Ballad: Here's A Health Unto His Majesty

There is only one verse to this Song. The music is arranged for three voices in "Playford's Musical Companion, 1667."

Here's a health unto his Majesty, With a fal la la la la la la, Confusion to his enemies, With a fal lal la la la la la la.

And he that will not drink his health, I wish him neither wit nor wealth, Nor but a rope to hang himself.

With a fal lal la la la la la la la la, With a fal lal la la la la la.

Ballad: The Whigs Drowned In An Honest Tory Health

From Col. 180 Loyal Songs.

Tune, "Hark, the thundering canons roar."

Wealth breeds care, love, hope, and fear; What does love or bus'ness here?

While Bacchus' navy doth appear, Fight on and fear not sinking; Fill it briskly to the brim, Till the flying top-sails swim, We owe the first discovery to him Of this great world of drinking.

Brave Cabals, who states refine, Mingle their debates with wine, Ceres and the G.o.d o' th' vine Make every great commander; Let sober Scots small beer subdue, The wise and valiant wine do woo, The Stagerite had the horrors too, To be drunk with Alexander.

STAND TO YOUR ARMS! and now advance, A health to the English King of France; And to the next of boon esperance, By Bacchus and Apollo; Thus in state I lead the van, Fall in your place by the right-hand man, Beat drum! march on! dub a dub, ran dan!

He's a Whig that will not follow.

Face about to the right again, Britain's admiral of the main, York and his ill.u.s.trious train Crown the day's conclusion; Let a halter stop his throat Who brought in the foremost vote, And of all that did promote The mystery of exclusion.

Next to Denmark's warlike prince Let the following health commence, To the nymph whose influence That brought the hero hither; - May their race the tribe annoy, Who the Grandsire would destroy, And get every year a boy Whilst they live together.

To the royal family Let us close in b.u.mpers three, May the ax and halter be The pledge of every Roundhead; To all loyal hearts pursue, Who to the monarch dare prove true; But for him they call True Blue, Let him be confounded.

Ballad: The Cavalier

By Alex. Brome. - (1661-2.)

We have ventured our estates, And our liberties and lives, For our master and his mates, And been toss'd by cruel fates Where the rebellious Devil drives, So that not one of ten survives; We have laid all at stake For his Majesty's sake; We have fought, we have paid, We've been sold and betray'd, And tumbled from nation to nation; But now those are thrown down That usurped the Crown, Our hopes were that we All rewarded should be, But we're paid with a Proclamation.

Now the times are turn'd about, And the rebels' race is run; That many-headed beast the Rout, That did turn the Father out, When they saw they were undone, Were for bringing in the son.

That phanatical crew, Which made us all rue, Have got so much wealth By their plunder and stealth That they creep into profit and power: And so come what will, They'll be uppermost still; And we that are low Shall still be kept so, While those domineer and devour.

Yet we will be loyal still, And serve without reward or hire: To be redeem'd from so much ill, May stay our stomachs, though not still, And if our patience do not tire, We may in time have our desire.

Ballad: The Lamentation Of A Bad Market, Or The Disbanded Souldier

(July 17th, 1660.) - From the King's Pamphlets, British Museum.

This ballad relates to the disbanding of the Parliamentary army.

Contrary, however, to what is pretended in it, says Mr. Wright, in his volume printed for the Percy Society, the writers of the time mention with admiration the good conduct of the soldiers after they were disbanded, each betaking himself to some honest trade or calling, with as much readiness as if he had never been employed in any other way. Not many weeks before the date of the present ballad, a prose tract had been published, with the same t.i.tle, "The Lamentation of a Bad Market, or Knaves and Fools foully foyled, and fallen into a Pit of their own digging," &c. March 21st, 1659-60.

In red-coat raggs attired, I wander up and down, Since fate and foes conspired, Thus to array me, Or betray me To the harsh censure of the town.

My buffe doth make me boots, my velvet coat and scarlet, Which used to do me credit with many a wicked harlot, Have bid me all adieu, most despicable varlet!

Alas, poor souldier, whither wilt thou march?

I've been in France and Holland, Guided by my starrs; I've been in Spain and Poland, I've been in Hungarie, In Greece and Italy, And served them in all their wars.

Britain these eighteen years has known my desperate slaughter, I've killed ten at one blow, even in a fit of laughter, Gone home again and smiled, and kiss'd my landlor's daughter; Alas! poor souldier, etc.

My valour prevailed, Meeting with my foes, Which strongly we a.s.sailed; Oh! strange I wondred, They were a hundred; Yet I routed them with few blowes.

This fauchion by my side has kind more men, I'll swear it, Than Ajax ever did, alas! he ne'er came near it, Yea, more than Priam's boy, or all that ere did hear it.

Alas! poor souldier, etc.

For King and Parliament I was Prester John.

Devout was my intent; I haunted meetings, Used zealous greetings, Crept full of devotion; Smectymnuus won me first, then holy Nye prevail, (111) Then Captain Kiffin (112) slops me with John of Leyden's tail, Then Fox and Naylor bangs me with Jacob Beamond's flail. (113) Alas! poor souldier, etc.

I did about this nation Hold forth my gifts and teach, Maintained the tolleration The common story And Directory I d.a.m.n'd with the word "preach."

Time was when all trades failed, men counterfeitly zealous Turn'd whining, snievling praters, or kept a country ale-house, Got handsome wives, turn'd cuckolds, howe'er were very jealous.

Alas! poor souldier, etc.

The world doth know me well, I ne're did peace desire, Because I could not tell Of what behaviour I should savour In a field of thundring fire.

When we had murdered King, confounded Church and State, Divided parks and forests, houses, money, plate, We then did peace desire, to keep what he had gat.

Alas! poor souldier, etc.

Surplice was surplisage, We voted right or wrong, Within that furious age, Of the painted gla.s.s, Or pictured bra.s.s, And liturgie we made a song.

Bishops, and bishops' lands, were superst.i.tious words, Until in souldiers' hands, and so were kings and lords, But in fashion now again in spight of all our swords.

Alas! poor souldier, etc.

Some say I am forsaken By the great men of these times, And they're no whit mistaken; It is my fate To be out of date, My masters most are guilty of such crimes.

Like an old Almanack, I now but represent How long since Edge-Hill fight, or the rising was in Kent, Or since the dissolution of the first Long Parliament.

Alas! poor souldier, etc.

Good sirs, what shall I fancie, Amidst these gloomy dayes?

Shall I goe court brown Nancy?

In a countrey town They'l call me clown, If I sing them my outlandish playes.

Let me inform their nodle with my heroick spirit, My language and worth besides transcend unto merit; They'l not believe one word, what mortal flesh can bear it?

Alas! poor souldier, etc.