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