OXFORD in Mourning,
For the Loss of the Parliament.
OR,
London's loud Laughter at her late flattering herself with Excessive Trading.
A Pleasant New SONG.
Now Tapsters, Vintners, Sales-men, Taylors, all
Open their Throats, and for their losses bawl:
The Parliament is gone, their hopes now fail,
Pall'd is the Wine, and Egar grow the Ale:
Now Rooms late let for twenty Crowns a Week,
Would let for twelve-pence, but may Lodgers seek;
London Rejoyces who was sad before,
And in like Coin does pay off Oxfords score.
To the Tune of, Packington's Pound; Or, Digby's Farewel.
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LOndon now smiles to see Oxford in Tears,
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Who lately derided and scoff'd at her fears;
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Thinking their joys they wou'd never be spent,
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But that always they'd last with the Parliament:
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But O she's mistaken, for now they are gone,
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And fairly have left her to grieve all alone.
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Now Vintners and Tapsters that hop'd for such gain,
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By Cheating the people have cause to Complain;
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The Cooks that were stor'd with Provision, now grieve
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Whilst London to hear it does laugh in her sleeve:
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And now each fat Hostis who lives by the Sins
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Of those who brought many to whimper, begins.
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So Dolefully Tool now the Bells that of late,
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With loud sounds did a pleasure to hear them create;
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The Inn-keepers late that so Prodigal were,
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Of Standings, have Horse-room enough, and to spare:
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Whilst London rejoyces to think of the time,
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When Oxford Bells jangl'd, and scarcely cou'd Chime
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Now Salesmen and Sempstresses homeward do pack,
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No more cryes the Shooe-maker, what do you lack;
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The Taylor by Thimble and Bodkin does Curse,
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And swears that his Trading could never be worse:
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Yet home again bare-foot poor Prick-louse must trudge,
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Whilst Oxford he bans, and his Labour does grudge.
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The Chair-men who thought to return with a Load
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Of Silver to London, to store their aboad;
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Now homeward do foot it, though 'tis with much pain,
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And creep in their Chairs to secure them from Rain:
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When night does approach, there their lodging thy make
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For a better to purchase, no monies they take.
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The Coffee-men wish they at London had stay'd,
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And not to have rambl'd in hopes of a Trade;
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Their Shops of Sedition did fail of their end,
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And back now their Puddle to London they send:
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While she does deride them, and flout them to scorn,
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To see their Ears hanging as if they were forlorn.
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Oh the Schollars now curse the gay Crack of the town,
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Who troop'd it to Oxford to trade for a Crown;
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The Youngsters put in and bid money for all,
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But the jades were so scittich they gave them a fall:
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And many in watering their Nags have been burn'd,
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The Bath were so hot e're the Stream could be turn'd.
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Whilst Chirurgeons of all the best trading will find,
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For the Cracks being fled, they have left work behind;
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That doubtless repentance unfeigned, will cause
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The Gold-smiths and Drapers now stand at a pause;
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How in their Journey the Padders to scape,
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Whilst London for joy at their follies does leap.
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She hears the sad sounding of Oxford great Bell,
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Which the towns heaviness plainly do tell;
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How their Laughter they lately against her did vent,
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For injoying the Court and the Parliament:
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Is now turn'd to weeping, and each one sits sad,
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To think what a loss by dissolving he's had.
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Remember then Oxford how London you flout,
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For she'l be still even with you 'tis no doubt;
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Englands chief City must still bear the Bell,
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For near it the most part the King he will dwell:
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And chear her with favours, whilst Oxford sits sad.
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And many lament the bad trade they have had.
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