Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684 Part 24

But now let's call another cause, So let this health go round; Be peace and plenty, truth and right, In good old England found.

Quoth Ralph, All this is empty talk And only tends to laughter; If these two varlets should be spared, Who'd pity us hereafter?

Your wors.h.i.+p may do what you please, But I'll have satisfaction For drubbing and for damages In this unG.o.dly action.

I think that you can do no less Than send them to the stocks; And I'll a.s.sist the constable In fixing in their hocks.

There let 'em sit and fight it out, Or scold till they are friends; Or, what is better much than both, Till I am made amends.

Ralph, quoth the knight, that's well advised, Let them both hither go, And you and the sub-magistrate Take care that it be so.

Let them be lock'd in face to face, Bare b.u.t.tocks on the ground; And let them in that posture sit Till they with us compound.

Thus fixt, well leave them for a time, Whilst we with grief relate, How at a wake this knight and squire Got each a broken pate.

Ballad: The Geneva Ballad

From Samuel Butler's Posthumous Works.

Of all the factions in the town Moved by French springs or Flemish wheels, None turns religion upside down, Or tears pretences out at heels, Like SPLAYMOUTH with his brace of caps, Whose conscience might be scann'd perhaps By the dimensions of his chaps;

He whom the sisters do adore, Counting his actions all divine, Who when the spirit hints can roar, And, if occasion serves, can whine; Nay, he can bellow, bray, or bark; Was ever SIKE A BEAUK-LEARN'D clerk That speaks all linguas of the ark?

To draw the hornets in like bees, With pleasing tw.a.n.gs he tones his prose; He gives his handkerchief a squeeze, And draws John Calvin thro' his nose; Motive on motive he obtrudes, With slip-stocking similitudes, Eight uses more, and so concludes.

When monarchy began to bleed, And treason had a fine new name; When Thames was balderdash'd with Tweed, And pulpits did like beacons flame; When Jeroboam's calves were rear'd, And Laud was neither loved nor fear'd, This gospel-comet first appear'd.

Soon his unhallow'd fingers stript His sovereign-liege of power and land; And, having smote his master, slipt His sword into his fellow's hand; But he that wears his eyes may note Oft-times the butcher binds a goat, And leaves his boy to cut her throat.

Poor England felt his fury then Outweigh'd Queen Mary's many grains; His very preaching slew more men Than Bonnar's f.a.ggots, stakes, and chains: With dog-star zeal, and lungs like Boreas, He fought, and taught, and, what's notorious, Destroy'd his Lord to make him glorious.

Yet drew for King and Parliament, As if the wind could stand north-south; Broke Moses' law with blest intent, Murther'd, and then he wiped his mouth: Oblivion alters not his case, Nor clemency nor acts of grace Can blanch an Ethiopian's face.

Ripe for rebellion, he begins To rally up the saints in swarms; He bawls aloud, Sir, leave your sins, But whispers, Boys, stand to your arms: Thus he's grown insolently rude, Thinking his G.o.ds can't be subdued - MONEY, I mean, and MULt.i.tUDE.

Magistrates he regards no more Than St George or the King of Colon, Vowing he'll not conform before The old wives wind their dead in woollen: He calls the bishop gray-hair'd coff, And makes his power as mere a scoff As Dagon when his hands were off.

Hark! how he opens with full cry, Halloo, my hearts, beware of Rome!

Cowards that are afraid to die Thus make domestic brawls at home.

How quietly great Charles might reign, Would all these Hotspurs cross the main And preach down Popery in Spain.

The starry rule of Heaven is fixt, There's no dissension in the sky; And can there be a mean betwixt, Confusion and conformity?

A place divided never thrives, 'Tis bad when hornets dwell in hives, But worse when children play with knives.

I would as soon turn back to ma.s.s, Or change my praise to THEE and THOU; Let the Pope ride me like an a.s.s, And his priests milk me like a cow!

As buckle to Smectymnian laws, The bad effects o' th' Good old Cause, That have dove's plumes, but vulture's claws.

For 'twas the holy Kirk that nursed, The Brownists and the ranters' crew; Foul error's motley vesture first Was oaded (98) in a northern blue; And what's th' enthusiastick breed, Or men of Knipperdolin's creed, But Cov'nanters run up to seed!

Yet they all cry they love the King, And make boast of their innocence: There cannot be so vile a thing But may be cover'd with pretence; Yet when all's said, one thing I'll swear, No subject like th' old Cavalier, No traytor like JACK-PRESBYTER.

Ballad: The Devil's Progress On Earth, Or Huggle Duggle

From Durfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy."

FRIER BACON walks again, And Doctor FORSTER (99) too; PROSPERINE and PLUTO, And many a goblin crew: With that a merry devil, To make the AIRING, vow'd; Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!

The Devil laugh'd aloud.

Why think you that he laugh'd?

Forsooth he came from court; And there amongst the gallants Had spy'd such pretty sport; There was such cunning jugling, And ladys gon so proud; Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that into the city Away the Devil went; To view the merchants' dealings It was his full intent: And there along the brave Exchange He crept into the croud.

Huggle Duggle, etc.

He went into the city To see all there was well; Their scales were false, their weights were light, Their conscience fit for h.e.l.l; And PANDERS chosen magistrates, And PURITANS allow'd.

Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that unto the country Away the Devil goeth; For there is all plain dealing, For that the Devil knoweth: But the rich man reaps the gains For which the poor man plough'd.

Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that the Devil in haste Took post away to h.e.l.l, And call'd his fellow furies, And told them all on earth was well: That falsehood there did flourish, Plain dealing was in a cloud.

Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!

The devils laugh'd aloud.

Ballad: A Bottle Definition Of That Fallen Angel, Called A Whig

From a collection of Historical and State Poems, Satyrs, Songs, and Epigrams, by Ned Ward, A. D. 1717.

What is a Whig? A cunning rogue That once was in, now out of vogue: A rebel to the Church and throne, Of Lucifer the very sp.a.w.n.

A tyrant, who is ne'er at rest In power, or when he's dispossess'd; A knave, who foolishly has lost What so much blood and treasure cost.

A lying, bouncing desperado, A bomb, a stink-pot, a granado; That's ready primed, and charged to break, And mischief do for mischief's sake: