For mercy then I call,
Good my lords, good my lords,
And traytors I’le leave all
Duly to end it;
Sir, sir, ’tis frivolous,
As well for you as us,
To beg for mercy thus,—
Our crimes transcend it.
You must die out of hand,
Satanas, Satanas:
This our decree shall stand
Without controll;
And we for you will pray,
Because the Scriptures say,
When some men curse you, they
Curse their own soul.
The fiend to Tiburn’s gone,
There to die, there to die;
Black is the north, anon
Great storms will be;
Therefore together now
I leave him and th’ gallow,—
So, newes-man, take ’em now,
Soon they’l take thee.
Finis, Fustis, Funis.
A NEW BALLAD TO AN OLD TUNE,—TOM OF BEDLAM.
January 17th, 1659.—From the King’s Ballads, British Museum.
Make room for an honest red-coat
(And that you’ll say’s a wonder),
The gun and the blade
Are the tools, and his trade
Is, for pay, to kill and plunder.
Then away with the laws,
And the “Good old Cause;”
Ne’er talk of the Rump or the Charter;
’Tis the cash does the feat,
All the rest’s but a cheat,
Without that there’s no faith nor quarter.
’Tis the mark of our coin “God with us,”
And the grace of the Lord goes along with’t.
When the Georges are flown
Then the Cause goes down,
For the Lord has departed from it.
Then away, etc.
For Rome, or for Geneva,
For the table or the altar,
This spawn of a vote,
He cares not a groat—
For the pence he’s your dog in a halter,
Then away, etc.
Tho’ the name of King or Bishop
To nostrils pure may be loathsome,
Yet many there are
That agree with the May’r,
That their lands are wondrous toothsome.
Then away, etc.