The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684

by Unknown

A NEW-YEAR’S GIFT FOR THE RUMP.

(January 1659–60.)—From a broadside, vol. xv. in the King’s Pamphlets.

“The condition of the State was thus: viz. the Rump, after being disturbed by my Lord Lambert, was lately returned to sit again. The officers of the army all forced to yield. Lawson lies still in the river, and Monk is with his army in Scotland. Only my Lord Lambert is not yet come in to the Parliament, nor is it expected that he will without being forced to it. The new Common Council of the city do speak very high; and had sent to Monk their sword-bearer to acquaint him with their desires for a free and full Parliament, which is at present the desires, and the hopes, and the expectations of all. Twenty-two of the old secluded members having been at the House-door the last week to demand entrance, but it was denied them; and it is believed that neither they nor the people will be satisfied till the House be filled.” Pepys’ Diary, January, 1660.

You may have heard of the politique snout,
Or a tale of a tub with the bottom out,
But scarce of a Parliament in a dirty clout,
Which no body can deny.

’Twas Atkins [68] first served this Rump in with mustard—
The sauce was a compound of courage and custard;
Sir Vane bless’d the creature, Noll snuffled and bluster’d,
Which no body can deny.

The right was as then in old Oliver’s nose;
But when the Devil of that did dispose,
It descended from thence to the Rump in the close,
Which no body can deny.

Nor is it likely there to stay long,
The retentive faculties being gone,
The juggle is stale, and money there’s none,
Which no body can deny.

The secluded members made a trial
To enter, but them the Rump did defy all
By the ordinance of self-denial,
Which no body can deny.

Our politique doctors do us teach
That a blood-sucking red-coat’s as good as a leech
To relieve the head, if applied to the breech,
Which no body can deny.

But never was such a worm as Vane;
When the State scour’d last, it voided him then,
Yet now he’s crept into the Rump again,
Which no body can deny.

Ludlow’s f— was a prophetique trump [69]
(There never was anything so jump),
’Twas the very type of a vote of this Rump,
Which no body can deny.

They say ’tis good luck when a body rises
With the rump upward, but he that advises
To live in that posture is none of the wisest,
Which no body can deny.

The reason is worse, though the rime be untoward,
When things proceed with the wrong end forward;
But they say there’s sad news to the Rump from the Nor’ward; [70]
Which no body can deny.

’Tis a wonderfull thing, the strength of that part;
At a blast it will take you a team from a cart,
And blow a man’s head away with a f—,
Which no body can deny.

When our brains are sunck below the middle,
And our consciences steer’d by the hey-down-diddle,
Then things will go round without a fiddle,
Which no body can deny.

You may order the city with hand-granado,
Or the generall with a bastonado,—
But no way for a Rump like a carbonado,
Which no body can deny.

To make us as famous in council as wars,
Here’s Lenthal a speaker for mine—
And Fleetwood is a man of Mars,
Which no body can deny.

’Tis pitty that Nedham’s [71] fall’n into disgrace,
For he orders a bum with a marvellous grace,
And ought to attend the Rump by his place,
Which no body can deny.

Yet this in spight of all disasters,
Although he hath broken the heads of his masters,
’Tis still his profession to give ’em all plasters,
Which no body can deny.

The Rump’s an old story, if well understood;
’Tis a thing dress’d up in a Parliament’s hood,
And like ’t, but the tayl stands where the head should,
Which no body can deny.

’Twould make a man scratch where it does not itch,
To see forty fools’ heads in one politique breech,
And that, hugging the nation, as the devil did the witch;
Which no body can deny.

From rotten members preserve our wives!
From the mercy of a Rump, our estates and our lives!
For they must needs go whom the Devil drives,
Which no body can deny.

A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE OLD PARLIAMENT;
OR,
THE SECOND PART OF KNAVE OUT OF DOORS.

To the tune of

“Hei ho, my honey, my heart shall never rue,
Four-and-twenty now for your mony, and yet a hard penny-worth too.”

(Dec. 11th, 1659.)—From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.

“The events which gave occasion to the following ballad,” says Mr T. Wright in his Political Ballads, published for the Percy Society, “may be summed up in a few words. After the death of Cromwell, his son Richard was without opposition raised to the Protectorate; but his weak and easy character gave an opening to the intrigues of the Royalists, and the factious movement of the Republican party. Fleetwood, who had been named commander-in-chief of the army under the Protector, plotted to gain the chief power in the State, and was joined by Lambert, Desborough, and others. The Republicans were strengthened by the return of Vane, Ludlow, and Bradshaw, to the Parliament called by the new Protector. Lambert, the Protector’s brother-in-law, was the ostensible head of a party, and seems to have aimed at obtaining the power which had been held by Oliver. They formed a council of officers, who met at Wallingford House; and on the 20th April, 1659, having gained the upper hand, and having obtained the dissolution of the Parliament, they determined to restore the old Long Parliament, which they said had only been interrupted, and not legally dissolved, and to set aside the Protector, who soon afterwards resigned. On the 21st April, Lenthall, the old Speaker, with as many members of the Long Parliament as could be brought together, met in the House, and opened their session. The Parliament thus formed, as being the fag-end of the old Long Parliament, obtained the name of the Rump Parliament. Lambert’s hopes and aims were raised by his success against Sir George Booth in the August following, and jealousies soon arose between his party in the army and the Rump. The Parliament would have dismissed him, and the chief officers in the cabal with him, but Lambert with the army in October hindered their free meeting, and took the management of the government into the hands of a council of officers, whom they called the Committee of Safety. Towards the latter end of the year, the tide began to be changed in favour of the Parliament, by the declaration of Monk in Scotland, Henry Cromwell with the army in Ireland, and Hazelrigge and the officers at Portsmouth, in favour of the freedom of the Parliament. This ballad was written at the period when Lambert’s party was uppermost.”

