We boys are truly loyal,
For Charles wee’l venture all,
We know his blood is royal,
His name shall never fall.
But those that seek his ruine
May chance to dye before him,
While we that sacks are woeing
For ever will adore him.
Fill the pottles, etc.
I hate those strange dissenters
That strives to hawk a glass,
He that at all adventures
Will see what comes to pass:
And let the Popish nation
Disturb us if they can,
They ne’er shall breed distraction
In a true-hearted man.
Fill the pottles, etc.
Let the fanatics grumble
To see things cross their grain,
Wee’l make them now more humble
Or ease them of their pain:
They shall drink sack amain too,
Or they shall be choak’t;
Wee’l tell ’um ’tis in vain too
For us to be provok’t.
Fill the pottles, etc.
He that denyes the brimmer
Shall banish’d be in this isle,
And we will look more grimmer
Till he begins to smile:
Wee’l drown him in Canary,
And make him all our own,
And when his heart is merry
Hee’l drink to Charles on’s throne.
Fill the pottles, etc.
Quakers and Anabaptists,
Wee’l sink them in a glass;
He deals most plain and flattest
That sayes he loves a lass:
Then tumble down Canary,
And let our brains go round,
For he that won’t be merry
He can’t at heart be sound.
Fill the pottles, etc.
Printed for P. Brooksly, at the Golden Ball in West Smithfield, 1672.
THE LOYAL TORIES’ DELIGHT;
OR,
A PILL FOR FANATICKS.
Being a most pleasant and new song.
1680.—From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. iii., fol. 911.
To the tune of “Great York has been debar’d of late, etc.”