.

(That you please you may name it,)

       One of the loyal traytors here

       Did for a ballad frame it:

       Old Chevy Chace was in his minde;

       If any suit it better,

       All those concerned in the song

       Will kindly thank the setter.

UPON HIS MAJESTY’S COMING TO HOLMBY.

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      Charles I., after his surrender to the English Commissioners by the Scotch, was conveyed to Holmby House, Northamptonshire, 16th February, 1647.

      Hold out, brave Charles, and thou shaft win the field;

       Thou canst not lose thyself, unless thou yield

       On such conditions as will force thy hand

       To give away thy sceptre, crown, and land.

       And what is worse, to hazard by thy fall,

       To lose a greater crown, more worth than all.

      Thy poor distressed Cavaliers rejoyced

       To hear thy royal resolution voiced,

       And are content far more poor to be

       Than yet they are, so it reflects from thee.

       Thou art our sovereign still, in spite of hate;

       Our zeal is to thy person, not thy state.

      We are not so ambitious to desire

       Our drooping fortunes to be mounted higher,

       And thou so great a monarch, to our grief,

       Must sue unto thy subjects for relief:

       And when they sit and long debate about it,

       Must either stay their time, or go without it.

      No, sacred prince, thy friends esteem thee more

       In thy distresses than ere they did before;

       And though their wings be clipt, their wishes fly

       To heaven by millions, for a fresh supply.

       That as thy cause was so betray’d by men, It may by angels be restored agen.

I THANK YOU TWICE;

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      OR

      The city courting their own ruin,

       Thank the Parliament twice for their treble undoing.

      A street ballad. From a broadside, 1647.

      The hierarchy is out of date,

       Our monarchy was sick of late,

       But now ’tis grown an excellent state:

       Oh, God a-mercy, Parliament!

      The teachers knew not what to say,

       The ’prentices have leave to play,

       The people have all forgotten to pray;

       Still, God a-mercy, Parliament!

      The Roundhead and the Cavalier

       Have fought it out almost seven year,

       And yet, methinks, they are never the near:

       Oh, God, etc.

      The gentry are sequester’d all;

       Our wives you find at Goldsmith Hall,

       For there they meet with the devil and all;

       Still, God, etc.

      The Parliament are grown to that height

       They care not a pin what his Majesty saith;

       And they pay all their debts with the public faith.

       Oh, God, etc.

      Though all we have here is brought to nought,

       In Ireland we have whole lordships bought,

       There we shall one day be rich, ’tis thought:

       Still, God, etc.

      We must forsake our father and mother,

       And for the State undo our own brother

       And never leave murthering one another:

       Oh, God, etc.

      Now the King is caught and the devil is dead;

       Fairfax must be disbanded,

       Or else he may chance be Hotham-ed.

       Still, God, etc.

      They have made King Charles a glorious king,

       He was told, long ago, of such a thing;

       Now he and his subjects have reason to sing,

       Oh, God, etc.

THE CITIES LOYALTIE TO THE KING.

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      (Aug. 13th, 1647.)

      The city of London made several demonstrations this year to support the Presbyterian party in the Parliament against the Independents and the army. In the latter end of September, after the army had marched to London, and the Parliament acted under its influence, the lord mayor and a large part of the aldermen were committed to the Tower on the charge of high treason; and a new mayor for the rest of the year was appointed by the Parliament.

      To the tune of “London is a fine town and a gallant city.”

      Why kept your train-bands such a stirre?

       Why sent you them by clusters?

       Then went into Saint James’s Parke?

       Why took you then their musters?

       Why rode my Lord up Fleet-street

       With coaches at least twenty,

       And fill’d they say with aldermen,

       As good they had been empty?

       London is a brave towne,

       Yet I their cases pitty;

       Their mayor and some few aldermen

       Have cleane undone the city.

      The ’prentices are gallant blades,

       And to the king are clifty;

       But the lord mayor and aldermen

       Are scarce so wise as thrifty.

       I’le pay for the apprentices,

       They to the King were hearty;

       For they have done all that they can

       To advance their soveraignes party.

       London, etc.

      What’s now become of your brave Poyntz?

       And of your Generall Massey? [29] If you petition for a peace, These gallants they will slash yee. Where now are your reformadoes? To Scotland gone together: ’Twere better they were fairly trusst Then they should bring them thither. London, etc.

      But if your aldermen were false,

       Or Glyn, that’s your recorder! [30] Let them never betray you more, But hang them up in order. All these men may be coach’t as well As any other sinner Up Holborne, and ride forwarde still, To Tyburne to their dinner. London, &c.

      God