WE have ventured our estates,
And our liberties and lives,
For our master and his mates,
And been toss’d by cruel fates
Where the rebellious Devil drives,
So that not one of ten survives;
We have laid all at stake
For his Majesty’s sake;
We have fought, we have paid,
We’ve been sold and betray’d,
And tumbled from nation to nation;
But now those are thrown down
That usurped the Crown,
Our hopes were that we
All rewarded should be,
But we’re paid with a Proclamation.
Now the times are turn’d about,
And the rebels’ race is run;
That many-headed beast the Rout,
That did turn the Father out,
When they saw they were undone,
Were for bringing in the son.
That phanatical crew,
Which made us all rue,
Have got so much wealth
By their plunder and stealth
That they creep into profit and power:
And so come what will,
They’ll be uppermost still;
And we that are low
Shall still be kept so,
While those domineer and devour.
Yet we will be loyal still,
And serve without reward or hire:
To be redeem’d from so much ill,
May stay our stomachs, though not still,
And if our patience do not tire,
We may in time have our desire.
THE LAMENTATION OF A BAD MARKET,
OR
THE DISBANDED SOULDIER.
(July 17th, 1660.)—From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.
This ballad relates to the disbanding of the Parliamentary army.
Contrary, however, to what is pretended in it, says Mr. Wright, in his
volume printed for the Percy Society, the writers of the time mention
with admiration the good conduct of the soldiers after they were
disbanded, each betaking himself to some honest trade or calling, with as
much readiness as if he had never been employed in any other way. Not
many weeks before the date of the present ballad, a prose tract had been
published, with the same title, “The Lamentation of a Bad Market, or
Knaves and Fools foully foyled, and fallen into a Pit of their own
digging,” &c. March 21st, 1659–60.
IN red-coat raggs attired,
I wander up and down,
Since fate and foes conspired,
Thus to array me,
Or betray me
To the harsh censure of the town.
My buffe doth make me boots, my velvet coat and scarlet,
Which used to do me credit with many a wicked harlot,
Have bid me all adieu, most despicable varlet!
Alas, poor souldier, whither wilt thou march?
I’ve been in France and Holland,
Guided by my starrs;
I’ve been in Spain and Poland,
I’ve been in Hungarie,
In Greece and Italy,
And served them in all their wars.
Britain these eighteen years has known my desperate slaughter,
I’ve killed ten at one blow, even in a fit of laughter,
Gone home again and smiled, and kiss’d my landlor’s daughter;
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
My valour prevailed,
Meeting with my foes,
Which strongly we assailed;
Oh! strange I wondred,
They were a hundred;
Yet I routed them with few blowes.
This fauchion by my side has kind more men, I’ll swear it,
Than Ajax ever did, alas! he ne’er came near it,
Yea, more than Priam’s boy, or all that ere did hear it.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
For King and Parliament
I was Prester John.
Devout was my intent;
I haunted meetings,
Used zealous greetings,
Crept full of devotion;
Smectymnuus won me first, then holy Nye prevail, {111}
Then Captain Kiffin {112} slops me with John of Leyden’s tail,
Then Fox and Naylor bangs me with Jacob Beamond’s flail. {113}
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
I did about this nation
Hold forth my gifts and teach,
Maintained the tolleration
The common story
And Directory
I damn’d with the word “preach.”
Time was when all trades failed, men counterfeitly zealous
Turn’d whining, snievling praters, or kept a country ale-house,
Got handsome wives, turn’d cuckolds, howe’er were very jealous.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
The world doth know me well,
I ne’re did peace desire,
Because I could not tell
Of what behaviour
I should savour
In a field of thundring fire.
When we had murdered King, confounded Church and State,
Divided parks and forests, houses, money, plate,
We then did peace desire, to keep what he had gat.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
Surplice was surplisage,
We voted right or wrong,
Within that furious age,
Of the painted glass,
Or pictured brass,
And liturgie we made a song.
Bishops, and bishops’ lands, were superstitious words,
Until in souldiers’ hands, and so were kings and lords,
But in fashion now again in spight of all our swords.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
Some say I am forsaken
By the great men of these times,
And they’re no whit mistaken;
It is my fate
To be out of date,
My masters most are guilty of such crimes.
Like an old Almanack, I now but represent
How long since Edge-Hill fight, or the rising was in Kent,
Or since the dissolution of the first Long Parliament.
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
Good sirs, what shall I fancie,
Amidst these gloomy dayes?
Shall I goe court brown Nancy?
In a countrey town
They’l call me clown,
If I sing them my outlandish playes.
Let me inform their nodle with my heroick spirit,
My language and worth besides transcend unto merit;
They’l not believe one word, what mortal flesh can bear it?
Alas! poor souldier, etc.
Into the countrey places
I resolve to goe,
Amongst those sun-burnt faces
I’le goe to plough
Or keep a cow,
’Tis that my masters now again must do.
Souldiers ye see will be of each religion,
They’re but like stars, which when the true sun rise they’re gon.
