John Bradshaw, who had presided over the court of justice which condemned
Charles I. to the scaffold, and who by his extreme republican principles
had rendered himself obnoxious to Cromwell, began again to be
distinguished in public affairs after the Protector’s death, and was
elected President of the Council of State. He did not live long to enjoy
this honour, but died, according to some authorities, on the 31st
October, 1659. Chalmers places his death on the 22nd of November in that
year.
To the tune of “Well-a-day, well-a-day.”
IF you’ll hear news that’s ill,
Gentlemen, gentlemen,
Against the devil, I will
Be the relator;
Arraigned he must be,
For that feloniously,
’Thout due solemnity,
He took a traitor.
John Bradshaw was his name,
How it stinks! how it stinks!
Who’ll make with blacker fame
Pilate unknown.
This worse than worse of things
Condemn’d the best of kings,
And, what more guilt yet brings,
Knew ’twas his own.
Virtue in Charles did seem
Eagerly, eagerly,
And villainy in him
To vye for glory.
Majesty so compleat
And impudence so great
Till that time never met:—
But to my story.
Accusers there will be,
Bitter ones, bitter ones,
More than one, two, or three,
All full of spight;
Hangman and tree so tall,
Bridge, tower, and city-wall,
Kite and crow, which were all
Robb’d of their right.
But judges none are fit,
Shame it is, shame it is,
That twice seven years did sit
To give hemp-string dome;
The friend they would befriend,
That he might in the end
To them like favour lend,
In his own kingdome.
Sword-men, it must be you,
Boldly to’t, boldly to’t,
Must give the diver his due;
Do it not faintly,
But as you raised by spell
Last Parliament from hell,
And it again did quell
Omnipotently.
The charge they wisely frame
(On with it, on with it)
In that yet unknown name
Of supream power;
While six weeks hence by vote
Shall be or it shall not,
When Monk’s to London got {48}
In a good hour.
But twelve good men and true,
Caveliers, Caveliers,
He excepts against you;
Justice he fears.
From bar and pulpit hee
Craves such as do for fee
Serve all turns, for he’l be
Try’d by his peers.
Satan, y’ are guilty found
By your peers, by your peers,
And must die above ground!
Look for no pity;
Some of our ministry,
Whose spir’ts with yours comply,
As Owen, Caryl, Nye, {49}
For death shall fit ’ee.
Dread judges, mine own limb
I but took, I but took,
I was forced without him
To use a crutch;
Some of the robe can tell
How to supply full well
His place here, but in hell
I had none such.
Divel, you are an asse,
Plain it is, plain it is,
And weakly plead the case;
Your wits are lost.
Some lawyers will outdo’t,
When shortly they come to’t;
Your craft, our gold to boot,
They have ingross’d.
Should all men take their right,
Well-a-day, well-a-day,
We were in a sad plight,
O’ th’ holy party!
Such practise hath a scent
Of kingly government,
Against it we are bent,
Out of home char’ty.
But if I die, who am
King of hell, King of hell,
You will not quench its flame,
But find it worse:
Confused anarchy
Will a new torment be;
Ne’r did these kingdoms three
Feel such a curse.
To our promotion, sir,
There as here, there as here,
Through some confused stir
Doth the high-road lie;
In hell we need not fear
Nor King nor Cavalier,
Who then shall dominere
But we the godly?
Truth, then, sirs, which of old
Was my shame, was my shame,
Shall now to yours be told:
You caused his death;
The house being broken by
Yourselves (there’s burglary),
Wrath enter’d forcibly,
And stopt his breath.
Sir, as our president,
Taught by you, taught by you,
’Gainst the King away went
Most strange and new;
Charging him with the guilt
Of all the blond we spilt,
With swords up to the hilt,
So we’le serve you.
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.