A Ballad by Alex. Brome.
Old England is now a brave Barbary made,
And every one has an ambition to ride her;
King Charles was a horseman that long used the trade,
But he rode in a snaffle, and that could not guide her.
Then the hungry Scot comes with spur and with switch,
And would teach her to run a Geneva career;
His grooms were all Puritan, Traytor, and Witch,
But she soon threw them down with their pedlary geer.
The Long Parliament next came all to the block,
And they this untameable palfrey would ride;
But she would not bear all that numerous flock,
At which they were fain themselves to divide.
Jack Presbyter first gets the steed by the head,
While the reverend Bishops had hold of the bridle;
Jack said through the nose they their flockes did not feed,
But sat still on the beast and grew aged and idle.
And then comes the Rout, with broom-sticks inspired,
And pull’d down their graces, their sleeves, and their train;
And sets up Sir Jack, who the beast quickly tyr’d
With a journey to Scotland and thence back again.
Jack rode in a doublet, with a yoke of prick-ears,
A cursed splay-mouth and a Covenant spur,
Rides switching and spurring with jealousies and fears,
Till the poor famish’d beast was not able to stir.
Next came th’ Independent—a dev’lish designer,
And got himself call’d by a holier name—
Makes Jack to unhorse, for he was diviner,
And would make her travel as far’s Amsterdam.
But Nol, a rank-rider, gets first in the saddle,
And made her show tricks, and curvate, and rebound;
She quickly perceived that he rode widdle waddle,
And like his coach-horses threw his Highness to ground.
Then Dick, being lame, rode holding by the pummel,
Not having the wit to get hold of the rein;
But the jade did so snort at the sight of a Cromwell,
That poor Dick and his kindred turn’d footmen again.