Part 5

OXFORD and Cambridge shall agree, With honour crown’d, and dignity; For learned men shall then take place, And bad be silenced with disgrace: They’ll know it to be but a casualty That hath so long disturb’d their brain; For I can surely tell that all things will go well When the King comes home in peace again.

Church government shall settled be, And then I hope we shall agree Without their help, whose high-brain’d zeal Hath long disturb’d the common weal; Greed out of date, and cobblers that do prate Of wars that still disturb their brain; The which you will see, when the time it shall be That the King comes home in peace again.

Though many now are much in debt, And many shops are to be let, A golden time is drawing near, Men shops shall take to hold their ware; And then all our trade shall flourishing be made, To which ere long we shall attain; For still I can tell all things will be well When the King comes home in peace again.

Maidens shall enjoy their mates, And honest men their lost estates; Women shall have what they do lack, Their husbands, who are coming back. When the wars have an end, then I and my friend All subjects’ freedom shall obtain; By which I can tell all things will be well When we enjoy sweet peace again.

Though people now walk in great fear Along the country everywhere, Thieves shall then tremble at the law, And justice shall keep them in awe: The Frenchies shall flee with their treacherie, And the foes of the King ashamed remain: The which you shall see when the time it shall be That the King comes home in peace again.

The Parliament must willing be That all the world may plainly see How they do labour still for peace, That now these bloody wars may cease; For they will gladly spend their lives to defend The King in all his right to reign: So then I can tell all things will be well When we enjoy sweet peace again.

When all these things to pass shall come Then farewell Musket, Pick, and Drum, The Lamb shall with the Lion feed, Which were a happy time indeed. O let us pray we may all see the day That peace may govern in his name, For then I can tell all things will be well When the King comes home in peace again.

I LOVE MY KING AND COUNTRY WELL.

From Songs and other Poems by Alex. Brome, Gent. Published London 1664; written 1645.

I LOVE my King and country well, Religion and the laws; Which I’m mad at the heart that e’er we did sell To buy the good old cause. These unnatural wars And brotherly jars Are no delight or joy to me; But it is my desire That the wars should expire, And the King and his realms agree.

I never yet did take up arms, And yet I dare to dye; But I’ll not be seduced by phanatical charms Till I know a reason why. Why the King and the state Should fall to debate I ne’er could yet a reason see, But I find many one Why the wars should be done, And the King and his realms agree.

I love the King and the Parliament, But I love them both together: And when they by division asunder are rent, I know ’tis good for neither. Whichsoe’er of those Be victorious, I’m sure for us no good ’twill be, For our plagues will increase Unless we have peace, And the King and his realms agree.

The King without them can’t long stand, Nor they without the King; ’Tis they must advise, and ’tis he must command, For their power from his must spring. ’Tis a comfortless sway When none will obey; If the King han’t his right, which way shall we? They may vote and make laws, But no good they will cause Till the King and his realm agree.

A pure religion I would have, Not mixt with human wit; And I cannot endure that each ignorant knave Should dare to meddle with it. The tricks of the law I would fain withdraw, That it may be alike to each degree: And I fain would have such As do meddle so much, With the King and the church agree.

We have pray’d and pray’d that the wars might cease, And we be free men made; I would fight, if my fighting would bring any peace, But war is become a trade. Our servants did ride With swords by their side, And made their masters footmen be; But we’ll be no more slaves To the beggars and knaves Now the King and the realms do agree.

THE COMMONERS.

Written in 1645 to the Club-men, by Alex. Brome.

COME your ways, Bonny boys Of the town, For now is your time or never: Shall your fears Or your cares Cast you down? Hang your wealth And your health, Get renown. We are all undone for ever, Now the King and the crown Are tumbling down, And the realm doth groan with disasters; And the scum of the land Are the men that command, And our slaves are become our masters.

Now our lives, Children, wives, And estate, Are a prey to the lust and plunder, To the rage Of our age; And the fate Of our land Is at hand; ’Tis too late To tread these usurpers under. First down goes the crown, Then follows the gown, Thus levell’d are we by the Roundhead; While Church and State must Feed their pride and their lust, And the kingdom and king be confounded.

Shall we still Suffer ill And be dumb, And let every varlet undo us? Shall we doubt Of each lout That doth come, With a voice Like the noise Of a drum, And a sword or a buff-coat, to us? Shall we lose our estates By plunder and rates, To bedeck those proud upstarts that swagger? Rather fight for your meat Which those locusts do eat, Now every man’s a beggar.

THE ROYALIST.

By Alex. Brome. Written 1646.

COME pass about the bowl to me, A health to our distressed King; Though we’re in hold let cups go free, Birds in a cage may freely sing. The ground does tipple healths afar When storms do fall, and shall not we? A sorrow dares not show its face When we are ships, and sack’s the sea.

Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let’s sing; Shall’s kill ourselves for fear of death? We’ll live by th’ air which songs do bring, Our sighing does but waste our breath. Then let us not be discontent, Nor drink a glass the less of wine; In vain they’ll think their plagues are spent When once they see we don’t repine.

We do not suffer here alone, Though we are beggar’d, so’s the King; ’Tis sin t’ have wealth when he has none, Tush! poverty’s a royal thing! When we are larded well with drink, Our head shall turn as round as theirs, Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink Clean down the wind like Cavaliers.

Fill this unnatural quart with sack, Nature all vacuums doth decline; Ourselves will be a zodiac, And every mouth shall be a sign. Methinks the travels of the glass Are circular, like Plato’s year; Where everything is as it was Let’s tipple round: and so ’tis here.

THE NEW COURTIER.

By Alex. Brome. 1648.