The Wiltshire BALLAD:
OR,
A New Song Compos'd by an Old Cavalier,
Of Wonders at Sarum, by which doth appear,
That th' old Devil came again lately there,
To Raise a Rebellion,
By way of Petition;
But by Musicks Divine and powerful Charms,
Which Satan and's Saints abhor; such Alarms
Were made, that he fled, and they all kept from harms.
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FRom Salisbury, that low-Hous'd Town,
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Where Steeple is of high Renown,
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Of late was brought unto the Crown
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A Lesson:
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'Twas drawn up by three worthy Wights,
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Members they were, and two were Knights,
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Great Trencher Men, but no one Fights
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Monpes------
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Through discontent his Hand did set,
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First to this Scrole without Regret;
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Then Pilgrim-like travel'd to get
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Some others.
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From House to House, in Town and Close,
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Our zealous Preservator goes,
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Tells them of Dangers and of Foes;
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But smothers
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The true intent of what they bring;
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Who beg'd the House may sit; a thing
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Which only can preserve the King,
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When Nothing
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Destroys him more; for should he give
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Consent, he'd never that Retrieve,
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But part with his Prerogative;
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A low thing
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Make himself by 't, the Rabble get
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Into his High Imperial Seat,
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They'd make him Gloriously Great,
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We know it:
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They serv'd his Father so before,
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These Saints would still increase the store
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Of Royal Martyrs, Hum! no more,
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We know it.
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The Herd of Zealots long to see
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A Monarch in Effigie,
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A Project which appears to be
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Most Witty;
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And they at Helm aspire to Sit,
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There Govern without Fear or Wit,
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King and un-King, when they think fit;
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That's pretty.
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To see ('twould make a Stoick smile)
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Geneva-Jack thus Moyl and Toyl
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To Lord it in our Brittish Isle
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Again Sir;
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And Pulpit-Cuff us, till we Fight,
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Lose our Estates and Lives outright;
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And when all's done, he gets all by 't,
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That's plain Sir.
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The Col'nel, who came from place, where
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A Quaker bugger'd four leg'd Mare,
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Who o' th' old Leaven had his share,
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Petition'd:
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For which, both he, and Knight Sir Gil------
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I'll boldly say 't, (blame not my Quill)
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To say no more, were very ill
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Condition'd.
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But this, I hope, nor makes, nor marrs,
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Charles knows what's meant by all these Jars,
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And these Domestick, Paper-Wars,
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Conceive it:
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Tom of Ten Thousand is come in,
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Sure such a Hero much will win,
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On Sculs as thick, as his is Thin,
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Believe it.
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The People would have power to call
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Parliaments, and Dissolve them; all
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Regalia's posses; what shall
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The Saint Sir,
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Not have the power of Peace and War?
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Religion steer? Holy we are,
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And Rich, the King shall we (be 't far)
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Acquaint Sir?
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This was the Humble Holy Guise
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Of the Religiously Precise,
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Which made them Gallop to Mic. Wise,
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To Sign it.
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Thisselth------and Sir How, said he,
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And you Sir Knight, nam'd first should be,
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The dregs of Treason, Juice of Bee,
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Nor Wine yet,
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This Morning have refresh'd my Pate
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Or Heart, I'm so unfortunate,
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My Head akes early, though when 'ts late,
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I take it,
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With Cheerful and a thoughtless Soul
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Of poyson'd Zeal or Treason foul,
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And drink the King's Health in a Bowl,
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And make it
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With Jovial, Loyal Heart go round,
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In Mirth and Musick then abound;
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In Scholarship I'm not profound.
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My Name Sirs
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I cannot write; yet set I shall
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A Tune to your new Madrigal,
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And fetch 't from Forty One withal.
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No blame Sirs.
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Was in that Holy, like this Time,
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For from poor Tom flows honest Rhime,
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And in the Tune there was no Crime;
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take 'em
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Derrick, the Tune that they did sing,
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Derrick, who in June with a swing
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Cur'd strange Distempers, and a String;
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Forsake 'em.
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Thus the sage Council of Mic. Wise,
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Turn'd up the whites of Zeal-burn'd Eyes,
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But did not Honest Men surprise,
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They Laughing,
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Said, Time's the Life of Musick, Mic.
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And thou hast hit it in the Nick,
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By touching on this Crop-Ear'd Trick.
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Our Quaffing
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Shall at the Angel be this Night,
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Davids Harp did Sauls Devil 'fright,
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And thine and Wine shall cure our Sprite
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Phanatick.
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We'll leave the Rule unto the King,
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Pray for his Health, a Loyal thing;
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Let great Charles Rule: who this won't sing,
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Lunatick.
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Which does me to the Doctor bring,
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Whose Name made 'mongst the rest nothing,
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To him I give now in the Spring
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Good Advice.
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When Worm Cephalick Restless grows,
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Let him lose Blood in Tongue or Toes.
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Or take our Dr. Derricks Dose,
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Once, not Twice.
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For once as certainly doth Kill,
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As Potion made by him, or Pill:
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And thus my Muse doth make her Will.
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O may this City!
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'Cause She refus'd that Toy to Sign,
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Never want Health, Wealth, or Good Wine,
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Nor our King's Smiles, nor the Divine;
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Thus ends my Ditty.
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