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EBBA 36426

British Library - Luttrell Ballads
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A Great CRY and Little WOOL
OR
An Answer to a Coppy of Verses on the Death of the Lord General
Monk.

POOR Poet! why didst spin this thread,
To make lyes live when Monk is dead?
What Cuckoo-spittle fills thy Trunk,
To Trumpet up the praise of Monk?
Why dost thou soar aloft so high?
To mount up dirt unto the Sky?
Why is thy Noddle grown so dull,
To make great Cry, and little Wool?
The Devil this Christmas hogs hath shorn;
A Pope and Monk what have they born?
Poor fleeces: wher't comes to be weigh'd
'Twil contradict what thou hast said.
Did Monk outwit crafty, and wise?
How was it man, but all by Lyes?
Appeals he made to God on high,
All to bear witness to a Lye.
False Lown the Scotchman do him call
Compound of Lyes, no truth at all.
Whence did he get this cursed art,
But from the Serpent in his heart?
What though he turned Charles his Wayn?
The Wheels were greas'd he saw his gain.
Could he again set up his Trade,
Those Stars he might turn Retrograde.
'Tis no new thing I hear thee tell,
A Judas can both buy and sell.
He Spaniel-like did fawn on Noll,
And to the height did him extoll:
He was Nolls Butcher for to kill,
Sir, any men, and where you will.
How sweet did Monk live on the Rump?
He kiss'd and lick'd its very stump.
To all the world he did proclaim,
He'd set the Rump in joynt again.
Thou say'st his loss is very great
Go seek some Fools with lyes to cheat.
One thing seems strange in thy relation,
That one Star is a constellation.
What thou shouldst mean I can't devise,
Save a conjunction of lyes.
Thy skill is little in the Sky,
Nor deep in State-astronomy.
A wandring Star, a Comet bright,
Born with the wind he was so light.
Fortune, thou saist, made all things hit
That Proverb fools as well doth fit.
The blind man sometimes shoots the hare.
And Fools sometimes the bells do wear.
'Twas destin'd by divine decree:
And was not Judas treachery?
Which was a most prodigious Fact,
And yet the heavens decreed that act.
Hadst thou Divinity understood,
Decrees alone make not things good.
Thou saist by good, that he grew great,
No, no, 'twas by another Feat.
Noll gave him first the rising ground,
When Monk took the ingagement round.
And this was it first did the thing
Swearing to fight against the King.

After his rising-stock was lies
So did great George on Horseback rise.
Something thou saist of him is true,
And here we'l give the Devil his due.
His valour hath been very much
Against both Cavaliers and Dutch.
How stout did he the Dutch oppose,
Till he was like to loose his hose?
An ill-bred shot salutes his Breach?
As though brave George did lack a leach,
To let out his Fanatick blood
That never was, nor would be good.
And put this on his Honours score,
That breach he never turn'd before.
In Scotland; there he was most stout,
Play'd Rex himself, to keep Charls out.
At Dundee he fought most bold
Killing in hot blood, and in cold,
And this made Georges Serpent sting,
Because the Scots would have their King.
A man in Print, a man in Wax,
Forward, and Backward, Circumflex.
How stout would George fight, kill and slay,
Where was most honour, and best pay!
An ambidexter he was right;
On any side brave George would fight.
When lyes be true, and not till then,
Muster up George with honest men.
Lets look now on thy Epitaph;
Heres that will make the Devil laugh,
And Chimbny-sweepers cry all white,
To see a dunghill shine so bright,
And must not the Prophane draw near
The dust of him that lov'd them dear?
Is't hallowed Earth where he doth lye.
Who alse did live and so did dye?
Before he dy'd he was turn'd for.
Now he is dead, here let him Rot.
No balm, nor spice can keep sweet long
One that whilst living stink't so strong.
Come off good people from the breath
And let him keep his stench of death.
Blot out his Saint-like Epithetes,
Ann blaze his Name with Hypocrites.
Here lies a Lyer, dy'd in Grain:
Twice dead before, now dead agaid:
Here let him lye till muster day,
That he with them may have his pay.
St. Georges day no more let be,
Fearing't should be mistook for he.
Take t'other George down from the Sign,
And hang up this in's Colours fine.
And now sad Poet, what wilt do?
What market are thy hoggs brought to?
Judas is dead, Julian, and Brown;
To the same Camp is Monk march'd down
Pack up thy pipes, and split thy pen.
Cry up no more ignoble Men.

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