Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684 Part 37

And may they be found In all to abound, Both with Heaven and the country's anger; May they never want fractions, Doubts, fears, and distractions, Till the gallows-tree frees them from danger.

Ballad: Loyalty Turned Up Trump, Or The Danger Over

From the Loyal Garland, reprinted from a Black-Letter copy, printed 1686. Reprinted for the Percy society, 1850.

In vain ill men attempt us, Their day is out of date; The fates do now exempt us From what we felt of late.

The nation is grown wiser Than to believe their shame; He that was the deviser Themselves begin to blame.

They thought the trumps would ever Turn on rebellion's side, But kinder power deliver Us from their foolish pride; For see, they are deceived, And can no more prevail; Those who the Rump believed, Ashamed are of the tale.

Ballad: The Loyalist's Encouragement

From the Loyal Garland. To the tune of "Now, now the fight's done."

You Royalists all, now rejoice and be glad, The day is our own, there's no cause to be sad, The tumult of faction is crush'd in its pride, And the grand promoters their noddles all hide, For fear of a swing, which does make it appear Though treason they loved yet for hemp they don't care.

Then let us be bold still, and baffle their plots, That they in the end may prove impotent sots; And find both their wit and their malice defeated, Nay, find how themselves and their pupils they cheated, By heaping and thrusting to unhinge a State, Of which Heaven's guardian fixt is by fate.

Though once they the rabble bewitch'd with their cant, Whilst cobler and weaver set up for a saint; Yet now the stale cheat they can fasten no more, The juggle's discover'd and they must give o'er; Yet give them their due that such mischief did work, Who revile Christian princes and pray for the Turk.

Oh! give them their due, and let none of 'em want A cup of Geneva or Turkish turbant, That, clad in their colours, they may not deceive The vulgar, too p.r.o.ne and too apt to believe The fears they suggest on a groundless pretence, On purpose to make 'em repine or their prince.

Ballad: The Trouper

From the Loyal Garland. A pleasant song revived.

Come, come, let us drink, 'Tis vain to think Like fools of grief or sadness; Let our money fly And our sorrows dye, All worldly care is madness; But wine and good cheer Will, in spite of our fear, Inspire us all with gladness.

Let the greedy clowns, That do live like hounds, They know neither bound nor measure, Lament every loss, For their wealth is their cross, Whose delight is in their treasure; Whilst we with our own Do go merrily on, And spend it at our leisure.

Then trout about the bowl To every loyal soul, And to his hand commend it.

A fig for c.h.i.n.k, 'Twas made to buy drink, Before we depart we'll end it.

When we've spent our store, The nation yields no more, And merrily we will spend it.

Ballad: On The Times, Or The Good Subject's Wish

From the Loyal Garland. To the tune of "Young Phaon."

Good days we see, let us rejoice, In peace and loyalty, And still despise the factious noise Of those that vainly try To undermine our happiness, That they may by it get; Knavery has great increase When honesty does set.

But let us baffle all their tricks, Our King and country serve; And may he never thrive that likes Sedition in reserve: Then let each in his station rest, As all good subjects should; And he that otherwise designs, May he remain unblest.

May traytors ever be deceived In all they undertake, And never by good men believed; May all the plots they make Fall heavy on themselves, and may They see themselves undone, And never have a happy day, That would the King dethrone.

Ballad: The Jovialists' Coronation

From the Loyal Garland.

Since it must be so, why then so let it go, Let the giddy-brain'd times turn round; Now we have our King, let the goblets be crowned, And our monarchy thus we recover; Whilst the pottles are weeping We'll drench our sad souls In big-belly'd bowls, And our sorrows in wine shall lie steeping.

And we'll drink till our eyes do run over, And prove it by reason, It can be no treason To drink or to sing A mournifal of healths to our new-crowned King.

Let us all stand bare in the presence we are, Let our noses like bonfires s.h.i.+ne; Instead of the conduits, let pottles run wine, To perfect this true coronation; And we that are loyal, in drink shall be peers; For that face that wears claret Can traytors defie all, And out-stares the bores of our nation; In sign of obedience Our oaths of allegiance Beer gla.s.ses shall be, And he that tipples tends to jollitry.

But if in this reign a halberdly train, Or a constable, chance to revel, And would with his twyvels maliciously swell, And against the King's party raise arms: Then the drawers, like yeomen o' the guard, With quart-pots Shall fuddle the sots, Till they make 'um both cuckolds and freemen, And on their wives beat up alarms, Thus as the health pa.s.ses, We'll triple our gla.s.ses, And count it no sin To drink and be loyal in defence of our King.

Ballad: The Loyal Prisoner

From the Loyal Garland.

How happy's that pris'ner that conquers his fate With silence, and ne'er on bad fortune complains, But carelessly plays with keys on his grate, And he makes a sweet concert with them and his chains!

He drowns care in sack, while his thoughts are opprest, And he makes his heart float like a cork in his breast.

Then since we are slaves, and all islanders be, And our land a large prison enclosed by the sea, We'll drink off the ocean, and set ourselves free, For man is the world's epitomy.

Let tyrants wear purple, deep-dy'd in the blood Of those they have slain, their scepters to sway, If our conscience be clear, and our t.i.tle be good, With the rags that hang on us we are richer than they; We'll drink down at night what we beg or can borrow, And sleep without plotting for more the next morrow.

Then since, etc.

Let the usurer watch o'er his bags and his house, To keep that from robbers he rak'd from his debtors, Which at midnight cries thieves at the noise of a mouse, And he looks if his trunks are fast bound to their fetters; When once he's grown rich enough for a State's plot, But in one hour plunders what threescore years got.

Then since, etc.