From the Loyal Garland.
COME, let’s purge our brains
From ale and grains,
That do smell of anarchy;
Let’s chuse a King
From whose blood may spring
Such a sparkling progeny;
It will be fit, strew mine in it,
Whose flames are bright and clear;
We’ll not bind our hands with drayman’s bands,
When as we may be freer;
Why should we droop, or basely stoop
To popular ale or beer?
Who shall be King? how comes the thing
For which we all are met?
Claret is a prince that hath long since
In the royal order set:
His face is spread with a warlike seed,
And so he loves to see men;
When he bears the sway, his subjects they
Shall be as good as freemen;
But here’s the plot, almost forgot,
’Tis too much burnt with women.
By the river of Rhine is a valiant wine
That can all other replenish;
Let’s then consent to the government
And the royal rule of Rhenish:
The German wine will warm the chine,
And frisk in every vein;
’Twill make the bride forget to chide,
And call him to’t again:
But that’s not all, he is too small
To be our sovereign.
Let us never think of a noble drink,
But with notes advance on high,
Let’s proclaim good Canary’s name,—
Heaven bless his Majesty!
He is a King in everything,
Whose nature doth renounce all,
He’ll make us skip and nimbly trip
From ceiling to the groundsil;
Especially when poets be
Lords of the Privy Council.
But a vintner will his taster be,
Here’s nothing that can him let;
A drawer that hath a good palat
Shall be squire of the gimblet.
The bar-boys shall be pages all,
A tavern well-prepared,
And nothing shall be spared;
In jovial sort shall be the court,
Wine-porters that are soldiers tall
Be yeomen of the guard.
But if a cooper we with a red nose see
In any part of the town;
The cooper shall, with his aids-royal,
Bear the sceptre of the crown;
Young wits that wash away their cash
In wine and recreation,
Who hates ale and beer, shall be welcome here
To give their approbation;
So shall all you that will allow
Canary’s recreation.
THE MOURNFUL SUBJECTS,
OR
THE WHOLE NATION’S LAMENTATION,
FROM THE HIGHEST TO THE LOWEST.
The Mournful Subjects, or the Whole Nation’s Lamentation, from the
Highest to the Lowest; who did with brinish tears (the true signs of
sorrow) bewail the death of their most gracious Soveraign King Charles
the Second, who departed this life Feb. 6th, 1684, and was interred in
Westminster Abbey, in King Henry the Seventh’s Chapel, on Saturday night
last, being the 14th day of the said month; to the sollid grief and
sorrow of all his loving subjects.
From vol. i. of the Roxburgh Ballads in Brit. Mus.
Tune, “Troy Town, or the Duchess of Suffolk.”
TRUE subjects mourn, and well they may,
Of each degree, both lords and earls,
Which did behold that dismal day,
The death of princely pious Charles;
Some thousand weeping tears did fall
At his most sollid funeral.
He was a prince of clemency,
Whose love and mercy did abound;
His death may well lamented be
Through all the nations Europe round;
Unto the ears of Christian kings
His death unwelcome tidings brings.
All those that ever thought him ill,
And did disturb him in his reign,—
Let horrour now their conscience fill,
And strive such actions to restrain;
For sure they know not what they do,
The time will come when they shall rue.
How often villains did design
By cruelty his blood to spill,
Yet by the Providence divine
God would not let them have their will,
But did preserve our gracious King,
Under the shadow of his wing.
We grieved his soul while he was here,
When we would not his laws obey;
Therefore the Lord he was severe,
And took our gracious prince away:
We were not worthy to enjoy
The prince whom subjects would annoy.
In peace he did lay down his head,
The sceptre and the royal crown;
His soul is now to heaven fled,
Above the reach of mortal frown,
Where joy and glory will not cease,
In presence with the King of Peace.
Alas! we had our liberty,
He never sought for to devour
By a usurping tyranny,
To rule by arbitrary power;
No, no, in all his blessed reign
We had no cause for to complain.
