From Samuel Butler’s Posthumous Works.
WHAT creature’s that, with his short hairs,
His little band, and huge long ears,
That this new faith hath founded?
The saints themselves were never such,
The prelates ne’er ruled half so much;
Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.
What’s he that doth the bishops hate,
And counts their calling reprobate,
’Cause by the Pope propounded;
And thinks a zealous cobbler better
Than learned Usher in ev’ry letter?
Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.
What’s he that doth _high treason_ say,
As often as his _yea_ and _nay_,
And wish the King confounded;
And dares maintain that Mr Pim
Is fitter for a crown than him?
Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.
What’s he that if he chance to hear
A little piece of _Common Prayer_,
Doth think his conscience wounded;
Will go five miles to preach and pray,
And meet a sister by the way?
Oh! such a rogue’s a Roundhead.
What’s he that met a holy sister
And in a haycock gently kiss’d her?
Oh! then his zeal abounded:
’Twas underneath a shady willow,
Her Bible served her for a pillow,
And there he got a Roundhead.