The tune of “Hei ho, my honey,” may be found in Playford’s edition of “The English Dancing Master,” printed in 1686, but in no earlier edition of the same work.

Good-morrow, my neighbours all, what news is this I heard tell
As I past through Westminster-hall by the House that’s neck to hell?
They told John Lambert [72] was there with his bears, and deeply he swore
(As Cromwell had done before) those vermin should sit there no more.
Sing hi ho, Wil. Lenthall, [73] who shall our general be?
For the House to the Devil is sent all, and follow, good faith, mun ye!
Sing hi ho, my honey, my heart shall never rue,
Here’s all pickt ware for the money, and yet a hard pennyworth too.

Then, Muse, strike up a sonnet, come, piper, and play us a spring,
For now I think upon it, these R’s turn’d out their King;
But now is come about, that once again they must turn out,
And not without justice and reason, that every one home to his prison.
Sing hi ho, Harry Martin, [74] a burgess of the bench,
There’s nothing here is certain, you must back and leave your wench.
Sing, hi ho, etc.

He there with the buffle head is called lord and of the same House,
Who (as I have heard it said) was chastised by his ladye spouse;
Because he ran at sheep, she and her maid gave him the whip,
And beat his head so addle, you’d think he had a knock in the cradle.
Sing hi ho, Lord Munson, [75] you ha’ got a park of the King’s;
One day you’l hang like a hounson, for this and other things,
Sing hi, ho, etc.

It was by their master’s orders at first together they met,
Whom piously they did murder, and since by their own they did set.
The cause of this disaster is ’cause they were false to their master;
Nor can they their gens-d’armes blame for serving them the same.
Sing hi ho, Sir Arthur, [76] no more in the House you shall prate;
For all you kept such a quarter, [77] you are out of the councell of state.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Old Noll once gave them a purge (forgetting OCCIDISTI),
(The furies be his scourge!) so of the cure must he;
And yet the drug he well knew it, for he gave it to Dr Huit; [78]
Had he given it them, he had done it, and they had not turn’d out his son yet;
Sing hi ho, brave Dick, Lenthall, and Lady Joane,
Who did against lovalty kick is now for a new-year’s gift gone.
Sing hi ho, etc.

For had Old Noll been alive, he had pull’d them out by the ears,
Or else had fired their hive, and kickt them down the staires;
Because they were so bold to vex his righteous soul,
When he so deeply had swore that there they should never sit more.
But hi ho, Noll’s dead, and stunk long since above ground,
Though lapt in spices and lead that cost us many a pound.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Indeed, brother burgess, your ling did never stink half so bad,
Nor did your habberdin when it no pease-straw had;
Ye both were chose together, ’cause ye wore stuff cloaks in hard weather,
And Cambridge needs would have a burgess fool and knave.
Sing hi ho, John Lowry, [79] concerning habberdin,
No member spake before ye, yet you ne’re spoke againe.
Sing hi, ho, etc.

Ned Prideaux [80] he went post to tell the Protector the news,
That Fleetwood ruld the rost, having tane off Dicke’s shoes.
And that he did believe, Lambert would him deceive
As he his brother had gull’d, and Cromwell Fairfax bull’d.
Sing hi ho, the attorney was still at your command;
In flames together burn ye, still dancing hand in hand!
Sing hi ho, etc.

Who’s that would hide his face, and his neck from the collar pull?
He must appear in this place, if his cap be made of wool.
Who is it? with a vengeance! it is the good Lord St Johns, [81]
Who made God’s house to fall, to build his own withall.
Sing hi ho, who comes there? who ’tis I must not say;
But by his dark lanthorn, I sweare he’s as good in the night as day.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Edge, brethren, room for one that looks as big as the best;
’Tis pity to leave him alone, for he is as good as the rest;
No picklock of the laws, he builds among the daws,
If you ha’ any more kings to murder, for a President look no further.
Sing hi ho, John Bradshaw, in blood none further engages;
The Devil from whom he had’s law, will shortly pay him his wages.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Next, Peagoose Wild, [82] come in to show your weesle face,
And tell us Burley’s sin, whose blood bought you your place;
When loyalty was a crime, he lived in a dangerous time,
Was forced to pay his neck to make you baron of the cheque.
Sing hi ho, Jack Straw, we’ll put it in the margent,
’Twas not for justice or law that you were made a sergeant.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Noll served not Satan faster, nor with him did better accord;
For he was my good master, and the Devil was his good lord.
Both Slingsby, Gerard, and Hewet, [83] were sure enough to go to it,
According to his intent, that chose me President.
Sing hi ho, Lord Lisle, [84] sure law had got a wrench,
And where was justice the while, when you sate on the bench.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Next comes the good Lord Keble, of the Triumvirate,
Of the seal in the law but feeble, though on the bench he sate;
For when one puts him a case, I wish him out of the place,
And, if it were not a sin, an able lawyer in.
Sing, give the seal about, I’de have it so the rather,
Because we might get out the knave, my lord, my father.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Pull out the other three, it is Nathaniel Fines [85]
(Who Bristol lost for fear), we’ll not leave him behind’s;
’Tis a chip of that good old block, who to loyalty gave the first knock,
Then stole away to Lundey, whence the foul fiend fetches him one day.
Sing hi ho, canting Fines, you and the rest to mend ’um,
Would ye were served in your kinds with an ense rescidendum.
Sing hi ho, etc.

