Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684Part 3 out of 6
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. Ballad: 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. Ballad: 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. Ballad: 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. Ballad: 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. Ballad: 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. Ballad: 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. Ballad: 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. Ballad: A New-Year's Gift For The Rump (January 1659-60.) - From a broadside, vol. xv. in the King's Pamphlets. "The condition of the State was thus: viz. the Rump, after being disturbed by my Lord Lambert, was lately returned to sit again. The officers of the army all forced to yield. Lawson lies still in the river, and Monk is with his army in Scotland. Only my Lord Lambert is not yet come in to the Parliament, nor is it expected that he will without being forced to it. The new Common Council of the city do speak very high; and had sent to Monk their sword- bearer to acquaint him with their desires for a free and full Parliament, which is at present the desires, and the hopes, and the expectations of all. Twenty-two of the old secluded members having been at the House-door the last week to demand entrance, but it was denied them; and it is believed that neither they nor the people will be satisfied till the House be filled." Pepys' Diary, January, 1660. You may have heard of the politique snout, Or a tale of a tub with the bottom out, But scarce of a Parliament in a dirty clout, Which no body can deny. 'Twas Atkins (68) first served this Rump in with mustard - The sauce was a compound of courage and custard; Sir Vane bless'd the creature, Noll snuffled and bluster'd, Which no body can deny. The right was as then in old Oliver's nose; But when the Devil of that did dispose, It descended from thence to the Rump in the close, Which no body can deny. Nor is it likely there to stay long, The retentive faculties being gone, The juggle is stale, and money there's none, Which no body can deny. The secluded members made a trial To enter, but them the Rump did defy all By the ordinance of self-denial, Which no body can deny. Our politique doctors do us teach That a blood-sucking red-coat's as good as a leech To relieve the head, if applied to the breech, Which no body can deny. But never was such a worm as Vane; When the State scour'd last, it voided him then, Yet now he's crept into the Rump again, Which no body can deny. Ludlow's f- was a prophetique trump (69) (There never was anything so jump), 'Twas the very type of a vote of this Rump, Which no body can deny. They say 'tis good luck when a body rises With the rump upward, but he that advises To live in that posture is none of the wisest, Which no body can deny. The reason is worse, though the rime be untoward, When things proceed with the wrong end forward; But they say there's sad news to the Rump from the Nor'ward; (70) Which no body can deny. 'Tis a wonderfull thing, the strength of that part; At a blast it will take you a team from a cart, And blow a man's head away with a f-, Which no body can deny. When our brains are sunck below the middle, And our consciences steer'd by the hey-down-diddle, Then things will go round without a fiddle, Which no body can deny. You may order the city with hand-granado, Or the generall with a bastonado, - But no way for a Rump like a carbonado, Which no body can deny. To make us as famous in council as wars, Here's Lenthal a speaker for mine - And Fleetwood is a man of Mars, Which no body can deny. 'Tis pitty that Nedham's (71) fall'n into disgrace, For he orders a bum with a marvellous grace, And ought to attend the Rump by his place, Which no body can deny. Yet this in spight of all disasters, Although he hath broken the heads of his masters, 'Tis still his profession to give 'em all plasters, Which no body can deny. The Rump's an old story, if well understood; 'Tis a thing dress'd up in a Parliament's hood, And like 't, but the tayl stands where the head should, Which no body can deny. 'Twould make a man scratch where it does not itch, To see forty fools' heads in one politique breech, And that, hugging the nation, as the devil did the witch; Which no body can deny. From rotten members preserve our wives! From the mercy of a Rump, our estates and our lives! For they must needs go whom the Devil drives, Which no body can deny. Ballad: A Proper New Ballad On The Old Parliament; Or, The Second Part Of Knave Out Of Doors To the tune of "Hei ho, my honey, my heart shall never rue, Four-and-twenty now for your mony, and yet a hard penny-worth too." (Dec. 11th, 1659.) - From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum. "The events which gave occasion to the following ballad," says Mr T. Wright in his Political Ballads, published for the Percy Society, "may be summed up in a few words. After the death of Cromwell, his son Richard was without opposition raised to the Protectorate; but his weak and easy character gave an opening to the intrigues of the Royalists, and the factious movement of the Republican party. Fleetwood, who had been named commander-in-chief of the army under the Protector, plotted to gain the chief power in the State, and was joined by Lambert, Desborough, and others. The Republicans were strengthened by the return of Vane, Ludlow, and Bradshaw, to the Parliament called by the new Protector. Lambert, the Protector's brother-in-law, was the ostensible head of a party, and seems to have aimed at obtaining the power which had been held by Oliver. They formed a council of officers, who met at Wallingford House; and on the 20th April, 1659, having gained the upper hand, and having obtained the dissolution of the Parliament, they determined to restore the old Long Parliament, which they said had only been interrupted, and not legally dissolved, and to set aside the Protector, who soon afterwards resigned. On the 21st April, Lenthall, the old Speaker, with as many members of the Long Parliament as could be brought together, met in the House, and opened their session. The Parliament thus formed, as being the fag-end of the old Long Parliament, obtained the name of the Rump Parliament. Lambert's hopes and aims were raised by his success against Sir George Booth in the August following, and jealousies soon arose between his party in the army and the Rump. The Parliament would have dismissed him, and the chief officers in the cabal with him, but Lambert with the army in October hindered their free meeting, and took the management of the government into the hands of a council of officers, whom they called the Committee of Safety. Towards the latter end of the year, the tide began to be changed in favour of the Parliament, by the declaration of Monk in Scotland, Henry Cromwell with the army in Ireland, and Hazelrigge and the officers at Portsmouth, in favour of the freedom of the Parliament. This ballad was written at the period when Lambert's party was uppermost." The tune of "Hei ho, my honey," may be found in Playford's edition of "The English Dancing Master," printed in 1686, but in no earlier edition of the same work. 