Part 24

Their politick would-be’s do but show themselves asses That other men’s calling invade; We only converse with pots and with glasses, Let the rulers alone with their trade; The Lyon of the Tower There estates does devour, Without showing law for’t or reason; Into prison we get For the crime called debt, Where our bodies and brains we do season, And that is ne’er taken for murder or treason.

Where our ditties still be, Give’s more drink, give’s more drink, boys. Let those that are frugal take care; Our gaolers and we will live by our chink, boys, While our creditors live by the air; Here we live at our ease, And get craft and grease, ’Till we’ve merrily spent all our store; Then, as drink brought us in, ’Twill redeem us agen; We got in because we were poor, And swear ourselves out on the very same score.

THE PROTECTING BREWER.

This was apparently written as a parody on the Brewer, in Pills to purge Melancholy, 1682. The original was too complimentary to Oliver Cromwell, asserted by the Royalists to have been a brewer in early life, to suit the taste of the Cavaliers, and hence the alteration made in it. Such compliments as the following must have proceeded from a writer of the opposite party.

Some Christian kings began to quake, And said With the brewer no quarrel we’ll make, We’ll let him alone; as he brews let him bake; Which nobody can deny.

He had a strong and a very stout heart, And thought to be made an Emperor for’t, * * * * * Which nobody can deny.

A BREWER may be a burgess grave, And carry the matter so fine and so brave, That he the better may play the knave, Which nobody can deny.

A brewer may put on a Nabal face, And march to the wars with such a grace That he may get a captain’s place; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may speak so wondrous well That he may rise (strange things to tell), And so be made a colonel; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may make his foes to flee, And rise his fortunes, so that he Lieutenant-general may be; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may be all in all, And raise his powers, both great and small, That he may be a lord general; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may be like a fox in a cub, And teach a lecture out of a tub, And give the wicked world a rub; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer, by’s excise and rate, Will promise his army he knows what, And set upon the college-gate; Which nobody, etc.

Methinks I hear one say to me, Pray why may not a brewer be Lord Chancellor o’ the University? Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may be as bold as Hector, When as he had drank his cup o’ Nectar, And a brewer may be a Lord Protector; Which nobody, etc.

Now here remains the strangest thing, How this brewer about his liquor did bring To be an emperor or a king; Which nobody, etc.

A brewer may do what he will, And rob the Church and State, to sell His soul unto the devil in hell; Which nobody, etc.

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF THE DEVIL FOR STEALING AWAY PRESIDENT BRADSHAW.

John Bradshaw, who had presided over the court of justice which condemned Charles I. to the scaffold, and who by his extreme republican principles had rendered himself obnoxious to Cromwell, began again to be distinguished in public affairs after the Protector’s death, and was elected President of the Council of State. He did not live long to enjoy this honour, but died, according to some authorities, on the 31st October, 1659. Chalmers places his death on the 22nd of November in that year.

To the tune of “Well-a-day, well-a-day.”

IF you’ll hear news that’s ill, Gentlemen, gentlemen, Against the devil, I will Be the relator; Arraigned he must be, For that feloniously, ’Thout due solemnity, He took a traitor.

John Bradshaw was his name, How it stinks! how it stinks! Who’ll make with blacker fame Pilate unknown. This worse than worse of things Condemn’d the best of kings, And, what more guilt yet brings, Knew ’twas his own.

Virtue in Charles did seem Eagerly, eagerly, And villainy in him To vye for glory. Majesty so compleat And impudence so great Till that time never met:— But to my story.

Accusers there will be, Bitter ones, bitter ones, More than one, two, or three, All full of spight; Hangman and tree so tall, Bridge, tower, and city-wall, Kite and crow, which were all Robb’d of their right.

But judges none are fit, Shame it is, shame it is, That twice seven years did sit To give hemp-string dome; The friend they would befriend, That he might in the end To them like favour lend, In his own kingdome.

Sword-men, it must be you, Boldly to’t, boldly to’t, Must give the diver his due; Do it not faintly, But as you raised by spell Last Parliament from hell, And it again did quell Omnipotently.

The charge they wisely frame (On with it, on with it) In that yet unknown name Of supream power; While six weeks hence by vote Shall be or it shall not, When Monk’s to London got {48} In a good hour.

But twelve good men and true, Caveliers, Caveliers, He excepts against you; Justice he fears. From bar and pulpit hee Craves such as do for fee Serve all turns, for he’l be Try’d by his peers.