He that comes down-stairs, is Lord Chief Justice Glin; [86]
If no man for him cares, he cares as little again:
The reason too I know’t, he helpt cut Strafford’s throat,
And take away his life, though with a cleaner knife.
Sing hi ho, Britain bold, straight to the bar you get,
Where it is not so cold as where your justice set.
Sing hi ho, etc.

He that will next come in, was long of the Council of State,
Though hardly a hair on his chin when first in the council he sate;
He was sometime in Italy, and learned their fashions prettily,
Then came back to’s own nation, to help up reformation.
Sing hi ho, Harry Nevil, [87] I prythee be not too rash
With atheism to court the Divel, you’re too bold to be his bardash.
Sing hi ho, etc.

He there with ingratitude blackt is one Cornelius Holland, [88]
Who, but for the King’s house, lackt wherewith to appease his colon;
The case is well amended since that time, as I think,
When at court gate he tended with a little stick and a short link.
Sing hi ho, Cornelius, your zeal cannot delude us;
The reason pray now tell ye us why thus you play’d the Judas.
Sing hi ho, etc.

At first he was a grocer who now we Major call,
Although you would think no, Sir, if you saw him in Whitehall,
Where he has great command, and looks for cap in hand,
And if our eggs be not addle, shall be of the next new moddel.
Sing hi ho, Mr Salloway, [89] the Lord in heaven doth know
When that from hence you shall away, where to the Devil you’l go.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Little Hill, [90] since set in the House, is to a mountain grown;
Not that which brought forth the mouse, but thousands the year of his own.
The purchase that I mean, where else but at Taunton Dean;
Five thousand pounds per annum, a sum not known to his grannam.
Sing hi, the Good old Cause, [91] ’tis old enough not true
You got more by that then the laws, so a good old cause to you.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Master Cecil, [92] pray come behind, because on your own accord
The other House you declined, you shall be no longer a lord;
The reason, as I guess, you silently did confess,
Such lords deserved ill the other House to fill.
Sing hi ho, Mr Cecil, your honour now is gone;
Such lords are not worth a whistle, we have made better lords of our own.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Luke Robinson [93] shall go before ye, that snarling northern tyke;
Be sure he’ll not adore ye, for honour he doth not like;
He cannot honour inherit, and he knows he can never merit,
And therefore he cannot bear it that any one else should wear it.
Sing hi ho, envious lown, you’re of the beagle’s kind,
Who always bark’d at the moon, because in the dark it shined.
Sing hi ho, etc.

’Tis this that vengeance rouses, that, while you make long prayers,
You eat up widows’ houses, and drink the orphan’s tears;
Long time you kept a great noise, of God and the Good old Cause;
But if God to you be so kind, then I’me of the Indian’s mind.
Sing hi ho, Sir Harry, [94] we see, by your demeanour,
If longer here you tarry, you’ll be Sir Harry Vane, Senior.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Now if your zeal do warme ye, pray loud for fairer weather;
Swear to live and die with the army, for these birds are flown together;
The House is turn’d out a doe, (and I think it was no sin, too);
If we take them there any more, we’ll throw the House out of the window.
Sing hi ho, Tom Scot, [95] you lent the Devil your hand;
I wonder he helpt you not, but suffred you t’ be trapand.
Sing hi ho, etc.

They’re once again conduced, and we freed from the evil
To which we long were used; God blesse us next from the Devil!
If they had not been outed the array had been routed,
And then this rotten Rump had sat until the last trump.
But, hi ho, Lambert’s here, the Protector’s instrument bore,
And many there be who swear that he will do it no more.
Sing hi ho, etc.

Come here, then, honest Peters, [96] say grace for the second course,
So long as these your betters must patience have upon force,
Long time he kept a great noise with God and the Good old Cause,
But if God own such as these, then where’s the Devil’s fees?
Sing hi ho, Hugo, I hear thou art not dead;
Where now to the Devil will you go, your patrons being fled?
Sing hi ho, my honey, my heart shall never rue,
Four-and-twenty now for a penny, and into the bargain Hugh.

THE TALE OF THE COBBLER AND THE VICAR OF BRAY.

Rara est concordia fratrum. Ovid.

By Samuel Butler.

