Virtue is its own reward,
And Fortune is a whore;
There’s none but knaves and fools regard her,
Or her power implore.
But he that is a trusty Roger,
And will serve the King;
Altho’ he be a tatter’d soldier,
Yet may skip and sing:
Whilst we that fight for love,
May in the way of honour prove
That they who make sport of us
May come short of us;
Fate will flatter them,
And will scatter them;
Whilst our loyalty
Looks upon royalty,
We that live peacefully,
May be successfully
Crown’d with a crown at last.
Tho’ a real honest man
May be quite undone,
He’ll show his allegiance,
Love, and obedience;
Those will raise him up,
Honour stays him up,
Virtue keeps him up,
And we praise him up.
Whilst the vain courtiers dine,
With their bottles full of wine,
Honour will make him fast.
Freely then
Let’s be honest men
And kick at fate,
For we may live to see
Our loyalty
Valued at a higher rate.
He that bears a sword
Or a word against the throne,
And does profanely prate
To abuse the state,
Hath no kindness for his own.
What tho’ painted plumes and prayers
Are the prosp’rous men,
Yet we’ll attend our own affairs
’Till they come to ’t agen;
Treachery may be faced with light,
And letchery lined with furr;
A cuckold may be made a knight,
Sing Fortune de la Guerre.
But what’s that to us, brave boys,
That are right honest men?
We’ll conquer and come again,
Beat up the drum again;
Hey for Cavaliers,
Hoe for Cavaliers,
Drink for Cavaliers,
Fight for Cavaliers,
Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub,
Have at Old Beelzebub,
Oliver stinks for fear.
Fifth Monarchy-men must down, boys,
With bulleys of every sect in town, boys;
We’ll rally and to ’t again,
Give ’em the rout again;
Fly like light about,
Face to the right-about,
Charge them home again
When they come on again;
Sing Tantara rara, boys,
Tantara rara, boys,
This is the life of an Old Cavalier.
A CAVEAT TO THE ROUNDHEADS.
From the Posthumous Works of Samuel Butler.
I come to charge ye
That fight the clergy,
And pull the mitre from the prelate’s head,
That you will be wary
Lest you miscarry
In all those factious humours you have bred;
But as for Brownists we’ll have none,
But take them all and hang them one by one.
Your wicked actions
Join’d in factions
Are all but aims to rob the King of his due;
Then give this reason
For your treason,
That you’ll be ruled, if he’ll be ruled by you.
Then leave these factions, zealous brother,
Lest you be hanged one against another.
HEY, THEN, UP GO WE.
This song, says Mr Chappell, in his Popular Music of the Olden Time, which describes with some humour the taste of the Puritans, might pass for a Puritan song, if it were not contained in the “Shepherds’ Oracles,” by Francis Quarles, 1646. He was cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I., and afterwards chronologer to the city of London. He died in 1644, and his Shepherds’ Oracles were a posthumous publication. It was often reprinted during the Restoration, and reproduced and slightly altered by Thomas Durfey, in his “Pills to Purge Melancholy,” where the burthen is, “Hey, boys, up go we.”