The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684

by Unknown

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF THE DEVIL FOR STEALING AWAY PRESIDENT BRADSHAW.

John Bradshaw, who had presided over the court of justice which condemned Charles I. to the scaffold, and who by his extreme republican principles had rendered himself obnoxious to Cromwell, began again to be distinguished in public affairs after the Protector’s death, and was elected President of the Council of State. He did not live long to enjoy this honour, but died, according to some authorities, on the 31st October, 1659. Chalmers places his death on the 22nd of November in that year.

To the tune of “Well-a-day, well-a-day.”

If you’ll hear news that’s ill,
Gentlemen, gentlemen,
Against the devil, I will
Be the relator;
Arraigned he must be,
For that feloniously,
’Thout due solemnity,
He took a traitor.

John Bradshaw was his name,
How it stinks! how it stinks!
Who’ll make with blacker fame
Pilate unknown.
This worse than worse of things
Condemn’d the best of kings,
And, what more guilt yet brings,
Knew ’twas his own.

Virtue in Charles did seem
Eagerly, eagerly,
And villainy in him
To vye for glory.
Majesty so compleat
And impudence so great
Till that time never met:—
But to my story.

Accusers there will be,
Bitter ones, bitter ones,
More than one, two, or three,
All full of spight;
Hangman and tree so tall,
Bridge, tower, and city-wall,
Kite and crow, which were all
Robb’d of their right.

But judges none are fit,
Shame it is, shame it is,
That twice seven years did sit
To give hemp-string dome;
The friend they would befriend,
That he might in the end
To them like favour lend,
In his own kingdome.

Sword-men, it must be you,
Boldly to’t, boldly to’t,
Must give the diver his due;
Do it not faintly,
But as you raised by spell
Last Parliament from hell,
And it again did quell
Omnipotently.

The charge they wisely frame
(On with it, on with it)
In that yet unknown name
Of supream power;
While six weeks hence by vote
Shall be or it shall not,
When Monk’s to London got [48]
In a good hour.

But twelve good men and true,
Caveliers, Caveliers,
He excepts against you;
Justice he fears.
From bar and pulpit hee
Craves such as do for fee
Serve all turns, for he’l be
Try’d by his peers.

Satan, y’ are guilty found
By your peers, by your peers,
And must die above ground!
Look for no pity;
Some of our ministry,
Whose spir’ts with yours comply,
As Owen, Caryl, Nye, [49]
For death shall fit ’ee.

Dread judges, mine own limb
I but took, I but took,
I was forced without him
To use a crutch;
Some of the robe can tell
How to supply full well
His place here, but in hell
I had none such.

Divel, you are an asse,
Plain it is, plain it is,
And weakly plead the case;
Your wits are lost.
Some lawyers will outdo’t,
When shortly they come to’t;
Your craft, our gold to boot,
They have ingross’d.

Should all men take their right,
Well-a-day, well-a-day,
We were in a sad plight,
O’ th’ holy party!
Such practise hath a scent
Of kingly government,
Against it we are bent,
Out of home char’ty.

But if I die, who am
King of hell, King of hell,
You will not quench its flame,
But find it worse:
Confused anarchy
Will a new torment be;
Ne’r did these kingdoms three
Feel such a curse.

To our promotion, sir,
There as here, there as here,
Through some confused stir
Doth the high-road lie;
In hell we need not fear
Nor King nor Cavalier,
Who then shall dominere
But we the godly?

Truth, then, sirs, which of old
Was my shame, was my shame,
Shall now to yours be told:
You caused his death;
The house being broken by
Yourselves (there’s burglary),
Wrath enter’d forcibly,
And stopt his breath.

Sir, as our president,
Taught by you, taught by you,
’Gainst the King away went
Most strange and new;
Charging him with the guilt
Of all the blond we spilt,
With swords up to the hilt,
So we’le serve you.

For mercy then I call,
Good my lords, good my lords,
And traytors I’le leave all
Duly to end it;
Sir, sir, ’tis frivolous,
As well for you as us,
To beg for mercy thus,—
Our crimes transcend it.

You must die out of hand,
Satanas, Satanas:
This our decree shall stand
Without controll;
And we for you will pray,
Because the Scriptures say,
When some men curse you, they
Curse their own soul.

The fiend to Tiburn’s gone,
There to die, there to die;
Black is the north, anon
Great storms will be;
Therefore together now
I leave him and th’ gallow,—
So, newes-man, take ’em now,
Soon they’l take thee.

Finis, Fustis, Funis.

A NEW BALLAD TO AN OLD TUNE,—TOM OF BEDLAM.

