Part 42

When all the worthy noble train Came back again with Charlemain, Our sovereign great: The Lord Mayor in his scarlet gown, His chain so long, went through the town In pompe and state. The livery-men each line the way Upon this great triumphant day; Five rich maces carried before, And my Lord himselfe the sword he bore. Then Vive le Roy the gentry did sing, For General Monk rode next to the King; With acclamations, shouts, and cryes, I thought they would have rent the skyes.

The conduits, ravished with joy, As I may say, did run all day Great plenty of wine; And every gentleman of note In’s velvet coat that could be got In glory did shine. There were all the peeres and barrons bold, Richly clad in silver and gold, Marched through the street so brave, No greater pompe a king could have. At this, the sacristan, etc.

And thus conducted all along Throughout the throng, still he did come Unto White Hall; Attended by those noble-men, Bold heroes’ kin that brought him in With the geneall; Who was the man that brought him home And placed him on his royal throne;— ’Twas General Monk did doe the thing, So God preserve our gracious King, Now the sacristan, etc.

ON THE KING’S RETURN.

By Alex. Brome.

LONG have we waited for a happy end Of all our miseries and strife;— But still in vain;—the swordmen did intend To make them hold for term of life: That our distempers might be made Their everlasting livelihood and trade.

They entail their swords and guns, And pay, which wounded more, Upon their daughters and their sons, Thereby to keep us ever poor.

But when the Civil Wars were past, They civil government invade, To make our taxes and our slavery last, Both to their titles and their trade.

But now we are redeem’d from all By our indulgent King, Whose coming does prevent our fall, With loyal and with joyful hearts we’ll sing:

CHORUS,

Welcome, welcome, royal May, Welcome, long-desired Spring. Many Springs and Mays we’ve seen, Have brought forth what’s gay and green; But none is like this glorious day, Which brings forth our gracious King.

THE BRAVE BARBARY.

A Ballad by Alex. Brome.

OLD England is now a brave Barbary made, And every one has an ambition to ride her; King Charles was a horseman that long used the trade, But he rode in a snaffle, and that could not guide her.

Then the hungry Scot comes with spur and with switch, And would teach her to run a Geneva career; His grooms were all Puritan, Traytor, and Witch, But she soon threw them down with their pedlary geer.

The Long Parliament next came all to the block, And they this untameable palfrey would ride; But she would not bear all that numerous flock, At which they were fain themselves to divide.

Jack Presbyter first gets the steed by the head, While the reverend Bishops had hold of the bridle; Jack said through the nose they their flockes did not feed, But sat still on the beast and grew aged and idle.

And then comes the Rout, with broom-sticks inspired, And pull’d down their graces, their sleeves, and their train; And sets up Sir Jack, who the beast quickly tyr’d With a journey to Scotland and thence back again.

Jack rode in a doublet, with a yoke of prick-ears, A cursed splay-mouth and a Covenant spur, Rides switching and spurring with jealousies and fears, Till the poor famish’d beast was not able to stir.

Next came th’ Independent—a dev’lish designer, And got himself call’d by a holier name— Makes Jack to unhorse, for he was diviner, And would make her travel as far’s Amsterdam.

But Nol, a rank-rider, gets first in the saddle, And made her show tricks, and curvate, and rebound; She quickly perceived that he rode widdle waddle, And like his coach-horses threw his Highness to ground.

Then Dick, being lame, rode holding by the pummel, Not having the wit to get hold of the rein; But the jade did so snort at the sight of a Cromwell, That poor Dick and his kindred turn’d footmen again.

Next Fleetwood and Vane with their rascally pack, Would every one put their feet in the stirrup; But they pull’d the saddle quite off of her back, And were all got under her before they were up.

At last the King mounts her, and then she stood still; As his Bucephalus, proud of this rider, She cheerfully yields to his power and skill Who is careful to feed her, and skilful to guide her.

A CATCH.

By Alex. Brome. A.D. 1660.

LET’S leave off our labour, and now let’s go play, For this is our time to be jolly; Our plagues and our plaguers are both fled away, To nourish our griefs is but folly: He that won’t drink and sing Is a traytor to’s King, And so he that does not look twenty years younger; We’ll look blythe and trim With rejoicing at him That is the restorer and will be the prolonger Of all our felicity and health, The joy of our hearts, and increase of our wealth. ’Tis he brings our trading, our trading brings riches, Our riches brings honour, at which every mind itches, And our riches bring sack, and our sack brings us joy, And our joy makes us leap and sing, Vive le Roy!

THE TURN-COAT.