THE
COBLERS
LAST Will and Testament:
Or, The Lord HEWSON's Translation.
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I.
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TO Christians all I greeting send,
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That they may learn their souls to mend
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By viewing of my Cobler's End.
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II,
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First, to the New Lords I would give All,
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But that (like me) they'r like to fall,
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Though Heartless Fleetwood has no Gall,
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III.
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Yet he deserves this Legacy,
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ROPE take you all, well may I cry,
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You're Murderers as well as I.
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IV.
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And will thus (Wry-neck) end your race,
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Since wilful Murther hath no place
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In the late Parliaments Act of Grace.
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V.
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My Paring-Knife I'le Lambert give,
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He may have use on't if he live,
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For's Throat as well as his Brow, I believe.
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VI.
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But Richard and Harry I have forgot,
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Shall I give them my Hammers ? No I wil not,
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For they did not strike while th' Iron was hot.
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VII.
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Vane take my Bends, and Wilks my Clue,
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Atkins my Hose of Saffron Hue;
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But Gregory faith my Clothes are his due.
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VIII.
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My Cushion wil fit Queen Dowager Cromwel,
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Whilst Shipton Wife's Prophecy she doth thumb-wel,
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In Chair of State 'twil ease her Bum-wel.
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IX.
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For Oliver thou didst set me on high,
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I aim'd not at it, though I winkt of an eye,
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Yet I wish not now to come thee nigh.
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X.
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For sure ere this thou'lt burn with thy nose,
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Which out of thy nosthrills brimstone throws;
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Would thou wert here to singe my foes.
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XI.
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There is another Lord that's Rich,
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To cure the City whose fingers did itch,
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But onely I went thorow-stitch.
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XII.
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And yet they say I was out of my trade,
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When as Phlebotomy I made;
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Some Chirurgion to doe't, Ide better have paid.
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XIII.
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Ill-looking-death turn back thy shaft,
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If Charon me ore-Styx should waft,
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It would disgrace our Gentle-craft.
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XIV.
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Ith Good Old Cause I traded still,
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But in't my Lordship smelt some ill,
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To mend it though, prov'd past my skill.
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XV.
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Therefore to Tyburn I must ride,
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Although it cannot be deny'd,
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But that I have liv'd single-ey'd.
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XVI.
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And if my foes would do me right,
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They'l say, I've set the crooked streight,
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Why then I am a man upright.
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XVII.
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I wish the Jury find it so,
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Jobn Lilburns Jury would say, no;
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Stitch up the Lord, let the Cobler go.
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XVIII.
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But 'tis no jesting matter I trow,
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For I can't laugh, although you do;
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Yet may make a wry-mouth, or so.
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XIX.
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Before when we debauch'd the Nation,
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Wee could have vouch'd our Reformation,
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By a day or two of Humiliation.
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XX.
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Now 'tis not currant pay, for I
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Have wail'd my sins, and yet they cry,
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Hang him, he weeps but with one eye.
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