It is not season
To talk of reason,
Nor call it loyalty, when the sword
Will have it treason.
It conquers the crown, too,
The grave and the gown, too,
First it sets up a presbyter, and
Then it pulls him down too.
This subtle disaster
Turns bonnet to beaver;
Down goes a bishop, sirs, and up
Starts a weaver.
This makes a layman
To preach and to pray, man;
And makes a lord of him that
Was but a drayman.
Far from the gulpit
Of Saxby’s pulpit,
This brought an Hebrew ironmonger
To the pulpit.
Such pitiful things be
More happy than kings be;
They get the upper hand of Thimblebee
And Slingsbee.
No gospel can guide it,
No law can decide it,
In Church or State, till the sword
Has sanctified it.
Down goes your law-tricks,
Far from the matricks,
Sprung up holy Hewson’s power,
And pull’d down St Patrick’s.
This sword it prevails, too,
So highly in Wales, too,
Shenkin ap Powel swears
“Cots-splutterer nails, too.”
In Scotland this faster
Did make such disaster,
That they sent their money back
For which they sold their master.