Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684 Part 8

In six years' s.p.a.ce you have done more Than all the parliaments before; You have quite done the work.

The King, the Cavalier, and Pope, You have o'erthrown, and next we hope You will confound the Turk.

By you we have deliverance From the design of Spain and France, Ormond, Montrose, the Danes; You, aided by our brethren Scots, Defeated have malignant plots, And brought your sword to Cain's.

What wholesome laws you have ordain'd, Whereby our property's maintain'd, 'Gainst those would us undo; So that our fortunes and our lives, Nay, what is dearer, our own wives, Are wholly kept by you.

Oh! what a flouris.h.i.+ng Church and State Have we enjoy'd e'er since you sate, With a glorious King (G.o.d save him!): Have you not made his Majesty, Had he the grace but to comply, And do as you would have him!

Your DIRECTORY how to pray By the spirit shows the perfect way; In real you have abolisht The Dagon of the COMMON PRAYER, And next we see you will take care That churches be demolisht.

A mult.i.tude in every trade Of painful preachers you have made, Learned by revelation; Cambridge and Oxford made poor preachers, Each shop affordeth better teachers, - O blessed reformation!

Your G.o.dly wisdom hath found out The true religion, without doubt; For sure among so many We have five hundred at the least; Is not the gospel much increast?

All must be pure, if any.

Could you have done more piously Than sell church lands the King to buy, And stop the city's plaints?

Paying the Scots church-militant, That the new gospel helpt to plant; G.o.d knows they are poor saints!

Because th' Apostles' Creed is lame, Th' a.s.sembly doth a better frame, Which saves us all with ease; Provided still we have the grace To believe th' House in the first place, Our works be what they please.

'Tis strange your power and holiness Can't the Irish devils dispossess, His end is very stout: But tho' you do so often pray, And ev'ry month keep fasting-day, You cannot cast them out.

Ballad: The Puritan

By John Cleveland. To the tune of "An old Courtier of the Queen's."

With face and fas.h.i.+on to be known, For one of sure election; With eyes all white, and many a groan, With neck aside to draw in tone, With harp in's nose, or he is none: See a new teacher of the town, Oh the town, oh the town's new teacher!

With pate cut shorter than the brow, With little ruff starch'd, you know how, With cloak like Paul, no cape I trow, With surplice none; but lately now With hands to thump, no knees to bow: See a new teacher, etc.

With coz'ning cough, and hollow cheek, To get new gatherings every week, With paltry change of AND to EKE, With some small Hebrew, and no Greek, To find out words, when stuff's to seek: See a new teacher, etc.

With shop-board breeding and intrusion, With some outlandish inst.i.tution, With Ursine's catechism to muse on, With system's method for confusion, With grounds strong laid of mere illusion: See a new teacher, etc.

With rites indifferent all d.a.m.ned, And made unlawful, if commanded; Good works of Popery down banded, And moral laws from him estranged, Except the sabbath still unchanged: See a new teacher, etc.

With speech unthought, quick revelation, With boldness in predestination, With threats of absolute d.a.m.nation Yet YEA and NAY hath some salvation For his own tribe, not every nation: See a new teacher, etc.

With after license cast a crown, When Bishop new had put him down; With tricks call'd repet.i.tion, And doctrine newly brought to town Of teaching men to hang and drown: See a new teacher, etc.

With flesh-provision to keep Lent, With shelves of sweetmeats often spent, Which new maid bought, old lady sent, Though, to be saved, a poor present, Yet legacies a.s.sure to event: See a new teacher, etc.

With troops expecting him at th' door, That would hear sermons, and no more; With noting tools, and sighs great store, With Bibles great to turn them o'er, While he wrests places by the score: See a new teacher, etc.

With running text, the named forsaken, With FOR and BUT, both by sense shaken, Cheap doctrines forced, wild uses taken, Both sometimes one by mark mistaken; With anything to any shapen: See a new teacher, etc.

With new-wrought caps, against the canon, For taking cold, tho' sure he have none; A sermon's end, where he began one, A new hour long, when's gla.s.s had run one, New use, new points, new notes to stand on: See a new teacher, etc.

Ballad: The Roundhead

From Samuel Butler's Posthumous Works.

What creature's that, with his short hairs, His little band, and huge long ears, That this new faith hath founded?

The saints themselves were never such, The prelates ne'er ruled half so much; Oh! such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that doth the bishops hate, And counts their calling reprobate, 'Cause by the Pope propounded; And thinks a zealous cobbler better Than learned Usher in ev'ry letter?

Oh! such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that doth HIGH TREASON say, As often as his YEA and NAY, And wish the King confounded; And dares maintain that Mr Pim Is fitter for a crown than him?

Oh! such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that if he chance to hear A little piece of COMMON PRAYER, Doth think his conscience wounded; Will go five miles to preach and pray, And meet a sister by the way?

Oh! such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that met a holy sister And in a hayc.o.c.k gently kiss'd her?

Oh! then his zeal abounded: 'Twas underneath a shady willow, Her Bible served her for a pillow, And there he got a Roundhead.

Ballad: Prattle Your Pleasure Under The Rose

From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum.

There is an old proverb which all the world knows, Anything may be spoke, if 't be under the rose: Then now let us speak, whilst we are in the hint, Of the state of the land, and th' enormities in't.

Under the rose be it spoke, there is a number of knaves, More than ever were known in a State before; But I hope that their mischiefs have digg'd their own graves, And we'll never trust knaves for their sakes any more.

Under the rose be it spoken, the city's an a.s.s So long to the public to let their gold run, To keep the King out; but 'tis now come to pa.s.s, I am sure they will lose, whosoever has won.

Under the rose be it spoken, there's a company of men, Trainbands they are called - a plague confound 'em:- And when they are waiting at Westminster Hall, May their wives be beguiled and begat with child all!

Under the rose be it spoken, there's a d.a.m.n'd committee Sits in h.e.l.l (Goldsmiths' Hall), in the midst of the city, Only to sequester the poor Cavaliers - The devil take their souls, and the hangman their ears.

Under the rose be it spoken, if you do not repent Of that horrible sin, your pure Parliament, Pray stay till Sir Thomas doth bring in the King, Then Derrick (32) may chance have 'em all in a string.

Under the rose be it spoken, let the synod now leave To wrest the whole Scripture, how souls to deceive; For all they have spoken or taught will ne'er save 'em, Unless they will leave that fault, h.e.l.l's sure to have 'em!