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EBBA 33788

National Library of Scotland - Crawford
Ballad XSLT Template
CROMWELLS PANEGYRICK.

SHall Presbyterian bells ring Cromwels praise,
While we stand still and do no Trophyes raise
Unto his lasting name? Then may we be
Hung like the bells in our dependencie.
Well may his Nose, that is dominicall,
Take pepper in't, to see no Pen at all
Stir to applaud his merits, who hath lent
Such valour, to erect a monument
Of lasting praise; whose name shall never dye,
While England has a Church, or Monarchy.
He whom the laurell'd Army home did bring
Riding Tryumphant o're his conquer'd King,
He is the Generals Cypher now; and when
Hee's joyn'd to him, he makes that one a Ten.
The Kingdomes Saint; England no more shall stir
To cry St. George, but now St. Oliver.
He's the Realmes Ensigne; and who goes to wring
His Nose, is forc'd to cry, God save the King.
He that can rout an Army with his name,
And take a City, ere he views the same:
His Souldiers may want bread, but n'ere shall fear
(While he's their General,) the want of Beer;
No Wonder they wore Bayes, his Brewing-fat
(Helicon-like) make Poets Laureat:
When Braines in those Castalian liquors swim,
We sing no Heathenish Pean, but a Hymne;
And by th' Spirit too, for who can chuse
But sing Hosanna to this King of Jewes?
Tremble you Scotish zealots, you that han't
Freed any Conscience from your Covenant:
That for those bald Appellatives of Cause,
Religion, and the Fundamentall Lawes,
Have pul'd the old Episcopacy down,
And as the Miter, so you'le serve the Crowne.
You that have made the Cap to th' Bonnet vaile,
And made the Head a servant to the Taile.
And you curst spawne of Publicans, that sit
In every County, as a plague to it;
That with your yeomen Sequestrating Knaves,
Have made whole Counties beggerly, and slaves.
You Synod, that have sate so long to know
Whether we must beleeve in God, or no;
You that have torn the Church, and sate t'impaire
The Ten Commandements, the Creed, the Prayer;
And made your honours pull down heavens glory,
While you set up that Calfe, your Directory:
We shall no wicked Jewes-ear'd Elders want,
This Army's built of Churches Militant:
These are new Tribes of Levi; for they be
Clergy, yet of no Universitie.
Pull down your Crests; for every bird shall gather,
From your usurping back, a stollen feather.
Your Great Lay Levite Prynne, whose Margent tires
The patient Reader, while he blots whole quires,

Nay reames with Treason; and with Nonsence too,
To justifie what e're you say or do:
Whose circumcised eares are hardly grown
Ripe for another Persecution:
He must to Scotland for another paire;
For he will lose these, if he tarry here.
Burges that Reverend Presbydeane of Pauls,
Must (with his Poundage) leave his Cure of Souls,
And into Scotland trot, that he may pick
Out of that Kirk, a nick-nam'd Bishoprick.
And Calamy must now resigne his place,
Because Scalpellum has cut through the Case;
The Protean Hollis, that will never burne,
Must here or'at Tiburne take another turne.
And Will the Conquerour in a Scottish dance
Must lead his running Army into France.
Or he and Stapleton among those Crews
In Holland build a Synagogue of Jewes,
And spread Rebellion; Great Alexander
Fears not a Pillory, like this Commander.
And Bedlam John, that at his Clerks so raves,
Using them not like servants, but like slaves.
He that so freely rail'd against his Prince,
Cal'd him dissembling subtile Knave, and since
Has still'd the whole Army Bankrupts; said, that none
Of their Estates were equal to his own:
He that was by a strong ambition led
To set himself upon the Cities head:
But when he has restor'd his both-side fees,
Hee'll be as poor, or they as rich as hee's.
And that still-gaping Tophet Goldsmiths Hall,
With all his Furies, shall to ruine fall.
Wee'l be no more gull'd by that Popish story,
But shall reach heaven without that Purgatory:
What honor does he merit, what renown
By whom all these oppressions are pul'd down.
And such a Government is like to be
In Church and State, as eye did never see:
Magicians hold, hee'l set up Common Prayer;
Looking in's face, they find the Rubrick there.
His Name shall never dye, by fire nor floud,
But in Church-windows stand, where pictures stood:
And if his soul lothing that house of clay,
Shall to another Kingdome march away,
Under some Barnes floore his bones shall lye,
Who Churches did, and Monuments defie:
Where the rude Thrasher, with much knocking on,
Shall wake him at the Resurrection.
And on his Grave since there must be no Stone,
Shall stand this Epitaph; That he has none.


Printed in the Yeer 1647.

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