January 17th, 1659.—From the King’s Ballads, British Museum.

Make room for an honest red-coat
(And that you’ll say’s a wonder),
The gun and the blade
Are the tools, and his trade
Is, for pay, to kill and plunder.
Then away with the laws,
And the “Good old Cause;”
Ne’er talk of the Rump or the Charter;
’Tis the cash does the feat,
All the rest’s but a cheat,
Without that there’s no faith nor quarter.

’Tis the mark of our coin “God with us,”
And the grace of the Lord goes along with’t.
When the Georges are flown
Then the Cause goes down,
For the Lord has departed from it.
Then away, etc.

For Rome, or for Geneva,
For the table or the altar,
This spawn of a vote,
He cares not a groat—
For the pence he’s your dog in a halter,
Then away, etc.

Tho’ the name of King or Bishop
To nostrils pure may be loathsome,
Yet many there are
That agree with the May’r,
That their lands are wondrous toothsome.
Then away, etc.

When our masters are poor we leave ’em,
’Tis the Golden Calf we bow to;
We kill and we slay
Not for conscience, but pay;
Give us that, we’ll fight for you too.
Then away, etc.

’Twas that first turn’d the King out;
The Lords next; then the Commons:
’Twas that kept up Noll,
Till the Devil fetch’d his soul,
And then it set the Rump on’s.
Then away, etc.

Drunken Dick was a lame Protector,
And Fleetwood a back-slider;
These we served as the rest,
But the City’s the beast
That will never cast her rider.
Then away, etc.

When the Mayor holds the stirrup
And the Shrieves cry, God save your honours;
Then ’tis but a jump
And up goes the Rump,
That will spur to the Devil upon us.
Then away, etc.

And now for fling at your thimbles,
Your bodkins, rings, and whistles;
In truck for your toys
We’ll fit you with boys
(’Tis the doctrine of Hugh’s Epistles).
Then away, etc.

When your plate is gone, and your jewels,
You must be next entreated
To part with your bags,
And to strip you to rags,
And yet not think you’re cheated.
Then away, etc.

The truth is, the town deserves it,
’Tis a brainless, heartless monster:
At a club they may bawl,
Or declare at their hall,
And yet at a push not one stir.
Then away, etc.

Sir Arthur vow’d he’ll treat ’em
Far worse than the men of Chester;
He’s bold now they’re cow’d,
But he was nothing so loud
When he lay in the ditch at Lester.
Then away, etc.

The Lord has left John Lambert,
And the spirit, Feak’s anointed;
But why, O Lord,
Hast thou sheath’d thy sword?
Lo! thy saints are disappointed.
Then away, etc.

Though Sir Henry be departed,
Sir John makes good the place now;
And to help out the work
Of the glorious Kirk,
Our brethren march apace too.
Then away, etc.

Whilst divines and statesmen wrangle,
Let the Rump-ridden nation bite on’t;
There are none but we
That are sure to go free,
For the soldier’s still in the right on’t.
Then away, etc.

If our masters won’t supply us
With money, food, and clothing,
Let the State look to’t,
We’ll find one that will do’t,
Let him live—we will not damn.
Then away, etc.

SAINT GEORGE AND THE DRAGON,
ANGLICE MERCURIUS POETICUS.

“The following ballad,” says Mr Wright in the Political Ballads of the Commonwealth, published for the Percy Society, “was written on the occasion of the overthrow of the Rump by Monck. He arrived in London on the third of February, and professed himself a determined supporter of the party then uppermost. On the ninth and tenth he executed their orders against the city; but suddenly on the eleventh he joined the city and the Presbyterian party, and demanded the readmission of the members who were secluded formerly from the Long Parliament. This measure put an end to the reign of the Rump, and immediately afterwards the Parliament dissolved itself, and a new one was called.—(February 28th, 1659.)”—All the notes to this Ballad are from the pen of Mr Wright.

To the tune of “The Old Courtier of the Queen’s,” etc.

News! news! here’s the occurrences and a new Mercurius,
A dialogue betwixt Haselrigg the baffled and Arthur the furious;
With Ireton’s [50] readings upon legitimate and spurious,
Proving that a saint may be the son of a whore, for the satisfaction of the curious.
From a Rump insatiate as the sea,
Libera nos, Domine.

Here’s the true reason of the citie’s infatuation,
Ireton has made it drunk with the cup of abomination;
That is, the cup of the whore, after the Geneva Interpretation,
Which with the juyce of Titchburn’s grapes [51] must needs cause intoxication.
From a Rump, etc.

