From a backsliding saint that pretend t' acquiesce; From crossing of proverbs (let 'um hang that confess); From a sniveling cause, in a pontificall dress, And two lawyers, with the devil and his dam in a mess; From fools and knaves, etc.

From those that trouble the waters to mend the fishing, And fight the Lord's battles under the devil's commission, Such as eat up the nation, whilst the government's a-dishing; And from a people when it should be doing, stands wishing; From fools and knaves, etc.

From an everlasting mock-parliament - and from NONE; From Strafford's old friends - Harry, Jack, and John; From our solicitor's wolf-law deliver our King's son; And from the resurrection of the Rump that is dead and gone; From fools and knaves, etc.

From foreign invasion and commotions at home; From our present distraction, and from work to come; From the same hand again Smectymnus, or the b.u.m, And from taking Geneva in our way to Rome; From fools and knaves, etc.

From a hundred thousand pound tax to keep knaves by the score (But it is well given to these that turn'd those out of door); From undoing ourselves in plaistering old sores; He that set them a-work, let him pay their scores; From fools and knaves, etc.

From saints and tender consciences in buff; From Mounson in a foam, and Haslerig in a huff; From both men and women that think they never have enough; And from a fool's head that looks through a chain and a duff; From fools and knaves, etc.

From those that would divide the gen'ral and the city; From Harry Martin's girl, that was neither sweet nor pretty; From a faction that has neither brain nor pity: From the mercy of a phanatique committee; From fools and knaves, etc.

Preserve us, good Heaven, from entrusting those That ha' much to get and little to lose; That murther'd the father, and the son would depose (Sure they can't be our friends that are their country's foes); From fools and knaves, etc.

From Bradshaw's presumption, and from Hoyle's despairs; From rotten members, blind guides, preaching aldermen, and false may'rs; From long knives, long ears, long parliaments, and long pray'rs; In mercy to this nation - Deliver us and our heirs; From fools and knaves, etc.

Ballad: The Mock Song

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 gla.s.s!

He's an a.s.s 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 wh.o.r.ed till the foe overcame ye; G.o.d's nigs and Ne'er stir, sirs, has vanquish'd G.o.d d.a.m.n 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 c.h.i.n.k, '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 a.s.s That doth throw down himself with a gla.s.s Of Canary; He that's quiet will think Much the better of drink, 'Cause the cups made the camp to miscarry.

You wh.o.r.e 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 a.s.ses That other men's calling invade; We only converse with pots and with gla.s.ses, 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.