oceana {63} fled;
Sir Arthur the brave,
That’s as arrant a knave,
Has Harrington’s Rota in’s head; {64}
But hee’s now full of cares
For his foals and his mares,
As when he was routed before;
But I think he despairs,
By his arms or his prayers,
To set up the Rump any more,
And drive the cold winter away.

I should never have thought
That a monk could have wrought
Such a reformation so soon;
That House which of late
Was the jakes of our state
Will ere long be a house of renown.
How good wits did jump
In abusing the Rump,
Whilst the House was prest by the rabble;
But our Hercules, Monk,
Though it grievously stunk,
Now hath cleansed that Augean stable,
And drive the cold winter away.

And now Mr Prynne {65}
With the rest may come in,
And take their places again;
For the House is made sweet
For those members to meet,
Though part of the Rump yet remain;
Nor need they to fear,
Though his breeches be there,
Which were wrong’d both behind and before;
For he saith ’twas a chance,
And forgive him this once,
And he swears he will do so no more,
And drive the cold winter away.

’Tis true there are some
Who are still for the Bum;
Such tares will grow up with the wheat;
And there they will be, till a Parliament come
That can give them a total defeat.
But yet I am told
That the Rumpers do hold
That the saints may swim with the tyde;
Nor can it be treason,
But Scripture and reason,
Still to close with the stronger side,
And drive the cold winter away.

Those lawyers o’ th’ House—
As Baron Wild-goose, {66}
With Treason Hill, Whitlock, and Say—
Were the bane of our laws
And our Good old Cause,
And ’twere well if such were away.
Some more there are to blame,
Whom I care not to name,
That are men of the very same ranks;
’Mongst whom there is one,
That to Devil Barebone
For his ugly petition gave thanks,
And drive the cold winter away.

But I hope by this time
He’ll confess ’twas a crime
To abet such a damnable crew;
Whose petition was drawn
By Alcoran Vane,
Or else by Corbet the Jew. {67}
By it you may know
What the Rump meant to do,
And what a religion to frame;
So ’twas time for St George
That Rump to disgorge,
And to send it from whence it first came;
Then drive the cold winter away.

A NEW-YEAR’S GIFT FOR THE RUMP.

(January 1659–60.)—From a broadside, vol. xv. in the King’s Pamphlets.