The “Sir Samuel” of this Ballad is the same person—Sir Samuel Luke of Bedfordshire—who is supposed to have been the unconscious model of the portrait which is drawn so much more fully in the inimitable Hudibras. Ralph is also the well-known Squire in the same poem. The Ballad, though published in Butler’s “Posthumous Works,” 1724, was rejected by Thyer in the edition of 1784, and is not included in the “Genuine Remains,” published from the original manuscripts, formerly in the possession of William Longueville, Esq. If not by Butler, it is a successful imitation of his style, and abounds in phrases of sturdy colloquial English, and is of a date long anterior to the popular song, “The Vicar of Bray.”

In Bedfordshire there dwelt a knight,
Sir Samuel by name,
Who by his feats in civil broils
Obtain’d a mighty fame.

Nor was he much less wise and stout,
But fit in both respects
To humble sturdy Cavaliers,
And to support the sects.

This worthy knight was one that swore
He would not cut his beard
Till this ungodly nation was
From kings and bishops clear’d:

Which holy vow he firmly kept,
And most devoutly wore
A grizly meteor on his face
Till they were both no more.

His worship was, in short, a man
Of such exceeding worth,
No pen or pencil can describe,
Or rhyming bard set forth.

Many and mighty things he did
Both sober and in liquor,—
Witness the mortal fray between
The Cobbler and the Vicar;

Which by his wisdom and his power
He wisely did prevent,
And both the combatants at once
In wooden durance pent.

The manner how these two fell out
And quarrell’d in their ale,
I shall attempt at large to show
In the succeeding tale.

A strolling cobbler, who was wont
To trudge from town to town,
Happen’d upon his walk to meet
A vicar in his gown.

And as they forward jogg’d along,
The vicar, growing hot,
First asked the cobbler if he knew
Where they might take a pot?

Yes, marry that I do, quoth he;
Here is a house hard by,
That far exceeds all Bedfordshire
For ale and landlady.

Thither let’s go, the vicar said;
And when they thither came,
He liked the liquor wondrous well,
But better far the dame.

And she, who, like a cunning jilt,
Knew how to please her guest,
Used all her little tricks and arts
To entertain the priest.

The cobbler too, who quickly saw
The landlady’s design,
Did all that in his power was
To manage the divine.

With smutty jests and merry songs
They charm’d the vicar so,
That he determined for that night
No further he would go.

And being fixt, the cobbler thought
’Twas proper to go try
If he could get a job or two
His charges to supply.

So going out into the street,
He bawls with all his might,—
If any of you tread awry
I’m here to set you right.

I can repair your leaky boots,
And underlay your soles;
Backsliders, I can underprop
And patch up all your holes.

The vicar, who unluckily
The cobbler’s outcry heard,
From off the bench on which he sat
With mighty fury rear’d.

Quoth he, What priest, what holy priest
Can hear this bawling slave,
But must, in justice to his coat,
Chastise the saucy knave?

What has this wretch to do with souls,
Or with backsliders either,
Whose business only is his awls,
His lasts, his thread, and leather?

I lose my patience to be made
This strolling varlet’s sport;
Nor could I think this saucy rogue
Could serve me in such sort.

The cobbler, who had no design
The vicar to displease,
Unluckily repeats again,—
I’m come your soals to ease:

The inward and the outward too
I can repair and mend;
And all that my assistance want,
I’ll use them like a friend.

The country folk no sooner heard
The honest cobbler’s tongue,
But from the village far and near
They round about him throng.

Some bring their boots, and some their shoes,
And some their buskins bring:
The cobbler sits him down to work,
And then begins to sing.

Death often at the cobbler’s stall
Was wont to make a stand,
But found the cobbler singing still,
And on the mending hand;

Until at length he met old Time,
And then they both together
Quite tear the cobbler’s aged sole
From off the upper leather.

Even so a while I may old shoes
By care and art maintain,
But when the leather’s rotten grown
All art and care is vain.

And thus the cobbler stitched and sung,
Not thinking any harm;
Till out the angry vicar came
With ale and passion warm.

Dost thou not know, vile slave! quoth he,
How impious ’tis to jest
With sacred things, and to profane
The office of a priest?

How dar’st thou, most audacious wretch!
Those vile expressions use,
Which make the souls of men as cheap
As soals of boots and shoes?

Such reprobates as you betray
Our character and gown,
And would, if you had once the power,
The Church itself pull down.

The cobbler, not aware that he
Had done or said amiss,
Reply’d, I do not understand
What you can mean by this.

Tho’ I but a poor cobbler be,
And stroll about for bread,
None better loves the Church than I
That ever wore a head.

But since you are so good at names,
And make so loud a pother,
I’ll tell you plainly I’m afraid
You’re but some cobbling brother.

Come, vicar, tho’ you talk so big,
Our trades are near akin;
I patch and cobble outward soals
As you do those within.

And I’ll appeal to any man
That understands the nation,
If I han’t done more good than you
In my respective station.

Old leather, I must needs confess,
I’ve sometimes used as new,
And often pared the soal so near
That I have spoil’d the shoe.

You vicars, by a different way,
Have done the very same;
For you have pared your doctrines so
You made religion lame.

Your principles you’ve quite disown’d,
And old ones changed for new,
That no man can distinguish right
Which are the false or true.

I dare be bold, you’re one of those
Have took the Covenant;
With Cavaliers are Cavalier,
And with the saints a saint.

The vicar at this sharp rebuke
Begins to storm and swear;
Quoth he, Thou vile apostate wretch!
Dost thou with me compare?

