The Coblers New Prophesie:
OR,
New News for ENGLAND.
Wherein are Strange and Wonderful things foretold, that will certainly come to pass
Once or Never.
Strange Fancies oft from the Unthinking flow,
And Shepherds oft by wandring, Fires fore-know;
Changes in Empire, Storms of State, fierce Wars,
Civil Commotions, and Domestick Fars:
If they, or Star-gazers, can tell such things,
Why may not we, when Ale to thought gives wings?
Astrologers alledge it is their Trade,
And why not ours, since Gentle-Craft gives aid?
To the Tune of, The Wandring Jew's Chronicle.
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AS I sat Singing in my Stall,
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At work with my pairing-knife and Awl,
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a Fancy in my Brain;
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Which made me all my Work cast by,
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And thus begin to Prophesie,
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as you shall find most plain.
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The Times are hard and Money scant,
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The Poor e're long will Pine for want,
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unless they be Reliev'd;
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Whilst Children cry for lack of Bread,
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The Popish Crew are largely fed,
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which makes me much to grieve.
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Whilst Mizers that do hoard up Baggs
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If Times shou'd turn, may walk in rags
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so Covetous inclin'd,
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They'l rather Pinch and scrape for more,
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Then give one Farthing to the Poor,
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so harden'd are their minds.
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Young Heirs shall wish their Father dead
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That they their hoarded Gold may spread
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wherein they took Delight:
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The rusty Wealth when they are gone,
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Which many years had seen no Sun,
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shall vainly take its flight.
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The Taverns they will much frequent,
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And Ill got Treasure shall be spent,
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while Pope and Devil League:
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And Plotting Jesuits Combine,
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The Nation for to Undermine,
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and brood their Dark Intreague.
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Yet something we must be content,
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Since we have got a Parliament,
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will find out Romes grand Cheat:
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And in a Rope, or without hope,
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Will send them packing to the Pope,
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and sift them from the Wheat.
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No more their Sham-Plots shall prevail,
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Their Malice all at last will fail,
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or else I am no Prophet:
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Their Murders and their Massacrees,
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Will not English Pallats please,
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nor shall they so go off yet.
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Though Mother Celliers were let loose,
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Her Meal-tub tricks are out of use;
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the Bald-pate Priests and Fryers,
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Shall Rant and Curse, and loudly swear,
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Instead of Mattins, Mass, and Prayer,
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because the Conclave's Lyars.
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And never shall have in Power,
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The Nations Wealth for to devour,
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nor to dispose of Places:
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But after all their treasure's spent,
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Some shall their Deeds in Hell repent,
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in spight of Popish Masses.
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Pride will much abound and Scorn,
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Though for them the Nation Mourn,
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and many a wanton Feat.
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Fears and Jealousies shall rise,
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And Rain and Snow o're-cast the Skies,
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whilst Great Ones Emulate.
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The weakest shall go to the Walls,
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And he lye on the Ground that falls,
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when't's hard for to recover:
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Long tales shall be by Moon-light told,
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And Beauty shall be bought for Gold,
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when Merrits cannot move her.
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Old Fools shall doat, and wenches wed,
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In hopes to get their Maiden-head,
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which they e're Fifteen lost:
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At Land and Sea great Stormes shall be,
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And France disturb the Nations free,
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which may much Blood-shed cost.
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Ten thousand pound to my old Aw[l]
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He from the Pope at last may fall
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as did brave Englands Harry:
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And turn those Lubbers home to s[eed,]
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That do in Kingdoms Mischief breed,
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and make all people weary.
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But now with speed to work go I,
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To set them right that tread awry,
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least I should pawn my Coat:
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For whilst that I did make this Song,
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For all you'l say it is not long,
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I might have earn'd a Groat.
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