THE ANARCHIE, OR THE BLEST REFORMATION SINCE 1640.
Being a new song, wherein the people expresse their thankes and pray for the reformers.
To be said or sung of all the well-affected of the kingdome of England, and dominion of Wales, before the breaking up of this unhappy Parliament.
[From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum. It is printed but incorrectly in the “Rump Songs,” ed. 1665, under the title of “The Rebellion.”]
To a rare new Tune.
(Oct. 24, 1648.)
Now that, thankes to the powers below!
We have e’ne done out our doe,
The mitre is downe, and so is the crowne,
And with them the coronet too;
Come clownes, and come boyes, come hober-de-hoyes,
Come females of each degree;
Stretch your throats, bring in your votes,
And make good the anarchy.
And “thus it shall goe,” sayes Alice;
“Nay, thus it shall goe,” sayes Amy;
“Nay, thus it shall goe,” sayes Taffie, “I trow;”
“Nay, thus it shall goe,” sayes Jamy.
Ah! but the truth, good people all,
The truth is such a thing;
For it wou’d undoe both Church and State too,
And cut the throat of our King.
Yet not the spirit, nor the new light,
Can make this point so cleare,
But thou must bring out, thou deified rout,
What thing this truth is, and where.
Speak Abraham, speak Kester, speak Judith, speak Hester,
Speak tag and rag, short coat and long;
Truth’s the spell made us rebell,
And murther and plunder, ding-dong.
“Sure I have the truth,” sayes Numph;
“Nay, I ha’ the truth,” sayes Clemme;
“Nay, I ha’ the truth,” sayes Reverend Ruth;
“Nay, I ha’ the truth,” sayes Nem.
Well, let the truth be where it will,
We’re sure all else is ours;
Yet these divisions in our religions
May chance abate our powers.
Then let’s agree on some one way,
It skills not much how true;
Take Pryn and his clubs; or Say and his tubs, [33]
Or any sect old or new;
The devil’s i’ th’ pack, if choyce you can lack,
We’re fourscore religions strong;
Take your choyce, the major voyce
Shall carry it, right or wrong.
“Then wee’le be of this,” sayes Megg;
“Nay, wee’le be of that,” sayes Tibb;
“Nay, wee’le be of all,” sayes pitifull Paul;
“Nay, wee’le be of none,” sayes Gibb.
Neighbours and friends, pray one word more,
There’s something yet behinde;
And wise though you be, you doe not well see
In which doore sits the winde.
As for religion to speake right,
And in the Houses sence,
The matter’s all one to have any or none,
If ’twere not for the pretence.
But herein doth lurke the key of the worke,
Even to dispose of the crowne,
Dexteriously, and as may be,
For your behoofe and your owne.
“Then let’s ha’ King Charles,” sayes George;
“Nay, let’s have his son,” sayes Hugh;
“Nay, let’s have none,” sayes Jabbering Jone;
“Nay, let’s be all kings,” sayes Prue.
Oh we shall have (if we go on
In plunder, excise, and blood)
But few folke and poore to domineere ore,
And that will not be so good;
Then let’s resolve on some new way,
Some new and happy course,
The country’s growne sad, the city horne-mad,
And both the Houses are worse.
The synod hath writ, the generall hath spit,
And both to like purposes too;
Religion, lawes, the truth, the cause,
Are talk’t of, but nothing we doe.
“Come, come, shal’s ha’ peace?” sayes Nell;
“No, no, but we won’t,” sayes Madge;
“But I say we will,” sayes firy-faced Phill;
“We will and we won’t,” sayes Hodge.
Thus from the rout who can expect
Ought but division?
Since unity doth with monarchy
Begin and end in one.
If then when all is thought their owne,
And lyes at their behest,
These popular pates reap nought but debates,
From that many round-headed beast;
Come, Royalists, then, doe you play the men,
And Cavaliers give the word;
Now let us see at what you would be,
And whether you can accord.
“A health to King Charles!” sayes Tom;
“Up with it,” sayes Ralph, like a man;
“God blesse him,” sayes Doll; “and raise him,” sayes Moll;
“And send him his owne!” sayes Nan.
Now for these prudent things that sit
Without end and to none,
And their committees, that townes and cities
Fill with confusion;
For the bold troopes of sectaries,
The Scots and their partakers,
Our new British states, Col. Burges and his mates,
The covenant and its makers;
For all these wee’le pray, and in such a way,
As if it might granted be,
Jack and Gill, Mat and Will,
And all the world would agree.
