Part 17

From a broadside in the King’s Pamphlets, vol. viii. in the British Museum, with the direction, “You may sing this to the tune of ‘Faine I would.’” The tune sometimes called “Parthenia,” and “The King’s Complaint,” is to be found in Mr Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time. The King was beheaded in January, 1649. This Ballad is dated the 23rd of April in the same year.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

SO, so, the deed is done, The royal head is sever’d, As I meant when I first begun, And strongly have endeavour’d. Now Charles the First is tumbled down, The Second I do not fear; I grasp the sceptre, wear the crown, Nor for Jehovah care.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Think’st thou, base slave, though in my grave Like other men I lie, My sparkling fame and royal name Can (as thou wishest) die? Know, caitif, in my son I live (The Black Prince call’d by some), And he shall ample vengeance give To those that did my doom.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Supprest, deprest, involved in woes, Great Charles, thy people be Basely deceived with specious shows By those that murther’d thee. We are enslaved to tyrants’ hests, Who have our freedom won: Our fainting hope now only rests On thy succeeding son.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Base vulgar! know, the more you stir, The more your woes increase, Your rashness will your hopes deter, ’Tis we must give you peace. Black Charles a traitor is proclaim’d Unto our dignity; He dies (if e’er by us he’s gain’d) Without all remedy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou And thy degenerate train, By mankind’s Saviour’s body vow To me thy sovereign, To make me the most glorious king That e’er o’er England reign’d; That me and mine in everything By you should be maintain’d?

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave Of thy beloved shade; ’Tis we that brought thee to the grave, Thou wert by us betray’d. We did believe ’twas reformation These monsters did desire; Not knowing that thy degradation And death should be our hire.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Ye sick-brain’d fools! whose wit does lie In your small guts; could you Imagine our conspiracy Did claim no other due, But for to spend our dearest bloods To make rascallions flee? No, we sought for your lives and goods, And for a monarchy.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

But there’s a Thunderer above, Who, though he winks awhile, Is not with your black deeds in love, He hates your damned guile. And though a time you perch upon The top of Fortune’s wheel, You shortly unto Acharon (Drunk with your crimes) shall reel.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth) We languishing do die: Excise doth give free-quarters birth, While soldiers multiply. Our lives we forfeit every day, Our money cuts our throats; The laws are taken clean away, Or shrunk to traitor’s votes.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

Like patient mules resolve to bear Whate’er we shall impose; Your lives and goods you need not fear, We’ll prove your friends, not foes. We (the elected ones) must guide A thousand years this land; You must be props unto our pride, And slaves to our command.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.

But you may fail of your fair hopes, If fates propitious be; And yield your loathed lives in ropes To vengeance and to me. When as the Swedes and Irish join, The Cumbrian and the Scot Do with the Danes and French combine, Then look unto your lot.

THE PEOPLE IN THE PIT.

Our wrongs have arm’d us with such strength, So sad is our condition, That could we hope that now at length We might find intermission, And had but half we had before, Ere these mechanics sway’d; To our revenge, knee-deep in gore, We would not fear to wade.

CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.

In vain (fond people) do you grutch And tacitly repine. For why? my skill and strength are such Both poles of heaven are mine. Your hands and purses both cohered To raise us to this height: You must protect those you have rear’d, Or sink beneath their weight.

KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.