I that have care of many souls,
And power to damn or save,
Dar’st thou thyself compare with me,
Thou vile, ungodly knave!

I wish I had thee somewhere else,
I’d quickly make thee know
What ’tis to make comparisons,
And to revile me so.

Thou art an enemy to the State,
Some priest in masquerade,
That, to promote the Pope’s designs,
Has learnt the cobbling trade:

Or else some spy to Cavaliers,
And art by them sent out
To carry false intelligence,
And scatter lies about.

But whilst the vicar full of ire
Was railing at this rate,
His worship, good Sir Samuel,
O’erlighted at the gate.

And asking of the landlady
Th’ occasion of the stir;
Quoth she, If you will give me leave
I will inform you, Sir.

This cobbler happening to o’ertake
The vicar in his walk,
In friendly sort they forward march,
And to each other talk.

Until the parson first proposed
To stop and take a whet;
So cheek by jole they hither came
Like travellers well met.

A world of healths and jests went round,
Sometimes a merry tale;
Till they resolved to stay all night,
So well they liked my ale.

Thus all things lovingly went on,
And who so great as they;
Before an ugly accident
Began this mortal fray.

The case I take it to be this,—
The vicar being fixt,
The cobbler chanced to cry his trade,
And in his cry he mixt

Some harmless words, which I suppose
The vicar falsely thought
Might be design’d to banter him,
And scandalize his coat.

If that be all, quoth he, go out
And bid them both come in;
A dozen of your nappy ale
Will set ’em right again.

And if the ale should chance to fail,
For so perhaps it may,
I have it in my powers to try
A more effectual way.

These vicars are a wilful tribe,
A restless, stubborn crew;
And if they are not humbled quite,
The State they will undo.

The cobbler is a cunning knave,
That goes about by stealth,
And would, instead of mending shoes,
Repair the Commonwealth.

However, bid ’em both come in,
This fray must have an end;
Such little feuds as these do oft
To greater mischiefs tend.

Without more bidding out she goes
And told them, by her troth,
There was a magistrate within
That needs must see ’em both.

But, gentlemen, pray distance keep,
And don’t too testy be;
Ill words good manners still corrupt
And spoil good company.

To this the vicar first replies,
I fear no magistrate;
For let ’em make what laws they will,
I’ll still obey the State.

Whatever I can say or do,
I’m sure not much avails;
I stall still be Vicar of Bray
Whichever side prevails.

My conscience, thanks to Heaven, is come
To such a happy pass,
That I can take the Covenant
And never hang an ass.

I’ve took so many oaths before,
That now without remorse
I take all oaths the State can make,
As meerly things of course.

Go therefore, dame, the justice tell
His summons I’ll obey;
And further you may let him know
I Vicar am of Bray.

I find indeed, the cobbler said,
I am not much mistaken;
This vicar knows the ready way
To save his reverend bacon. [97]

This is a hopeful priest indeed,
And well deserves a rope;
Rather than lose his vicarage
He’d swear to Turk or Pope.

For gain he would his God deny,
His country and his King;
Swear and forswear, recant and lye,
Do any wicked thing.

At this the vicar set his teeth,
And to the cobbler flew;
And with his sacerdotal fist
Gave him a box or two.

The cobbler soon return’d the blows,
And with both head and heel
So manfully behaved himself,
He made the vicar reel.

Great was the outcry that was made,
And in the woman ran
To tell his worship that the fight
Betwixt them was began.

And is it so indeed? quoth he;
I’ll make the slaves repent:
Then up he took his basket hilt,
And out enraged he went.

The country folk no sooner saw
The knight with naked blade,
But for his worship instantly
An open lane was made;

Who with a stern and angry look
Cry’d out, What knaves are these
That in the face of justice dare
Disturb the public peace?

Vile rascals! I will make you know
I am a magistrate,
And that as such I bear about
The vengeance of the State.

Go, seize them, Ralph, and bring them in,
That I may know the cause,
That first induced them to this rage,
And thus to break the laws.

Ralph, who was both his squire and clerk,
And constable withal,
I’ th’ name o’ th’ Commonwealth aloud
Did for assistance bawl.

The words had hardly pass’d his mouth
But they secure them both;
And Ralph, to show his furious zeal
And hatred to the cloth,

Runs to the vicar through the crowd,
And takes him by the throat:
How ill, says he, doth this become
Your character and coat!

Was it for this not long ago
You took the Covenant,
And in most solemn manner swore
That you’d become a saint?

And here he gave him such a pinch
That made the vicar shout,—
Good people, I shall murder’d be
By this ungodly lout.

He gripes my throat to that degree
I can’t his talons bear;
And if you do not hold his hands,
He’ll throttle me, I fear.

At this a butcher of the town
Steps up to Ralph in ire,—
What, will you squeeze his gullet through,
You son of blood and fire?

You are the Devil’s instrument
To execute the laws;
What, will you murther the poor man
With your phanatick claws?

At which the squire quits his hold,
And lugging out his blade,
Full at the sturdy butcher’s pate
A furious stroke he made.

A dismal outcry then began
Among the country folk;
Who all conclude the butcher slain
By such a mortal stroke.

But here good fortune, that has still
A friendship for the brave,
I’ th’ nick misguides the fatal blow,
And does the butcher save.

