The Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684. Various

When none will obey;

       If the King han’t his right, which way shall we?

       They may vote and make laws,

       But no good they will cause

       Till the King and his realm agree.

      A pure religion I would have,

       Not mixt with human wit;

       And I cannot endure that each ignorant knave

       Should dare to meddle with it.

       The tricks of the law

       I would fain withdraw,

       That it may be alike to each degree:

       And I fain would have such

       As do meddle so much,

       With the King and the church agree.

      We have pray’d and pray’d that the wars might cease,

       And we be free men made;

       I would fight, if my fighting would bring any peace,

       But war is become a trade.

       Our servants did ride

       With swords by their side,

       And made their masters footmen be;

       But we’ll be no more slaves

       To the beggars and knaves

       Now the King and the realms do agree.

THE COMMONERS.

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      Written in 1645 to the Club-men, by Alex. Brome.

      Come your ways,

       Bonny boys

       Of the town,

       For now is your time or never:

       Shall your fears

       Or your cares

       Cast you down?

       Hang your wealth

       And your health,

       Get renown.

       We are all undone for ever,

       Now the King and the crown

       Are tumbling down,

       And the realm doth groan with disasters;

       And the scum of the land

       Are the men that command,

       And our slaves are become our masters.

      Now our lives,

       Children, wives,

       And estate,

       Are a prey to the lust and plunder,

       To the rage

       Of our age;

       And the fate

       Of our land

       Is at hand;

       ’Tis too late

       To tread these usurpers under.

       First down goes the crown,

       Then follows the gown,

       Thus levell’d are we by the Roundhead;

       While Church and State must

       Feed their pride and their lust,

       And the kingdom and king be confounded.

      Shall we still

       Suffer ill

       And be dumb,

       And let every varlet undo us?

       Shall we doubt

       Of each lout

       That doth come,

       With a voice

       Like the noise

       Of a drum,

       And a sword or a buff-coat, to us?

       Shall we lose our estates

       By plunder and rates,

       To bedeck those proud upstarts that swagger?

       Rather fight for your meat

       Which those locusts do eat,

       Now every man’s a beggar.

THE ROYALIST.

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      By Alex. Brome. Written 1646.

      Come pass about the bowl to me,

       A health to our distressed King;

       Though we’re in hold let cups go free,

       Birds in a cage may freely sing.

       The ground does tipple healths afar

       When storms do fall, and shall not we?

       A sorrow dares not show its face

       When we are ships, and sack’s the sea.

      Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let’s sing;

       Shall’s kill ourselves for fear of death?

       We’ll live by th’ air which songs do bring,

       Our sighing does but waste our breath.

       Then let us not be discontent,

       Nor drink a glass the less of wine;

       In vain they’ll think their plagues are spent

       When once they see we don’t repine.

      We do not suffer here alone,

       Though we are beggar’d, so’s the King;

       ’Tis sin t’ have wealth when he has none,

       Tush! poverty’s a royal thing!

       When we are larded well with drink,

       Our head shall turn as round as theirs,

       Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink

       Clean down the wind like Cavaliers.

      Fill this unnatural quart with sack,

       Nature all vacuums doth decline;

       Ourselves will be a zodiac,

       And every mouth shall be a sign.

       Methinks the travels of the glass

       Are circular, like Plato’s year;

       Where everything is as it was

       Let’s tipple round: and so ’tis here.

THE NEW COURTIER.

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      By Alex. Brome. 1648.

      Since it must be so

       Then so let it go,

       Let the giddy-brain’d times turn round;

       Since we have no king let the goblet be crown’d,

       Our monarchy thus will recover:

       While the pottles are weeping

       We’ll drench our sad souls

       In big-bellied bowls;

       Our sorrows in sack shall lie steeping,

       And we’ll drink till our eyes do run over;

       And prove it by reason

       That it can be no treason

       To drink and to sing