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 Fair fax 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. Ballad: 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? At which the squire quits his hold, And lugging out his blade, Full at the sturdy butcher's pate A furious stroke he made. A dismal outcry then began Among the country folk; Who all conclude the butcher slain By such a mortal stroke. But here good fortune, that has still A friendship for the brave, I' th' nick misguides the fatal blow, And does the butcher save. The knight, who heard the noise within, Runs out with might and main, And seeing Ralph amidst the crowd In danger to be slain, Without regard to age or sex Old basket-hilt so ply'd, That in an instant three or four Lay bleeding at his side. And greater mischiefs in his rage This furious knight had done, If he had not prevented been By Dick, the blacksmith's son, Who catch'd his worship on the hip, And gave him such a squelch, That he some moments breathless lay Ere he was heard to belch. Nor was the squire in better case, By sturdy butcher ply'd, Who from the shoulder to the flank Had soundly swinged his hide. Whilst things in this confusion stood, And knight and squire disarm'd, Up comes a neighbouring gentleman The outcry had alarm'd; Who riding up among the crowd, The vicar first he spy'd, With sleeveless gown and bloody band And hands behind him ty'd. Bless me, says he, what means all this? Then turning round his eyes, In the same plight, or in a worse, The cobbler bleeding spies. And looking further round he saw, Like one in doleful dump, The knight, amidst a gaping mob, Sit pensive on his rump. And by his side lay Ralph his squire, Whom butcher fell had maul'd; Who bitterly bemoan'd his fate, And for a surgeon call'd. Surprised at first he paused awhile, And then accosts the knight, - What makes you here, Sir Samuel, In this unhappy plight? At this the knight gave's breast a thump, And stretching out his hand, - If you will pull me up, he cried, I'll try if I can stand. And then I'll let you know the cause; But first take care of Ralph, Who in my good or ill success Doth always stand my half. In short, he got his worship up And led him in the door; Where he at length relates the tale As I have told before. When he had heard the story out, The gentleman replies, - It is not in my province, sir, Your worship to advise. But were I in your worship's place, The only thing I'd do, Was first to reprimand the fools, And then to let them go. I think it first advisable To take them from the rabble, And let them come and both set forth The occasion of the squabble. This is the Vicar, Sir, of Bray, A man of no repute, The scorn and scandal of his tribe, A loose, ill-manner'd brute. The cobbler's a poor strolling wretch That mends my servants' shoes; And often calls as he goes by To bring me country news. At this his worship grip'd his beard, And in an angry mood, Swore by the laws of chivalry That blood required blood. Besides, I'm by the Commonwealth Entrusted to chastise All knaves that straggle up and down To raise such mutinies. However, since 'tis your request, They shall be call'd and heard; But neither Ralph nor I can grant Such rascals should be clear'd. And so, to wind the tale up short, They were call'd in together; And by the gentlemen were ask'd What wind 'twas blew them thither. Good ale and handsome landladies You might have nearer home; And therefore 'tis for something more That you so far are come. To which the vicar answer'd first, - My living is so small, That I am forced to stroll about To try and get a call. And, quoth the cobbler, I am forced To leave my wife and dwelling, T' escape the danger of being press'd To go a colonelling. There's many an honest jovial lad Unwarily drawn in, That I have reason to suspect Will scarce get out again. The proverb says, HARM WATCH HARM CATCH, I'll out of danger keep, For he that sleeps in a whole skin Doth most securely sleep. My business is to mend bad soals And stitch up broken quarters: A cobbler's name would look but odd Among a list of martyrs. Faith, cobbler, quoth the gentleman, And that shall be my case; I will neither party join, Let what will come to pass. No importunities or threats My fixt resolves shall rest; Come here, Sir Samuel, where's his health That loves old England best. I pity those unhappy fools Who, ere they were aware, Designing and ambitious men Have drawn into a snare. But, vicar, to come to the case, - Amidst a senseless crowd, What urged you to such violence, And made you talk so loud? Passion I'm sure does ill become Your character and cloath, And, tho' the cause be ne'er so just, Brings scandal upon both. Vicar, I speak it with regret, An inadvertent priest Renders himself ridiculous, And every body's jest. The vicar to be thus rebuked A little time stood mute; But having gulp'd his passion down, Replies, - That cobbling brute Has treated me with such contempt, Such vile expressions used, That I no longer could forbear To hear myself abused. The rascal had the insolence To give himself the lie, And to aver h' had done more good And saved more soals than I. Nay, further, Sir, this miscreant To tell me was so bold, Our trades were very near of kin, But his was the more old. Now, Sir, I will to you appeal On such a provocation, If there was not sufficient cause To use a little passion? Now, quoth the cobbler, with your leave, I'll prove it to his face, All this is mere suggestion, And foreign to the case. And since he calls so many names And talks so very loud, I will be bound to make it plain 'Twas he that raised the crowd. Nay, further, I will make 't appear He and the priests have done More mischief than the cobblers far All over Christendom. All Europe groans beneath their yoke, And poor Great Britain owes To them her present miseries, And dread of future woes. The priests of all religions are And will be still the same, And all, tho' in a different way, Are playing the same game. At this the gentleman stood up, - Cobbler, you run too fast; By thus condemning all the tribe You go beyond your last. Much mischief has by priests been done, And more is doing still; But then to censure all alike Must be exceeding ill.
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