A SHORT LITANY FOR THE YEAR 1649.
By Samuel Butler. (From his Posthumous Works.)
From all the mischiefs that I mention here,
Preserve us, Heaven, in this approaching year:
From civil wars and those uncivil things
That hate the race of all our queens and kings;
From those who for self-ends would all betray,
From saints that curse and flatter when they pray;
From those that hold it merit to rebel,
In treason, murthers, and in theft excel;
From those new teachers have destroy’d the old,
And those that turn the gospel into gold;
From a High-Court, and that rebellious crew
That did their hands in royal blood imbrue,—
Defend us, Heaven, and to the throne restore
The rightful heir, and we will ask no more.
THE SALE OF REBELLION’S HOUSE-HOLD STUFF.
Printed in “Percy’s Reliques,” from an old black-letter copy in Mr Pepys’ collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in a Choice Collection of 120 Loyal Songs—1684
To the tune of “Old Sir Simon the King.”
Rebellion hath broken up house,
And hath left me old lumber to sell;
Come hither and take your choice,
I’ll promise to use you well.
Will you buy the old Speaker’s chair?
Which was warm and easy to sit in,
And oft has been clean’d, I declare,
Whereas it was fouler than fitting.
Says old Simon the King,
Says old Simon the King,
With his ale-dropt hose, and his Malmsey nose,
Sing, hey ding, ding-a-ding, ding.
Will you buy any bacon flitches,
The fattest that ever were spent?
They’re the sides of the old committees
Fed up in the Long Parliament.
Here’s a pair of bellows and tongs,
And for a small matter I’ll sell ye ’um,
They are made of the presbyter’s lungs,
To blow up the coals of rebellion.
Says old Simon, etc.
I had thought to have given them once
To some blacksmith for his forge;
But now I have consider’d on’t,
They are consecrate to the Church:
So I’ll give them unto some quire,
They will make the big organs roar,
And the little pipes to squeak higher
Than ever they could before.
Says old Simon, etc.
Here’s a couple of stools for sale,
One’s square, and t’other is round;
Betwixt them both, the tail
Of the Rump fell down to the ground.
Will you buy the State’s council-table,
Which was made of the good wain-Scot?
The frame was a tottering Babel,
To uphold th’ Independent plot.
Says old Simon, etc.
Here’s the besom of Reformation,
Which should have made clean the floor;
But it swept the wealth out of the nation,
And left us dirt good store.
Will you buy the state’s spinning-wheel,
Which spun for the roper’s trade?
But better it had stood still,
For now it has spun a fair thread.
Says old Simon, etc.
Here’s a glyster-pipe well tried,
Which was made of a butcher’s stump,
And has been safely applied
To cure the colds of the Rump.
Here’s a lump of pilgrim’s-salve,
Which once was a justice of peace,
Who Noll and the devil did serve,
But now it is come to this,
Says old Simon, etc.
Here’s a roll of the State’s tobacco,
If any good fellow will take it;
No Virginia had e’er such a Smack-o,
And I’ll tell you how they did make it:
’Tis th’ Engagement and Covenant cook’t
Up with the abjuration oath,
And many of them that have took’t
Complain it was foul in the mouth.
Says old Simon, etc.
Yet the ashes may happily serve
To cure the scab of the nation,
Whene’er’t has an itch to swerve
To rebellion by innovation.
A lanthorn here is to be bought,
The like was scarce ever gotten,
For many plots it has found out
Before they ever were thought on.
Says old Simon, etc.
Will you buy the Rump’s great saddle,
With which it jockey’d the nation?
And here is the bit and the bridle,
And curb of dissimulation;
And here’s the trunk-hose of the Rump,
And their fair dissembling cloak;
And a Presbyterian jump,
With an Independent smock.
Says old Simon, etc.
Will you buy a conscience oft turn’d,
Which served the High-Court of justice,
And stretch’d until England it mourn’d,
But hell will buy that if the worst is.
Here’s Joan Cromwell’s kitchen-stuff tub,
Wherein is the fat of the Rumpers,
With which old Noll’s horns she did rub,
When he was got drunk with false bumbers.
Says old Simon, etc.
Here’s the purse of the public faith;
Here’s the model of the Sequestration,
When the old wives upon their good troth
Lent thimbles to ruin the nation.
Here’s Dick Cromwell’s Protectorship,
And here are Lambert’s commissions,
And here is Hugh Peters his scrip,
Cramm’d with tumultuous petitions.
Says old Simon, etc.
And here are old Noll’s brewing vessels,
And here are his dray and his flings;
Here are Hewson’s [36] awl and his bristles,
With diverse other odd things:
And what is the price doth belong
To all these matters before ye?
I’ll sell them all for an old song,
And so I do end my story.
Says old Simon, etc.
THE CAVALIER’S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS, BEING CALLED TO THE WARRS.
The following song was extracted from the MS. Diary of the Rev. John Adamson (afterwards Rector of Burton Coggles, Lincolnshire), commencing in 1658; by a correspondent of Notes and Queries, First Series, Jan. 18, 1851.
Fair Fidelia, tempt no more,
I may no more thy deity adore
Nor offer to thy shrine,
I serve one more divine
And farr more great than you:
I must goe,
Lest the foe
Gaine the cause and win the day.
Let’s march bravely on,
Charge ym in the van,
Our cause God’s is,
Though their odds is
Ten to one.
Tempt no more, I may not yeeld
Altho’ thine eyes
A kingdome may surprize:
Leave off thy wanton toiles,
The high-borne Prince of Wales
Is mounted in the field,
Where the royall gentry flocke.
Though alone
Nobly borne
Of a ne’re decaying stocke.
Cavaliers, be bold,
Bravely keep your hold,
He that loyters
Is by traytors
Bought and sold.
One kisse more, and then farewell;
Oh no, no more,
I prithee give me o’er,—
Why cloudest thou thy beames?
I see by these extreames
A woman’s heaven or hell.
Pray the King may have his owne,
And the Queen
May be seen
With her babes on England’s throne.
Rally up your men,
One shall vanquish ten,
Victory, we
Come to try thee
Once agen.