Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684 Part 10

Well, let the truth be where it will, We're sure all else is ours; Yet these divisions in our religions May chance abate our powers.

Then let's agree on some one way, It skills not much how true; Take Pryn and his clubs; or Say and his tubs, (33) Or any sect old or new; The devil's i' th' pack, if choyce you can lack, We're fourscore religions strong; Take your choyce, the major voyce Shall carry it, right or wrong.

"Then wee'le be of this," sayes Megg; "Nay, wee'le be of that," sayes Tibb; "Nay, wee'le be of all," sayes pitifull Paul; "Nay, wee'le be of none," sayes Gibb.

Neighbours and friends, pray one word more, There's something yet behinde; And wise though you be, you doe not well see In which doore sits the winde.

As for religion to speake right, And in the Houses sence, The matter's all one to have any or none, If 'twere not for the pretence.

But herein doth lurke the key of the worke, Even to dispose of the crowne, Dexteriously, and as may be, For your behoofe and your owne.

"Then let's ha' King Charles," sayes George; "Nay, let's have his son," sayes Hugh; "Nay, let's have none," sayes Jabbering Jone; "Nay, let's be all kings," sayes Prue.

Oh we shall have (if we go on In plunder, excise, and blood) But few folke and poore to domineere ore, And that will not be so good; Then let's resolve on some new way, Some new and happy course, The country's growne sad, the city horne-mad, And both the Houses are worse.

The synod hath writ, the generall hath spit, And both to like purposes too; Religion, lawes, the truth, the cause, Are talk't of, but nothing we doe.

"Come, come, shal's ha' peace?" sayes Nell; "No, no, but we won't," sayes Madge; "But I say we will," sayes firy-faced Phill; "We will and we won't," sayes Hodge.

Thus from the rout who can expect Ought but division?

Since unity doth with monarchy Begin and end in one.

If then when all is thought their owne, And lyes at their behest, These popular pates reap nought but debates, From that many round-headed beast; Come, Royalists, then, doe you play the men, And Cavaliers give the word; Now let us see at what you would be, And whether you can accord.

"A health to King Charles!" sayes Tom; "Up with it," sayes Ralph, like a man; "G.o.d blesse him," sayes Doll; "and raise him," sayes Moll; "And send him his owne!" sayes Nan.

Now for these prudent things that sit Without end and to none, And their committees, that townes and cities Fill with confusion; For the bold troopes of sectaries, The Scots and their partakers, Our new British states, Col. Burges and his mates, The covenant and its makers; For all these wee'le pray, and in such a way, As if it might granted be, Jack and Gill, Mat and Will, And all the world would agree.

"A plague take them all!" sayes Besse; "And a pestilence too!" sayes Margery, "The devill!" sayes d.i.c.k; "And his dam, (34) too!" sayes Nick; "Amen! and Amen!" say I.

It is desired that the knights and burgesses would take especial care to send down full numbers hereof to their respective counties and burroughs, for which they have served apprenticeship, that all the people may rejoyce as one man for their freedom.

Ballad: A Coffin For King Charles, A Crown For Cromwell, And A Pit For The People

From a broadside in the King's Pamphlets, vol. viii. in the British Museum, with the direction, "You may sing this to the tune of 'Faine I would.'" The tune sometimes called "Parthenia," and "The King's Complaint," is to be found in Mr Chappell's Popular Music of the Olden Time. The King was beheaded in January, 1649. This Ballad is dated the 23rd of April in the same year.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

So, so, the deed is done, The royal head is sever'd, As I meant when I first begun, And strongly have endeavour'd.

Now Charles the First is tumbled down, The Second I do not fear; I grasp the sceptre, wear the crown, Nor for Jehovah care.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Think'st thou, base slave, though in my grave Like other men I lie, My sparkling fame and royal name Can (as thou wishest) die?

Know, caitif, in my son I live (The Black Prince call'd by some), And he shall ample vengeance give To those that did my doom.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Supprest, deprest, involved in woes, Great Charles, thy people be Basely deceived with specious shows By those that murther'd thee.

We are enslaved to tyrants' hests, Who have our freedom won: Our fainting hope now only rests On thy succeeding son.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Base vulgar! know, the more you stir, The more your woes increase, Your rashness will your hopes deter, 'Tis we must give you peace.

Black Charles a traitor is proclaim'd Unto our dignity; He dies (if e'er by us he's gain'd) Without all remedy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou And thy degenerate train, By mankind's Saviour's body vow To me thy sovereign, To make me the most glorious king That e'er o'er England reign'd; That me and mine in everything By you should be maintain'd?

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave Of thy beloved shade; 'Tis we that brought thee to the grave, Thou wert by us betray'd.

We did believe 'twas reformation These monsters did desire; Not knowing that thy degradation And death should be our hire.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Ye sick-brain'd fools! whose wit does lie In your small guts; could you Imagine our conspiracy Did claim no other due, But for to spend our dearest bloods To make rascallions flee?

No, we sought for your lives and goods, And for a monarchy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

But there's a Thunderer above, Who, though he winks awhile, Is not with your black deeds in love, He hates your d.a.m.ned guile.

And though a time you perch upon The top of Fortune's wheel, You shortly unto Acharon (Drunk with your crimes) shall reel.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth) We languishing do die: EXCISE doth give free-quarters birth, While soldiers multiply.

Our lives we forfeit every day, Our money cuts our throats; The laws are taken clean away, Or shrunk to traitor's votes.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Like patient mules resolve to bear Whate'er we shall impose; Your lives and goods you need not fear, We'll prove your friends, not foes.

We (the ELECTED ones) must guide A thousand years this land; You must be props unto our pride, And slaves to our command.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

But you may fail of your fair hopes, If fates propitious be; And yield your loathed lives in ropes To vengeance and to me.

When as the Swedes and Irish join, The c.u.mbrian and the Scot Do with the Danes and French combine, Then look unto your lot.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Our wrongs have arm'd us with such strength, So sad is our condition, That could we hope that now at length We might find intermission, And had but half we had before, Ere these mechanics sway'd; To our revenge, knee-deep in gore, We would not fear to wade.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

In vain (fond people) do you grutch And tacitly repine.

For why? my skill and strength are such Both poles of heaven are mine.

Your hands and purses both cohered To raise us to this height: You must protect those you have rear'd, Or sink beneath their weight.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Singing with angels near the throne Of the Almighty Three I sit, and know perdition (Base Cromwell) waits on thee, And on thy vile a.s.sociates: Twelve months (35) shall full conclude Your power - thus speak the powerful fates, Then VADES your interlude.