Ballad: The Last News From France

[From vol. iii. of the Roxburgh Ballads, in the British Museum.]

The last news from France, being a true relation of the escape of the King of Scots from Worcester to London and from London to France, - who was conveyed away by a young gentleman in woman's apparel; the King of Scots attending on this supposed gentlewoman in manner of a serving-man.

Tune, "When the King enjoys his own again."

All you that do desire to know What is become of the King o' Scots, I unto you will truly show After the fight of Northern Rats.

'Twas I did convey His Highness away, And from all dangers set him free; - In woman attire, As reason did require, And the King himself did wait on me.

He of me a service did crave, And oftentimes to me stood bare; In woman's apparel he was most brave, And on his chin he had no hare; Wherever I came My speeches did frame So well my waiting-man to free, The like was never known I think by any I one, For the King himself did wait on me.

My waiting-man a jewel had, Which I for want of money sold; Because my fortune was so bad We turn'd our jewel into gold.

A good shift indeed, In time of our need, Then glad was I and glad was he; Our cause it did advance Until we came to France, And the King himself did wait on me.

We walked through Westminster Hall, Where law and justice doth take place Our grief was great, our comfort small, We lookt grim death all in the face.

I lookt round about, And made no other doubt But I and my man should taken be; The people little knew, As I may tell to you, The King himself did wait on me.

From thence we went to the fatal place Where his father lost his life; And then my man did weep apace, And sorrow with him then was rife.

I bid him peace, Let sorrow cease, For fear that we should taken be.

The gallants in Whitehall Did little know at all That the King himself did wait on me.

The King he was my serving-man, And thus the plot we did contrive: I went by the name of Mistress Anne When we took water at Queenhythe.

A boat there we took, And London forsook, And now in France arrived are we.

We got away by stealth, And the King is in good health, And he shall no longer wait on me.

The King of Denmark's dead, they say, Then Charles is like to rule the land; In France he will no longer stay, As I do rightly understand.

That land is his due, If they be but true, And he with them do well agree: I heard a bird sing If he once be their king, My man will then my master be.

Now Heaven grant them better success With their young king than England had; Free from war and from distress, Their fortune may not be so bad; Since the case thus stands, Let neighbouring lands Lay down their arms and at quiet be; But as for my part, I am glad with all my heart That my King must now my master be.

And thus I have declared to you By what means we escaped away; Now we bid our cares adieu, Though the King did lose the day.

To him I was true, And that he well knew; 'Tis G.o.d that must his comfort be, Else all our policy Had been but foolery, For the King no longer waits on me.

Ballad: Song To The Figure Two

From vol. ii. of the Roxburgh Ballads, in the British Museum.

A merry new song wherein you may view The drinking healths of a joviall crew, To t' happie return of the figure of TWO.

The figure of TWO is a palpable allusion to Charles II. Tune, "Ragged, and torn, and true."

I have been a traveller long, 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 Caesar 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.

Ballad: 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 l.u.s.t.

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.