“A plague take them all!” sayes Besse;
“And a pestilence too!” sayes Margery,
“The devill!” sayes Dick; “And his dam, [34] too!” sayes Nick;
“Amen! and Amen!” say I.
It is desired that the knights and burgesses would take especial care to send down full numbers hereof to their respective counties and burroughs, for which they have served apprenticeship, that all the people may rejoyce as one man for their freedom.
A COFFIN FOR KING CHARLES,
A CROWN FOR CROMWELL,
AND A PIT FOR THE PEOPLE.
From a broadside in the King’s Pamphlets, vol. viii. in the British Museum, with the direction, “You may sing this to the tune of ‘Faine I would.’” The tune sometimes called “Parthenia,” and “The King’s Complaint,” is to be found in Mr Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time. The King was beheaded in January, 1649. This Ballad is dated the 23rd of April in the same year.
CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
So, so, the deed is done,
The royal head is sever’d,
As I meant when I first begun,
And strongly have endeavour’d.
Now Charles the First is tumbled down,
The Second I do not fear;
I grasp the sceptre, wear the crown,
Nor for Jehovah care.
KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
Think’st thou, base slave, though in my grave
Like other men I lie,
My sparkling fame and royal name
Can (as thou wishest) die?
Know, caitif, in my son I live
(The Black Prince call’d by some),
And he shall ample vengeance give
To those that did my doom.
Supprest, deprest, involved in woes,
Great Charles, thy people be
Basely deceived with specious shows
By those that murther’d thee.
We are enslaved to tyrants’ hests,
Who have our freedom won:
Our fainting hope now only rests
On thy succeeding son.
CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
Base vulgar! know, the more you stir,
The more your woes increase,
Your rashness will your hopes deter,
’Tis we must give you peace.
Black Charles a traitor is proclaim’d
Unto our dignity;
He dies (if e’er by us he’s gain’d)
Without all remedy.
KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou
And thy degenerate train,
By mankind’s Saviour’s body vow
To me thy sovereign,
To make me the most glorious king
That e’er o’er England reign’d;
That me and mine in everything
By you should be maintain’d?
Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave
Of thy beloved shade;
’Tis we that brought thee to the grave,
Thou wert by us betray’d.
We did believe ’twas reformation
These monsters did desire;
Not knowing that thy degradation
And death should be our hire.
CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
Ye sick-brain’d fools! whose wit does lie
In your small guts; could you
Imagine our conspiracy
Did claim no other due,
But for to spend our dearest bloods
To make rascallions flee?
No, we sought for your lives and goods,
And for a monarchy.
KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
But there’s a Thunderer above,
Who, though he winks awhile,
Is not with your black deeds in love,
He hates your damned guile.
And though a time you perch upon
The top of Fortune’s wheel,
You shortly unto Acharon
(Drunk with your crimes) shall reel.
Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth)
We languishing do die:
Excise doth give free-quarters birth,
While soldiers multiply.
Our lives we forfeit every day,
Our money cuts our throats;
The laws are taken clean away,
Or shrunk to traitor’s votes.
CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
Like patient mules resolve to bear
Whate’er we shall impose;
Your lives and goods you need not fear,
We’ll prove your friends, not foes.
We (the elected ones) must guide
A thousand years this land;
You must be props unto our pride,
And slaves to our command.
KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
But you may fail of your fair hopes,
If fates propitious be;
And yield your loathed lives in ropes
To vengeance and to me.
When as the Swedes and Irish join,
The Cumbrian and the Scot
Do with the Danes and French combine,
Then look unto your lot.
Our wrongs have arm’d us with such strength,
So sad is our condition,
That could we hope that now at length
We might find intermission,
And had but half we had before,
Ere these mechanics sway’d;
To our revenge, knee-deep in gore,
We would not fear to wade.
CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
In vain (fond people) do you grutch
And tacitly repine.
For why? my skill and strength are such
Both poles of heaven are mine.
Your hands and purses both cohered
To raise us to this height:
You must protect those you have rear’d,
Or sink beneath their weight.
KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
Singing with angels near the throne
Of the Almighty Three
I sit, and know perdition
(Base Cromwell) waits on thee,
And on thy vile associates:
Twelve months [35] shall full conclude
Your power—thus speak the powerful fates,
Then vades your interlude.
Yea, powerful fates, haste, haste the time,
The most auspicious day,
On which these monsters of our time
To hell must post away.
Meanwhile, so pare their sharpen’d claws,
And so impair their stings,
We may no more fight for the Cause
Or other novel things!