Let mourners now lament the loss
Of him that did the scepter sway,
And look upon it as a cross
That he from us is snatch’d away;
Though he is free from care or woe,
Yet we cannot forget him so.
But since it was thy blessed will
To call him from a sinful land,
Oh let us all be thankful still
That it was done by thine own hand:
No pitch of honour can be free
From Death’s usurping tyranny.
The fourteen day of February
They did interr our gracious Charles;
His funeral solemnity,
Accompanied with lords and earls,
Four Dukes, I, and Prince George by name,
Went next the King with all his train.
And thus they to the Abbey went
To lay him in his silent tomb,
Where many inward sighs were spent
To think upon their dismal doom.
Whole showers of tears afresh then fell
When they beheld his last farewell.
Since it is so, that all must die,
And must before our God appear,
Oh let us have a watchful eye,
Over our conversation here;
That like great Charles, our King and friend,
We all may have a happy end.
Let England by their loyalty
Repair the breach which they did make;
And let us all united be
To gracious James, for Charles his sake;
And let there be no more discord,
But love the King and fear the Lord.
Printed for F. Deacon in Guilt-Spur Street.
“MEMENTO MORI.”
AN ELOGY ON THE DEATH OF HIS SACRED
MAJESTY KING CHARLES II., OF
BLESSED MEMORY.
From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.
UNWELCOME news! Whitehall its sable wears,
And each good subject lies dissolved in tears!
Justly indeed; for Charles is dead, the great,
(Who can so much as such great griefs repeat?)
King Charles the good, in whom that day there fell
More than one tribe in this our Israel!
Ah! cruel Death! we find thy fatal sting
In losing him who was so good a King,—
A King so wise, so just, and he’d great part
In Solomon’s wisdom and in David’s heart;
A King! whose virtues only to rehearse
Rather requires a volume than a verse.
Sprung from the loyns of Charles of blessed fame,
A worthy son of his great father’s name,
His parent’s and his grandsire’s virtues he,
As h’ did their crown, enjoy’d _ex traduce_,
Of th’ best and greatest of Kings the epitome.
His justice such as him none could affright
From doing t’all to God and subjects right.
Punish he could, but, like Heaven’s Majesty,
Would that a traitor should repent, not die.
His prudence to the laws due vigour gave,
He saved others and himself did save.
His valour and his courage, write who can?
Being a good souldier ere he was a man.
Wrestling with sorrows in a land unknown,
Whilst Herod did usurp his royal throne,
Banish’d his native country, every day,
Like Moses, at the brink of death he lay.
But that storm’s over, and blest be that hand
That gave him conduct to his peaceful land;
Where this great King the Gordian knot unties,
Of Heaven’s, the kingdom’s, and his enemies;
Not with the sword, but with his grace and love,
Giving to those their lives that for his strove:
Never did person so much mercy breath
Since our blest Saviour’s and his father’s death.
In fine, his actions may our pattern be,
His godly life, the Christian diary;
But now he’s dead, alas! our David’s gone,
And having served his generation,
Is fall’n asleep; that glorious star’s no more
That English wise men led unto the shore
Of peace, where gospel-truth’s protest
Cherished within our pious mother’s breast,
And with protection of such Kings still blest;
Blest with his piety and the nation too,
Happy in’s reign, with milk and honey flew;
Yea, blest so much with peace and nature’s store
Heaven could scarce give or we desire he more;
But yet, alas! he’s dead! Mourn, England, mourn,
And all your scarlet into black cloth turn;
Let dust and ashes with your tears comply.
To weep, not sing, his mournful elegy;
And let your love to Charles be shown hereby
In rendering James your prayers and loyalty.
Long may Great James these kingdoms’ sceptre sway,
And may his subjects lovingly obey,
Whilst with joint comfort all agree to sing,
Heaven bless these kingdoms and “God save the King!”
London: printed by F. Millet for W. Thackeray, at the sign of the Angel
in Duck Lane, 1685.