The knight, who heard the noise within,
Runs out with might and main,
And seeing Ralph amidst the crowd
In danger to be slain,

Without regard to age or sex
Old basket-hilt so ply’d,
That in an instant three or four
Lay bleeding at his side.

And greater mischiefs in his rage
This furious knight had done,
If he had not prevented been
By Dick, the blacksmith’s son,

Who catch’d his worship on the hip,
And gave him such a squelch,
That he some moments breathless lay
Ere he was heard to belch.

Nor was the squire in better case,
By sturdy butcher ply’d,
Who from the shoulder to the flank
Had soundly swinged his hide.

Whilst things in this confusion stood,
And knight and squire disarm’d,
Up comes a neighbouring gentleman
The outcry had alarm’d;

Who riding up among the crowd,
The vicar first he spy’d,
With sleeveless gown and bloody band
And hands behind him ty’d.

Bless me, says he, what means all this?
Then turning round his eyes,
In the same plight, or in a worse,
The cobbler bleeding spies.

And looking further round he saw,
Like one in doleful dump,
The knight, amidst a gaping mob,
Sit pensive on his rump.

And by his side lay Ralph his squire,
Whom butcher fell had maul’d;
Who bitterly bemoan’d his fate,
And for a surgeon call’d.

Surprised at first he paused awhile,
And then accosts the knight,—
What makes you here, Sir Samuel,
In this unhappy plight?

At this the knight gave’s breast a thump,
And stretching out his hand,—
If you will pull me up, he cried,
I’ll try if I can stand.

And then I’ll let you know the cause;
But first take care of Ralph,
Who in my good or ill success
Doth always stand my half.

In short, he got his worship up
And led him in the door;
Where he at length relates the tale
As I have told before.

When he had heard the story out,
The gentleman replies,—
It is not in my province, sir,
Your worship to advise.

But were I in your worship’s place,
The only thing I’d do,
Was first to reprimand the fools,
And then to let them go.

I think it first advisable
To take them from the rabble,
And let them come and both set forth
The occasion of the squabble.

This is the Vicar, Sir, of Bray,
A man of no repute,
The scorn and scandal of his tribe,
A loose, ill-manner’d brute.

The cobbler’s a poor strolling wretch
That mends my servants’ shoes;
And often calls as he goes by
To bring me country news.

At this his worship grip’d his beard,
And in an angry mood,
Swore by the laws of chivalry
That blood required blood.

Besides, I’m by the Commonwealth
Entrusted to chastise
All knaves that straggle up and down
To raise such mutinies.

However, since ’tis your request,
They shall be call’d and heard;
But neither Ralph nor I can grant
Such rascals should be clear’d.

And so, to wind the tale up short,
They were call’d in together;
And by the gentlemen were ask’d
What wind ’twas blew them thither.

Good ale and handsome landladies
You might have nearer home;
And therefore ’tis for something more
That you so far are come.

To which the vicar answer’d first,—
My living is so small,
That I am forced to stroll about
To try and get a call.

And, quoth the cobbler, I am forced
To leave my wife and dwelling,
T’ escape the danger of being press’d
To go a colonelling.

There’s many an honest jovial lad
Unwarily drawn in,
That I have reason to suspect
Will scarce get out again.

The proverb says, Harm watch harm catch,
I’ll out of danger keep,
For he that sleeps in a whole skin
Doth most securely sleep.

My business is to mend bad soals
And stitch up broken quarters:
A cobbler’s name would look but odd
Among a list of martyrs.

Faith, cobbler, quoth the gentleman,
And that shall be my case;
I will neither party join,
Let what will come to pass.

No importunities or threats
My fixt resolves shall rest;
Come here, Sir Samuel, where’s his health
That loves old England best.

I pity those unhappy fools
Who, ere they were aware,
Designing and ambitious men
Have drawn into a snare.

But, vicar, to come to the case,—
Amidst a senseless crowd,
What urged you to such violence,
And made you talk so loud?

Passion I’m sure does ill become
Your character and cloath,
And, tho’ the cause be ne’er so just,
Brings scandal upon both.

Vicar, I speak it with regret,
An inadvertent priest
Renders himself ridiculous,
And every body’s jest.

The vicar to be thus rebuked
A little time stood mute;
But having gulp’d his passion down,
Replies,—That cobbling brute

Has treated me with such contempt,
Such vile expressions used,
That I no longer could forbear
To hear myself abused.

The rascal had the insolence
To give himself the lie,
And to aver h’ had done more good
And saved more soals than I.

Nay, further, Sir, this miscreant
To tell me was so bold,
Our trades were very near of kin,
But his was the more old.

Now, Sir, I will to you appeal
On such a provocation,
If there was not sufficient cause
To use a little passion?

Now, quoth the cobbler, with your leave,
I’ll prove it to his face,
All this is mere suggestion,
And foreign to the case.

And since he calls so many names
And talks so very loud,
I will be bound to make it plain
’Twas he that raised the crowd.

Nay, further, I will make ’t appear
He and the priests have done
More mischief than the cobblers far
All over Christendom.

All Europe groans beneath their yoke,
And poor Great Britain owes
To them her present miseries,
And dread of future woes.

The priests of all religions are
And will be still the same,
And all, tho’ in a different way,
Are playing the same game.

