Part 38

Not long ago a game was play’d, When three crowns at the stakes were laid; England had no cause to boast, Knaves won that which kings had lost: Coaches gave the way to carts, And clubs were better cards than hearts.

Old Noll was the knave o’ clubs, And dad of such as preach in tubs; Bradshaw, Ireton, and Pride Were three other knaves beside; And they play’d with half the pack, Throwing out all cards but black.

But the just Fates threw these four out, Which made the loyal party shout; The Pope would fain have had the stock, And with these cards have whipt his dock. But soon the Devil these cards snatches To dip in brimstone, and make matches.

But still the sport for to maintain, Bold Lambert, Haslerigg, and Vane, With one-eyed Hewson, took their places, Knaves were better cards than aces; But Fleetwood he himself did save, Because he was more fool than knave.

Cromwell, though he so much had won, Yet he had an unlucky son; He sits still, and not regards, Whilst cunning gamesters set the cards; And thus, alas! poor silly Dick, He play’d awhile, and lost his trick.

The Rumpers that had won whole towns, The spoils of martyrs and of crowns, Were not contented, but grew rough, As though they had not won enough; They kept the cards still in their hands, To play for tithes and college lands.

The Presbyters began to fret That they were like to lose the sett; Unto the Rump they did appeal, And said it was their turn to deal; Then dealt with Presbyterians, but The army swore that they would cut.

The foreign lands began to wonder, To see what gallants we lived under, That they, which Christians did forswear, Should follow gaming all the year,— Nay more, which was the strangest thing, To play so long without a king.

The bold phanatics present were, Like butlers with their boxes there, Not doubting but that every game Some profit would redound to them; Because they were the gamesters’ minions, And every day broach’d new opinions.

But Cheshire men (as stories say) Began to show them gamester’s play; Brave Booth and all his army strives To save the stakes, or lose their lives; But, oh sad fate! they were undone By playing of their cards too soon.

Thus all the while a club was trump, There’s none could ever beat the Rump, Until a noble general came, And gave the cheaters a clear slam; His finger did outwit their noddy, And screw’d up poor Jack Lambert’s body.

Then Haslerigg began to scowl, And said the general play’d foul. Look to him, partners, for I tell ye, This Monk has got a king in’s belly. Not so, quoth Monk, but I believe Sir Arthur has a knave in’s sleeve.

When General Monk did understand The Rump were peeping into’s hand, He wisely kept his cards from sight, Which put the Rump into a fright; He saw how many were betray’d That show’d their cards before they play’d.

At length, quoth he, some cards we lack, I will not play with half a pack; What you cast out I will bring in, And a new game we will begin: With that the standers-by did say They never yet saw fairer play.

But presently this game was past, And for a second knaves were cast; All new cards, not stain’d with spots, As was the Rumpers and the Scots,— Here good gamesters play’d their parts And turn’d up the king of hearts.

After this game was done, I think The standers-by had cause to drink, And all loyal subjects sing, Farewell knaves, and welcome King; For, till we saw the King return’d, We wish’d the cards had all been burn’d.

THE CAVALEERS LITANY.

(March 25th, 1660.)—From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.

FROM pardons which extend to woods, Entitle thieves to keep our goods, Forgive our rents as well as bloods, God bless, etc.

From judges who award that none Of our oppressours should attone (The losses sure were not their own), God bless, etc.

From Christians which can soon forget Our injuries, but not one bit Of self-concernment would remit, God bless, etc.

From duresse, and their dolefull tale, Who, famisht by a lawless sale, Compounded it for cakes and ale, God bless, etc.

From persons still to tread the stage, Who did the drudgeries of our age (Such counsells are, I fear, too sage), God bless, etc.

From maximes which (to make all sure) With great rewards the bad allure, ’Cause of the good they are secure, God bless, etc.

From cunning gamesters, who, they say, Are sure to winne, what-e’re they play; In April Lambert, Charles in May, God bless, etc.

From neuters and their leven’d lump, Who name the King and mean the Rump, Or care not much what card is trump, God bless, etc.

From midnight-birds, who lye at catch Some plume from monarchy to snatch, And from fond youths that cannot watch, God bless, etc.

From brethren who must still dissent, Whose froward gospell brooks no Lent, And who recant, but ne’er repent, God bless, etc.