A street ballad. From a broadside, 1647.
The hierarchy is out of date,
Our monarchy was sick of late,
But now ’tis grown an excellent state:
Oh, God a-mercy, Parliament!
The teachers knew not what to say,
The ’prentices have leave to play,
The people have all forgotten to pray;
Still, God a-mercy, Parliament!
The Roundhead and the Cavalier
Have fought it out almost seven year,
And yet, methinks, they are never the near:
Oh, God, etc.
The gentry are sequester’d all;
Our wives you find at Goldsmith Hall,
For there they meet with the devil and all;
Still, God, etc.
The Parliament are grown to that height
They care not a pin what his Majesty saith;
And they pay all their debts with the public faith.
Oh, God, etc.
Though all we have here is brought to nought,
In Ireland we have whole lordships bought,
There we shall one day be rich, ’tis thought:
Still, God, etc.
We must forsake our father and mother,
And for the State undo our own brother
And never leave murthering one another:
Oh, God, etc.
Now the King is caught and the devil is dead;
Fairfax must be disbanded,
Or else he may chance be Hotham-ed.
Still, God, etc.
They have made King Charles a glorious king,
He was told, long ago, of such a thing;
Now he and his subjects have reason to sing,
Oh, God, etc.