At this the gentleman stood up,—
Cobbler, you run too fast;
By thus condemning all the tribe
You go beyond your last.

Much mischief has by priests been done,
And more is doing still;
But then to censure all alike
Must be exceeding ill.

Too many, I must needs confess,
Are mightily to blame,
Who by their wicked practices
Disgrace the very name.

But, cobbler, still the major part
The minor should conclude;
To argue at another rate’s
Impertinent and rude.

By this time all the neighbours round
Were flock’d about the door,
And some were on the vicar’s side,
But on the cobbler’s more.

Among the rest a grazier, who
Had lately been at town
To sell his oxen and his sheep,
Brim-full of news came down.

Quoth he, The priests have preach’d and pray’d,
And made so damn’d a pother,
That all the people are run mad
To murther one another.

By their contrivances and arts
They’ve play’d their game so long,
That no man knows which side is right,
Or which is in the wrong.

I’m sure I’ve Smithfield market used
For more than twenty year,
But never did such murmurings
And dreadful outcries hear.

Some for a church, and some a tub,
And some for both together;
And some, perhaps the greater part,
Have no regard for either.

Some for a king, and some for none;
And some have hankerings
To mend the Commonwealth, and make
An empire of all kings.

What’s worse, old Noll is marching off,
And Dick, his heir-apparent,
Succeeds him in the government,
A very lame vicegerent.

He’ll reign but little time, poor fool,
But sink beneath the State,
That will not fail to ride the fool
’Bove common horseman’s weight.

And rulers, when they lose the power,
Like horses overweigh’d,
Must either fall and break their knees,
Or else turn perfect jade.

The vicar to be twice rebuked
No longer could contain;
But thus replies,—To knaves like you
All arguments are vain.

The Church must use her arm of flesh,
The other will not do;
The clergy waste their breath and time
On miscreants like you.

You are so stubborn and so proud,
So dull and prepossest,
That no instructions can prevail
How well soe’er addrest.

Who would reform such reprobates,
Must drub them soundly first;
I know no other way but that
To make them wise or just.

Fie, vicar, fie, his patron said,
Sure that is not the way;
You should instruct your auditors
To suffer or obey.

Those were the doctrines that of old
The learned fathers taught;
And ’twas by them the Church at first
Was to perfection brought.

Come, vicar, lay your feuds aside,
And calmly take your cup;
And let us try in friendly wise
To make the matter up.

That’s certainly the wiser course,
And better too by far;
All men of prudence strive to quench
The sparks of civil war.

By furious heats and ill advice
Our neighbours are undone,
Then let us timely caution take
From their destruction.

If we would turn our heads about,
And look towards forty-one,
We soon should see what little jars
Those cruel wars begun.

A one-eyed cobbler then was one
Of that rebellious crew,
That did in Charles the martyr’s blood
Their wicked hands imbrue.

I mention this not to deface
This cobbler’s reputation,
Whom I have always honest found,
And useful in his station.

But this I urge to let you see
The danger of a fight
Between a cobbler and a priest,
Though he were ne’er so right.

The vicars are a numerous tribe,
So are the cobblers too;
And if a general quarrel rise,
What must the country do?

Our outward and our inward soals
Must quickly want repair;
And all the neighbourhood around
Would the misfortune share.

Sir, quoth the grazier, I believe
Our outward soals indeed
May quickly want the cobbler’s help
To be from leakings freed.

But for our inward souls, I think
They’re of a worth too great
To be committed to the care
Of any holy cheat,

Who only serves his God for gain,
Religion is his trade;
And ’tis by such as these our Church
So scandalous is made.

Why should I trust my soul with one
That preaches, swears, and prays,
And the next moment contradicts
Himself in all he says?

His solemn oaths he looks upon
As only words of course!
Which like their wives our fathers took
For better or for worse.

But he takes oaths as some take w—s,
Only to serve his ease;
And rogues and w—s, it is well known,
May part whene’er they please.

At this the cobbler bolder grew,
And stoutly thus reply’d,—
If you’re so good at drubbing, Sir,
Your manhood shall be try’d.

What I have said I will maintain,
And further prove withal—
I daily do more good than you
In my respective call.

I know your character, quoth he,
You proud insulting vicar,
Who only huff and domineer
And quarrel in your liquor.

The honest gentleman, who saw
’Twould come again to blows,
Commands the cobbler to forbear,
And to the vicar goes.

Vicar, says he, for shame give o’er
And mitigate your rage;
You scandalize your cloth too much
A cobbler to engage.

All people’s eyes are on your tribe,
And every little ill
They multiply and aggravate
And will because they will.

But now let’s call another cause,
So let this health go round;
Be peace and plenty, truth and right,
In good old England found.

Quoth Ralph, All this is empty talk
And only tends to laughter;
If these two varlets should be spared,
Who’d pity us hereafter?

Your worship may do what you please,
But I’ll have satisfaction
For drubbing and for damages
In this ungodly action.

I think that you can do no less
Than send them to the stocks;
And I’ll assist the constable
In fixing in their hocks.

There let ’em sit and fight it out,
Or scold till they are friends;
Or, what is better much than both,
Till I am made amends.

Ralph, quoth the knight, that’s well advised,
Let them both hither go,
And you and the sub-magistrate
Take care that it be so.