I’le to the countrey goe, and there I’le serve Sir John;
Aye, aye, ’tis thither, and thither will I goe.
London, printed for Charles Gustavus, 1660.
THE COURTIER’S HEALTH;
OR,
THE MERRY BOYS OF THE TIMES.
(A.D. 1672.)—From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. ii.
To the tune of “Come, Boys, fill us a Bumper.”
COME, boys, fill us a bumper,
Wee’l make the nation roar,
She’s grown sick of a _Rumper_,
That sticks on the old score.
Pox on phanaticks, rout ’um,
They thirst for our blood;
Wee’l taxes raise without ’um,
And drink for the nation’s good.
Fill the pottles and the gallons,
And bring the hogshead in,
Wee’l begin with a tallen,
A brimmer to the King.
Round, around, fill a fresh one,
Let no man bawk his wine,
Wee’l drink to the next in succession,
And keep it in the right line.
Bring us ten thousand glasses,
The more we drink we’re dry;
We mind not the beautiful lasses,
Whose conquest lyes all in the eye.
Fill the pottles, etc.
We boys are truly loyal,
For Charles wee’l venture all,
We know his blood is royal,
His name shall never fall.
But those that seek his ruine
May chance to dye before him,
While we that sacks are woeing
For ever will adore him.
Fill the pottles, etc.
I hate those strange dissenters
That strives to hawk a glass,
He that at all adventures
Will see what comes to pass:
And let the Popish nation
Disturb us if they can,
They ne’er shall breed distraction
In a true-hearted man.
Fill the pottles, etc.
Let the fanatics grumble
To see things cross their grain,
Wee’l make them now more humble
Or ease them of their pain:
They shall drink sack amain too,
Or they shall be choak’t;
Wee’l tell ’um ’tis in vain too
For us to be provok’t.
Fill the pottles, etc.
He that denyes the brimmer
Shall banish’d be in this isle,
And we will look more grimmer
Till he begins to smile:
Wee’l drown him in Canary,
And make him all our own,
And when his heart is merry
Hee’l drink to Charles on’s throne.
Fill the pottles, etc.
Quakers and Anabaptists,
Wee’l sink them in a glass;
He deals most plain and flattest
That sayes he loves a lass:
Then tumble down Canary,
And let our brains go round,
For he that won’t be merry
He can’t at heart be sound.
Fill the pottles, etc.
Printed for P. Brooksly, at the Golden Ball in West Smithfield, 1672.
THE LOYAL TORIES’ DELIGHT;
OR,
A PILL FOR FANATICKS.
Being a most pleasant and new song.
1680.—From the Roxburgh Ballads, Vol. iii., fol. 911.
To the tune of “Great York has been debar’d of late, etc.”
GREAT York has been debar’d of late
From Court by some accursed fate;
But ere long, we do not fear,
We shall have him, have him here,
We shall have him, have him here.
The makers of the plot we see,
By damn’d old _Tony’s_ treachery,
How they would have brought it about,
To have given great York the rout,
To have given, etc.
God preserve our gracious King,
And safe tydings to us bring,
Defend us from the _sham black box_, {114}
And all damn’d fanatick plots,
And all damn’d, etc.
Here Charles’s health I drink to thee,
And with him all prosperity;
God grant that he long time may reign,
To bring us home great York again,
To bring us home, etc.
That he, in spight of all his foes
Who loyalty and laws oppose,
May long remain in health and peace,
Whilst plots and plotters all shall cease,
Whilst plots, etc.
Let Whigs go down to Erebus,
And not stay here to trouble us
With noisy cant and needless fear,
Of ills to come they know not where,
Of ills to come, etc.
When our chief trouble they create,
For plain we see what they’d be at;
Could they but push great York once down
They’d next attempt to snatch the crown,
They’d next attempt, etc.
But Heaven preserve our gracious King,
May all good subjects loudly sing;
And Royal James preserve likewise,
From such as do against him rise,
From such as do, etc.
Then come, again fill round our glass,
And, loyal Tories, less it pass,
Fill up, fill up unto the brim,
And let each boule with necture swim,
And let each boule, etc.
Though _cloakmen_, that seem much precise,
’Gainst wine exclaim with turn’d-up eyes;
Yet in a corner they’l be drunk,
With drinking healths unto the Rump,
With drinking, etc.
In hopes that once more they shall tear
Both Church and State, which is their prayer;
But Heaven does yet protect the throne,
Whilst Tyburn for such slaves does groan,
Whilst Tyburn, etc.
For now ’tis plain, most men abhor,
What some so strongly voted for;
Great York in favour does remain,
In spight of all the Whiggish train,
In spight of all, etc.
And now the _Old Cause_ goes to wrack,
Sedition mauger cloath in black
Do greatly dread the triple tree,
Whilst we rejoyce in loyalty,
Whilst we rejoyce, etc.
Then come, let’s take another round,
And still in loyalty abound,
And wish our King he long may reign
To bring us home great York again,
To bring us home great York again.