“Very well, here goes then—a loyal ditty that I heard in old England, about five years agone, while I was there on a visit. Proclaim order, and join in the chorus as many as please.”
And with a loud, clear, merry voice, the old burgess gave vent to the following, which he sung to the tune of the “Old and Young Courtier;” an air which has survived even to our own times, though adapted to the more modernized words, and somewhat altered measure of the “Old English Gentleman:”—
“Young Charley is a merry prince; he's come unto his own,
And long and merrily may he fill his martyred father's throne;
With merry laughter may he drown old Nolly's whining groan,
And when he dies bequeath his crown to royal flesh and bone.
Like a merry King of England,
And England's merry King.
“With bumpers full, to royal Charles, come fill the thirsty glasses,
The pride of every loyal heart, the idol of the masses;
Yet in the path of virtue fair, old Joseph far surpasses,
The merry prince, whose sparkling eye delights in winsome lasses.
Like a merry King of England,
And England's merry King.
“For Joseph from dame Potiphar, as holy men assert,
Leaving his garment in her hand, did naked fly unhurt;
But Charley, like an honest lad, will not a friend desert,
And so he still remains behind, nor leaves his only shirt.
Like a merry King of England,
And England's merry King.
“Then here's to bonny Charley, he is a prince divine,
He hates a Puritan as much as Jews detest a swine;
But, faith, he loves a shade too much his mistresses and wine,
Which makes me fear that he will not supply the royal line,
With a merry King of England,
And England's merry King.”
The singer paused, and loud and rapturous was the applause which he received, until, putting up his hand in a deprecating manner, silence was again restored, and with an elaborate impromptu, which it had taken him about two hours that morning to spin from his old brain, he turned to Berkeley, and burst forth again.
“Nor let this mirror of the king by us remain unsung,
To whom the hopes of Englishmen in parlous times have clung:
Let Berkeley's praises still be heard from every loyal tongue,
While Bacon and his hoggish herd be cured, and then be hung.
Like young rebels of the King,
And the King's young rebels.”
Various were the comments drawn forth by the last volunteer stanza of the old loyalist. With lowering looks, some of the guests conversed apart in whispers, for there were a good many in the Assembly, who, though not entirely approving the conduct of Bacon, were favourably disposed to his cause. Sir William Berkeley himself restrained his mirth out of respect for a venerable old man, who stood near him, and towards whom many eyes were turned in pity. This was old Nathaniel Bacon, the uncle of the young insurgent, and himself a member of the council. There were dark rumours afloat, that this old man had advised his nephew to break his parole and fly from Jamestown; but, although suspicion had attached to him, it could never be confirmed. Even those who credited the rumour rather respected the feelings of a near relative, in thus taking the part of his kinsman, than censured his conduct as savouring of rebellion.