The world doth know me well,
I ne’re did peace desire,
Because I could not tell
Of what behaviour
I should savour
In a field of thundring fire.
When we had murdered King, confounded Church and State,
Divided parks and forests, houses, money, plate,
We then did peace desire, to keep what he had gat.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
Surplice was surplisage,
We voted right or wrong,
Within that furious age,
Of the painted glass,
Or pictured brass,
And liturgie we made a song.
Bishops, and bishops’ lands, were superstitious words,
Until in souldiers’ hands, and so were kings and lords,
But in fashion now again in spight of all our swords.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
Some say I am forsaken
By the great men of these times,
And they’re no whit mistaken;
It is my fate
To be out of date,
My masters most are guilty of such crimes.
Like an old Almanack, I now but represent
How long since Edge-Hill fight, or the rising was in Kent,
Or since the dissolution of the first Long Parliament.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
Good sirs, what shall I fancie,
Amidst these gloomy dayes?
Shall I goe court brown Nancy?
In a countrey town
They’l call me clown,
If I sing them my outlandish playes.
Let me inform their nodle with my heroick spirit,
My language and worth besides transcend unto merit;
They’l not believe one word, what mortal flesh can bear it?
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
Into the countrey places
I resolve to goe,
Amongst those sun-burnt faces
I’le goe to plough
Or keep a cow,
’Tis that my masters now again must do.
Souldiers ye see will be of each religion,
They’re but like stars, which when the true sun rise they’re gon.
I’le to the countrey goe, and there I’le serve Sir John;
Aye, aye, ’tis thither, and thither will I goe.
London, printed for Charles Gustavus, 1660.
THE COURTIER’S HEALTH;
OR,
THE MERRY BOYS OF THE TIMES.
(A.D. 1672.)—From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. ii.
To the tune of “Come, Boys, fill us a Bumper.”
Come, boys, fill us a bumper,
Wee’l make the nation roar,
She’s grown sick of a Rumper,
That sticks on the old score.
Pox on phanaticks, rout ’um,
They thirst for our blood;
Wee’l taxes raise without ’um,
And drink for the nation’s good.
Fill the pottles and the gallons,
And bring the hogshead in,
Wee’l begin with a tallen,
A brimmer to the King.
Round, around, fill a fresh one,
Let no man bawk his wine,
Wee’l drink to the next in succession,
And keep it in the right line.
Bring us ten thousand glasses,
The more we drink we’re dry;
We mind not the beautiful lasses,
Whose conquest lyes all in the eye.
Fill the pottles, etc.