THE TURN-COAT.
By Samuel Butler. 1661.
Several lines in this song were incorporated in the better-known ballad of the Vicar of Bray, said by Nichols in his Select Poems to have been written by a soldier in Colonel Fuller’s troop of dragoons, in the reign of George I. Butler’s ballad, though unpublished, must therefore have been known at the time.
To the tune of “London is a fine town.”
I loved no King since forty-one,
When Prelacy went down;
A cloak and band I then put on
And preach’d against the crown.
A turn-coat is a cunning man
That cants to admiration,
And prays for any king to gain
The people’s approbation.
I show’d the paths to heaven untrod,
From Popery to refine ’em,
And taught the people to serve God,
As if the Devil were in ’em.
A turn-coat, etc.
When Charles return’d into our land,
The English Church supporter,
I shifted off my cloak and band,
And so became a courtier.
A turn-coat, etc.
The King’s religion I profest,
And found there was no harm in ’t;
I cogg’d and flatter’d like the rest,
Till I had got preferment.
A turn-coat, etc.
I taught my conscience how to cope
With honesty or evil;
And when I rail’d against the Pope
I sided with the Devil.
A turn-coat, etc.
THE CLARET DRINKER’S SONG,
OR
THE GOOD FELLOW’S DESIGN.
Being a pleasant song of the times, written by a person of quality.—From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. iii.
Wine the most powerfull’st of all things on earth,
Which stifles cares and sorrows in their birth;
No treason in it harbours, nor can hate
Creep in when it bears away, to hurt the State.
Though storms grow high, so wine is to be got,
We are secure, their rage we value not;
The Muses cherish’d up such nectar, sing
Eternal joy to him that loves the King.
To the tune of “Let Cæsar live long.”
A pox of the fooling and plotting of late,
What a pudder and stir has it kept in the State!
Let the rabble run mad with suspicions and fears,
Let ’em scuffle and rail till they go by the ears,—
Their grievances never shall trouble my pate,
So I but enjoy my dear bottle at quiet.
What coxcombs were those that would ruin their case
And their necks for a toy, a thin wafer, and mass!
For at Tyburn they never had needed to swing
Had they been but true subjects to drink and their King:
A friend and a bottle is all my design,—
He’s no room for treason that’s top-full of wine.
I mind not the members and makers of laws,
Let them sit or prorogue as his Majesty please;
Let ’em damn us to Woolen, I’le never repine
At my usage when dead, so alive I have wine;
Yet oft in my drink I can hardly forbear
To blame them for making my claret so dear.
I mind not grave allies who idly debate
About rights and successions, the trifles of State;
We’ve a good King already, and he deserves laughter
That will trouble his head with who shall come after:
Come, here’s to his health! and I wish he may be
As free from all cares and all troubles as we.
SECOND PART.
What care I how leagues with Hollanders go,
Or intrigues ’twist Mounsieurs or Dons for to?
What concerns it my drinking if cities be sold,
If the conqueror takes them by storming or gold?
From whence claret comes is the place that I mind,
And when the fleet’s coming I pray for a wind.
The bully of France that aspires to renown
By dull cutting of throats, and by venturing his own;
Let him fight till he’s ruined, make matches, and treat,
To afford us still news, the dull coffee-house cheat:
He’s but a brave wretch, whilst that I am more free,
More safe, and a thousand times happier than he.
In spite of him, or the Pope, or the Devil,
Or faggot, or fire, or the worst of hell’s evil,
I still will drink healths to the lovers of wine,
Those jovial, brisk blades that do never repine;
I’ll drink in defiance of napkin or halter,
Tho’ religion turn round still, yet mine shall ne’er alter.
But a health to good fellows shall still be my care,
And whilst wine it holds out, no bumpers we’ll spare.
I’ll subscribe to petitions for nothing but claret,
That that may be cheap, here’s both my hands for it;
’Tis my province, and with it I only am pleased,
With the rest, scolding wives let poor cuckolds appease.
No doubt ’tis the best of all drinks, or so soon
It ne’er had been chose by the Man in the Moon, [110]
Who drinks nothing else, both by night and by day
But claret, brisk claret, and most people say,
Whilst glasses brimful to the stars they go round,
Which makes them shine brighter with red juice still crown’d.
For all things in Nature doe live by good drinking,
And he’s a dull fool, and not worthy my thinking,
That does not prefer it before all the treasure
The Indies contain, or the sea without measure;
’Tis the life of good fellows, for without it they pine,
When nought can revive them but brimmers of wine.
I know the refreshments that still it does bring,
Which have oftentimes made us as great as a king
In the midst of his armies where’er he is found,
Whilst the bottles and glasses I’ve muster’d round;
Who are Bacchus’ warriors a conquest will gain
Without the least bloodshed, or wounded, or slain.
Then here’s a good health to all those that love peace,
Let plotters be damn’d and all quarrels now cease
Let me but have wine and I care for no more,
’Tis a treasure sufficient; there’s none can be poor
That has Bacchus to’s friend, for he laughs at all harm,
Whilst with high-proofed claret he does himself arm.
Printed for J. Jordan, at the Angel, Giltspur Street.