Let them be lock’d in face to face,
Bare buttocks on the ground;
And let them in that posture sit
Till they with us compound.

Thus fixt, well leave them for a time,
Whilst we with grief relate,
How at a wake this knight and squire
Got each a broken pate.

THE GENEVA BALLAD.

From Samuel Butler’s Posthumous Works.

Of all the factions in the town
Moved by French springs or Flemish wheels,
None turns religion upside down,
Or tears pretences out at heels,
Like Splaymouth with his brace of caps,
Whose conscience might be scann’d perhaps
By the dimensions of his chaps;

He whom the sisters do adore,
Counting his actions all divine,
Who when the spirit hints can roar,
And, if occasion serves, can whine;
Nay, he can bellow, bray, or bark;
Was ever sike a Beauk-learn’d clerk
That speaks all linguas of the ark?

To draw the hornets in like bees,
With pleasing twangs he tones his prose;
He gives his handkerchief a squeeze,
And draws John Calvin thro’ his nose;
Motive on motive he obtrudes,
With slip-stocking similitudes,
Eight uses more, and so concludes.

When monarchy began to bleed,
And treason had a fine new name;
When Thames was balderdash’d with Tweed,
And pulpits did like beacons flame;
When Jeroboam’s calves were rear’d,
And Laud was neither loved nor fear’d,
This gospel-comet first appear’d.

Soon his unhallow’d fingers stript
His sovereign-liege of power and land;
And, having smote his master, slipt
His sword into his fellow’s hand;
But he that wears his eyes may note
Oft-times the butcher binds a goat,
And leaves his boy to cut her throat.

Poor England felt his fury then
Outweigh’d Queen Mary’s many grains;
His very preaching slew more men
Than Bonnar’s faggots, stakes, and chains:
With dog-star zeal, and lungs like Boreas,
He fought, and taught, and, what’s notorious,
Destroy’d his Lord to make him glorious.

Yet drew for King and Parliament,
As if the wind could stand north-south;
Broke Moses’ law with blest intent,
Murther’d, and then he wiped his mouth:
Oblivion alters not his case,
Nor clemency nor acts of grace
Can blanch an Ethiopian’s face.

Ripe for rebellion, he begins
To rally up the saints in swarms;
He bawls aloud, Sir, leave your sins,
But whispers, Boys, stand to your arms:
Thus he’s grown insolently rude,
Thinking his gods can’t be subdued—
Money, I mean, and multitude.

Magistrates he regards no more
Than St George or the King of Colon,
Vowing he’ll not conform before
The old wives wind their dead in woollen:
He calls the bishop gray-hair’d coff,
And makes his power as mere a scoff
As Dagon when his hands were off.

Hark! how he opens with full cry,
Halloo, my hearts, beware of Rome!
Cowards that are afraid to die
Thus make domestic brawls at home.
How quietly great Charles might reign,
Would all these Hotspurs cross the main
And preach down Popery in Spain.

The starry rule of Heaven is fixt,
There’s no dissension in the sky;
And can there be a mean betwixt,
Confusion and conformity?
A place divided never thrives,
’Tis bad when hornets dwell in hives,
But worse when children play with knives.

I would as soon turn back to mass,
Or change my praise to Thee and Thou;
Let the Pope ride me like an ass,
And his priests milk me like a cow!
As buckle to Smectymnian laws,
The bad effects o’ th’ Good old Cause,
That have dove’s plumes, but vulture’s claws.

For ’twas the holy Kirk that nursed,
The Brownists and the ranters’ crew;
Foul error’s motley vesture first
Was oaded [98] in a northern blue;
And what’s th’ enthusiastick breed,
Or men of Knipperdolin’s creed,
But Cov’nanters run up to seed!

Yet they all cry they love the King,
And make boast of their innocence:
There cannot be so vile a thing
But may be cover’d with pretence;
Yet when all’s said, one thing I’ll swear,
No subject like th’ old Cavalier,
No traytor like Jack-Presbyter.

THE DEVIL’S PROGRESS ON EARTH,
OR
HUGGLE DUGGLE.

From Durfey’s “Pills to Purge Melancholy.”

Frier Bacon walks again,
And Doctor Forster [99] too;
Prosperine and Pluto,
And many a goblin crew:
With that a merry devil,
To make the Airing, vow’d;
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The Devil laugh’d aloud.

Why think you that he laugh’d?
Forsooth he came from court;
And there amongst the gallants
Had spy’d such pretty sport;
There was such cunning jugling,
And ladys gon so proud;
Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that into the city
Away the Devil went;
To view the merchants’ dealings
It was his full intent:
And there along the brave Exchange
He crept into the croud.
Huggle Duggle, etc.

He went into the city
To see all there was well;
Their scales were false, their weights were light,
Their conscience fit for hell;
And Panders chosen magistrates,
And Puritans allow’d.
Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that unto the country
Away the Devil goeth;
For there is all plain dealing,
For that the Devil knoweth:
But the rich man reaps the gains
For which the poor man plough’d.
Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that the Devil in haste
Took post away to hell,
And call’d his fellow furies,
And told them all on earth was well:
That falsehood there did flourish,
Plain dealing was in a cloud.
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The devils laugh’d aloud.