Part 25

Satan, y’ are guilty found By your peers, by your peers, And must die above ground! Look for no pity; Some of our ministry, Whose spir’ts with yours comply, As Owen, Caryl, Nye, {49} For death shall fit ’ee.

Dread judges, mine own limb I but took, I but took, I was forced without him To use a crutch; Some of the robe can tell How to supply full well His place here, but in hell I had none such.

Divel, you are an asse, Plain it is, plain it is, And weakly plead the case; Your wits are lost. Some lawyers will outdo’t, When shortly they come to’t; Your craft, our gold to boot, They have ingross’d.

Should all men take their right, Well-a-day, well-a-day, We were in a sad plight, O’ th’ holy party! Such practise hath a scent Of kingly government, Against it we are bent, Out of home char’ty.

But if I die, who am King of hell, King of hell, You will not quench its flame, But find it worse: Confused anarchy Will a new torment be; Ne’r did these kingdoms three Feel such a curse.

To our promotion, sir, There as here, there as here, Through some confused stir Doth the high-road lie; In hell we need not fear Nor King nor Cavalier, Who then shall dominere But we the godly?

Truth, then, sirs, which of old Was my shame, was my shame, Shall now to yours be told: You caused his death; The house being broken by Yourselves (there’s burglary), Wrath enter’d forcibly, And stopt his breath.

Sir, as our president, Taught by you, taught by you, ’Gainst the King away went Most strange and new; Charging him with the guilt Of all the blond we spilt, With swords up to the hilt, So we’le serve you.

For mercy then I call, Good my lords, good my lords, And traytors I’le leave all Duly to end it; Sir, sir, ’tis frivolous, As well for you as us, To beg for mercy thus,— Our crimes transcend it.

You must die out of hand, Satanas, Satanas: This our decree shall stand Without controll; And we for you will pray, Because the Scriptures say, When some men curse you, they Curse their own soul.

The fiend to Tiburn’s gone, There to die, there to die; Black is the north, anon Great storms will be; Therefore together now I leave him and th’ gallow,— So, newes-man, take ’em now, Soon they’l take thee.

Finis, Fustis, Funis.

A NEW BALLAD TO AN OLD TUNE,—TOM OF BEDLAM.

January 17th, 1659.—From the King’s Ballads, British Museum.

MAKE room for an honest red-coat (And that you’ll say’s a wonder), The gun and the blade Are the tools, and his trade Is, for pay, to kill and plunder. Then away with the laws, And the “Good old Cause;” Ne’er talk of the Rump or the Charter; ’Tis the cash does the feat, All the rest’s but a cheat, Without that there’s no faith nor quarter.

’Tis the mark of our coin “God with us,” And the grace of the Lord goes along with’t. When the Georges are flown Then the Cause goes down, For the Lord has departed from it. Then away, etc.

For Rome, or for Geneva, For the table or the altar, This spawn of a vote, He cares not a groat— For the pence he’s your dog in a halter, Then away, etc.

Tho’ the name of King or Bishop To nostrils pure may be loathsome, Yet many there are That agree with the May’r, That their lands are wondrous toothsome. Then away, etc.

When our masters are poor we leave ’em, ’Tis the Golden Calf we bow to; We kill and we slay Not for conscience, but pay; Give us that, we’ll fight for you too. Then away, etc.

’Twas that first turn’d the King out; The Lords next; then the Commons: ’Twas that kept up Noll, Till the Devil fetch’d his soul, And then it set the Rump on’s. Then away, etc.

Drunken Dick was a lame Protector, And Fleetwood a back-slider; These we served as the rest, But the City’s the beast That will never cast her rider. Then away, etc.

When the Mayor holds the stirrup And the Shrieves cry, God save your honours; Then ’tis but a jump And up goes the Rump, That will spur to the Devil upon us. Then away, etc.

And now for fling at your thimbles, Your bodkins, rings, and whistles; In truck for your toys We’ll fit you with boys (’Tis the doctrine of Hugh’s Epistles). Then away, etc.

When your plate is gone, and your jewels, You must be next entreated To part with your bags, And to strip you to rags, And yet not think you’re cheated. Then away, etc.

The truth is, the town deserves it, ’Tis a brainless, heartless monster: At a club they may bawl, Or declare at their hall, And yet at a push not one stir. Then away, etc.

Sir Arthur vow’d he’ll treat ’em Far worse than the men of Chester; He’s bold now they’re cow’d, But he was nothing so loud When he lay in the ditch at Lester. Then away, etc.

The Lord has left John Lambert, And the spirit, Feak’s anointed; But why, O Lord, Hast thou sheath’d thy sword? Lo! thy saints are disappointed. Then away, etc.

Though Sir Henry be departed, Sir John makes good the place now; And to help out the work Of the glorious Kirk, Our brethren march apace too. Then away, etc.