When down in straw we tumbling lye, With Morpheus' charms asleep, My heavy, sad, and mournful eye In security so deep; Then do I dream within my arms With thee I sleeping lye, Then do I dread or fear no harms, Nor feel no misery.

When all my joys are thus compleat, The canons loud do play, The drums alarum straight do beat, Trumpet sounds, horse, away!

Awake I then, and nought can find But death attending me, And all my joys are vanisht quite, - This is my misery.

When hunger oftentimes I feel, And water cold do drink, Yet from my colours I'le not steal, Nor from my King will shrink; No traytor base shall make me yield, But for the cause I'le be: This is my love, pray Heaven to shield, And farewell misery.

Then to our arms we straight do fly, And forthwith march away; Few towns or cities we come nigh Good liquor us deny; In Lethe deep our woes we steep - Our loves forgotten be, Amongst the jovialst we sing, Hang up all misery.

Propitious fate, then be more kind, Grim death, lend me thy dart, O sun and moon, and eke the wind, Great Jove, take thou our part; That of these Roundheads and these wars An end that we may see, And thy great name we'll all applaud, And hang all misery.

Ballad: The Polit.i.tian

Upon an act of Treason made by the Rebels, etc.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.

But since it was lately enacted high treason For a man to speak truth 'gainst the head of a state, Let every wise man make a use of his reason To think what he will, but take heed what he prate; For the proverb doth learn us, He that stays from the battel sleeps in a whole skin, And our words are our own if we keep them within, What fools are we then that to prattle do begin Of things that do not concern us!

'Tis no matter to me whoe'er gets the battle, The rubs or the crosses, 'tis all one to me; It neither increaseth my goods nor my cattle; A beggar's a beggar, and so he shall be Unless he turn traitor.

Let misers take courses to h.o.a.rd up their treasure, Whose bounds have no limits, whose minds have no measure, Let me be but quiet and take a little pleasure, A little contents my own nature.

But what if the kingdom returns to the prime ones?

My mind is a kingdom, and so it shall be; I'll make it appear, if I had but the time once, He's as happy in one as they are in three, If he might but enjoy it.

He that's mounted aloft is a mark for the fate, And an envy to every pragmatical pate, Whilst he that is low is safe in his estate, And the great ones do scorn to annoy him.

I count him no wit that is gifted in rayling And flurting at those that above him do sit; Whilst they do outwit him with whipping and jailing, His purse and his person must pay for his wit.

But 'tis better to be drinking; If sack were reform'd to twelve-pence a quart I'd study for money to merchandise for't, With a friend that is willing in mirth we would sport; Not a word, but we'd pay it with thinking.

My pet.i.tion shall be that Canary be cheaper, Without either custom or cursed excise; That the wits may have freedom to drink deeper and deeper, And not be undone whilst our noses we baptize; But we'll liquor them and drench them.

If this were but granted, who would not desire To dub himself one of Apollo's own quire?

And then we will drink whilst our noses are on fire, And the quart pots shall be buckets to quench them.

Ballad: A New Droll

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Edited by J. O. Halliwell.

Come let's drink, the time invites, Winter and cold weather; For to spend away long nights, And to keep good wits together.

Better far than cards or dice, Isaac's b.a.l.l.s are quaint device, Made up with fan and feather.

Of strange actions on the seas Why should we be jealous?

Bring us liquor that will please, And will make us braver fellows Than the bold Venetian fleet, When the Turks and they do meet Within their Dardanellos.

Valentian, that famous town, Stood the French man's wonder; Water they employ'd to drown, So to cut their troops a.s.sunder; Turein gave a helpless look, While the lofty Spaniard took La Ferta and his plunder.

As for water, we disclaim Mankind's adversary; Once it caused the world's whole frame In the deluge to miscarry; And that enemy of joy Which sought our freedom to destroy And murder good Canary.

We that drink have no such thoughts, Black and void of reason: We take care to fill our vaults With good wine of every season; And with many a chirping cup We blow one another up, And that's our only treason.

Hear the squibs and mind the bells, The fifth of November; The parson a sad story tells, And with horror doth remember How some hot-brain'd traitor wrought Plots that would have ruin brought To King and every member.

Ballad: The Royalist

A song made in the Rebellion.

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.

Stay, shut the gate!

T'other quart, boys, 'tis not so late As you are thinking; The stars which you see in the hemisphere be Are but studs in your cheeks by good drinking; The sun's gone to tipple all night in the sea, boys, To-morrow he'll blush that he's paler than we, boys; Drink wine, give him water, 'Tis sack makes us the boys.

Fill up the gla.s.s, To the next merry lad let it pa.s.s; Come, away wi't; Let's set foot to foot and but give our minds to't, 'Tis heretical sir, that doth slay wit; Then hang up good faces, let's drink till our noses Give's freedom to speak what our fancy disposes, Beneath whose protection now under the rose is.

Drink off your bowl, 'Twill enrich both your head and your soul with Canary; For a carbuncled face saves a tedious race, And the Indies about us we carry; No Helicon like to the juice of good wine is, For Phoebus had never had wit that divine is, Had his face not been bow-dy'd as thine is and mine is.

This must go round, Off with your hats till the pavement be crown'd with your beavers; A red-coated face frights a sergeant and his mace, Whilst the constables tremble to shivers.

In state march our faces like some of that quorum, While the. . . . do fall down and the vulgar adore 'um, And our noses like link-boys run shining before 'um.

Ballad: The Royalist's Resolve

From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society.

Come, drawer, some wine, Or we'll pull down the sign, For we are all jovial compounders; We'll make the house ring With healths to our King, And confusion light on his confounders.

Since former committee Afforded no pity, Our sorrows in wine we will steep 'um; They force us to take Two oaths, but we'll make A third, that we ne'er mean to keep 'um.

And next, whoe'er sees, We'll drink on our knees To the King; may he thirst that repines: A fig for those traytors That look to our waters, They have nothing to do with our wines.

And next here's three bowls To all gallant souls That for the King did and will venture; May they flourish when those That are his and our foes Are hang'd, and ram'd down to the center.