Here’s the Whipper whipt by a friend to George, that whipp’d Jack, [52] that whipp’d the breech,
That whipp’d the nation as long as it could stand over it—after which
It was itself re-jerk’d by the sage author of this speech:
“Methinks a Rump should go as well with a Scotch spur as with a switch.”
From a Rump, etc.

This Rump hath many a rotten and unruly member;
“Give the generall the oath!” cries one (but his conscience being a little tender);
“I’ll abjure you with a pestilence!” quoth George, “and make you remember
The ’leaventh of February [53] longer than the fifth of November!”
From a Rump, etc.

With that, Monk leaves (in Rump assembled) the three estates,
But oh! how the citizens hugg’d him for breaking down their gates,
For tearing up their posts and chaynes, and for clapping up their mates [54]
(When they saw that he brought them plasters for their broken pates).
From a Rump, etc.

In truth this ruffle put the town in great disorder,
Some knaves (in office) smiled, expecting ’twould go furder;
But at the last, “My life on’t! George is no Rumper,” said the Recorder,
“For there never was either honest man or monk of that order.”
From a Rump, etc.

And so it proved; for, “Gentlemen,” says the general, “I’ll make you amends;
Our greeting was a little untoward, but we’ll part friends;
A little time shall show you which way my design tends,
And that, besides the good of Church and State, I have no other ends.”
From a Rump, etc.

His Excellence had no sooner pass’d this declaration and promise,
But in steps Secretary Scot, the Rump’s man Thomas,
With Luke, their lame evangelist (the Devil keep ’um from us!) [55]
To shew Monk what precious members of Church and State the Bumm has.
From a Rump, etc.

And now comes the supplication of the members under the rod:
“Nay, my Lord!” cryes the brewer’s clerk; “good, my Lord, for the love of God!
Consider yourself, us, and this poor nation, and that tyrant abroad;
Don’t leave us:”—but George gave him a shrugg instead of a nodd.
From a Rump, etc.

This mortal silence was followed with a most hideous noyse,
Of free Parliament bells and Rump-confounding boyes,
Crying, “Cut the rogues! singe their tayles!” when, with a low voyce,
“Fire and sword! by this light,” cryes Tom, “Lets look to our toyes!”
From a Rump, etc.

Never were wretched members in so sad a plight;
Some were broyl’d, some toasted, others burnt outright; [56]
Nay against Rumps so pittylesse was their rage and spite,
That not a citizen would kisse his wife that night.
From a Rump, etc.

By this time death and hell appear’d in the ghastly looks
Of Scot and Robinson (those legislative rooks);
And it must needs put the Rump most damnably off the hooks
To see that when God has sent meat the Devil should send cooks.
From a Rump, etc.

But Providence, their old friend, brought these saints off at last,
And through the pikes and the flames undismember’d they past,
Although (God wet) with many struglings and much hast,—
For, members, or no members, was but a measuring cast.
From a Rump, etc.

Being come to Whitehall, there’s the dismal mone,
“Let Monk be damn’d!” cries Arthur in a terrible tone [57]—
“That traytor, and those cuckoldy rogues that set him on!”
(But tho’ the knight spits blood, ’tis observed that he draws none.)
From a Rump, etc.

“The plague bawle you!” cries Harry Martin, “you have brought us to this condition, [58]
You must be canting and be plagued, with your Barebones petition, [59]
And take in that bull-headed, splay-footed member of the circumcision,
That bacon-faced Jew, Corbet, [60] that son of perdition!”
From a Rump, etc.

Then in steps driv’ling Mounson to take up the squabble,
That lord which first taught the use of the woodden dagger and ladle: [61]
He that out-does Jack Pudding [62] at a custard or a caudle,
And were the best foole in Europe but that he wants a bauble.
From a Rump, etc.

More was said to little purpose,—the next news is, a declaration
From the Rump, for a free state according to the covenant of the nation,
And a free Parliament under oath and qualification,
Where none shall be elect but members of reprobation.
From a Rump, &c.

Here’s the tail firk’d, a piece acted lately with great applause,
With a plea for the prerogative breech and the Good old Cause,
Proving that Rumps and members are antienter than laws,
And that a bumme divided is never the worse for the flawes.
From a Rump, etc.

But all things have their period and fate,
An Act of Parliament dissolves a Rump of state,
Members grow weak, and tayles themselves run out of date,
And yet thou shalt not dye (dear breech), thy fame I’ll celebrate.
From a Rump, etc.

Here lies a pack of saints that did their souls and country sell
For dirt, the Devil was their good lord, him they served well;
By his advice they stood and acted, and by his president they fell
(Like Lucifer), making but one step betwixt heaven and hell.
From a Rump insatiate as the sea
Liberasti nos, Domine.