THE
RUMP
Roughly but righteously handled,
In a New BALLAD: To the tune of Cook Lorrel.
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MOre sacks to the Mill, here comes a fresh Wit,
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That means without Mittens (as you shall see)
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To handle a RUMP that's all to beshit,
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Sir reverence of the company.
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2. And let other sinners that love a whole Skin,
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Keep out of my reach, for fear of a Stone;
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For I'm like the Hang-man, who (when's hand was in)
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Said he had as good truss up fourty as one.
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3. First I'le tell you whence this Rump-regnant came,
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When England to Faction and Schism was bent,
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By means of long peace to settle the same,
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Our noble King summon'd a Parliament.
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4. A Parliament which may make old men grieve,
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And Children that ne're shall be born complain;
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I mean such as dy'd before they did live,
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Like Harringtons Rota, and th' Engin of Vane.
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5. This Parliament, like a wild skittish Tit,
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Unman'd and unback't, and unapt to obey,
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Would let neither Prince, Peer, nor Prelate sit,
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Yet stammell nos'd OLIVER smelt out a way.
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6. With Pistol and Musquet he brought the Beast under,
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And aw'd it so much, and so far did prevail,
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That tamely he dock't it, and (to all mens wonder)
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He cast off the Colt, and sadled the Tail:
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7. Which shortly began to kick at's Command,
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And restive it grew, and left its true pacing,
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Which made him resolve on his own Legs to stand,
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And turn the RUMP out of the Stable a grasing.
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8. The Red-coats, with breath like my Ladys Bum-blast,
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This Parliament-snuff blew twice out and in;
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But North and West-winds will so out it at last,
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That nought but Hell fire shall out it agen,
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9. Though now they tempt Monk with a thousand per annum
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In hopes that to worship, his face hee'l fall flat on;
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Yet he's wife enough to resist and disdain 'em,
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And cry, Get behind me, thou Bob-tail of Satan.
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10. Right pat with St. Georgs this story will jump,
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Poor Englands the Damsel appointed for slaughter,
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And Monk the St. George to kill Dragon RUMP,
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And safely restore to the King his fair Daughter.
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11. The RUMP thus in gross no more shall be plaid on,
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But now I will whet my Pen (if it please ye)
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To joynt it, and shew what foul parts it is made on,
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God grant that your stomachs prove not over-queasie.
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12. Here's Lenthall once Mouth to the Parliament's mind,
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Though he at length acted the Fundaments part,
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Whose speech was not breaking of silence, but Wind,
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And's giving the Thanks of the House, but a Fart.
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13. 'Tis said he's now sick, and if't be the POX,
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I'de wish him in time his Disease to disclose,
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And call Dr. Bates, who's ex'lent at Nocks,
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Although his skil failed him in his own Nose.
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14. Or let Jesuitical Pridtan be got,
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Of whose crabbed Humors the Doctors come short all
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And as for Sir Walter Pye, he had not
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Dy'd under his hands, had he been immortal.
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15. But if his Gold-greedy Soul wil be gon
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Out at Postern Gate, he hath 'mong his Wayters
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At Cat-in-pan Pedant the way to make known
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To th' General Rendezvous of all Traytors.
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16. But many I find this Opinion are firm in,
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That he has no real distemper at all,
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But feigns it; and like a prophetical Vermin,
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Runs from an old House that is ready to fall.
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17. If Ludlow the state of Grace had been in,
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And kept himself safe fro' th' Committee of Safety,
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For's Fathers sake, Deputy Fart he had been,
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Instead of the Forst, they call Sey the Crafty.
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18. Next comes the Rumps Gad-flye, the Jehu-like driver,
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King-abjuring ARTHUR; Sir, you (if I ken you)
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O'th' Bishop's Uriah-like fall were Contriver,
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To get the fair Bersheba of their Revenue.
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19. But 'twas a more carnal concupiscence
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That at Bristol-Vicaridge set you a neighing,
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Which you enjoyd and occupyd in the sence
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Which puts pretty Maids to pishing and fying.
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20. Nay you like the Trojan-Adulterer swore
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To those that once saved you from the Kings Fury,
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That rather then Helen of Duresm restore,
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Their Troynovant in its own ashes you'd burn.
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21. But I dare no farther his passion provoke
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For fear of a prejudice which it may do me,
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For with his own Choler should he chance to choke,
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The Hang-man in Action of Trespass might sue me.
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22. Then have at Sir Harry the Int'rest Refiner,
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Who's not of the Church, but Society of JESUS,
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And can make Divinity's self-Diviner,
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And model new Heavens and new Earths to please us.
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23. Twas he that injected the sublimed matter
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To late-Lady Lambert, and she to th' Squire,
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Which made him Protector and Parliament-hater,
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And to be Fift Monarch devoutly aspire.
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24. Like Grub from Sheeps tayls since the Rump doth him throw,
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He'le creep to some placket of Sanctification,
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And come forth a Flesh-flye next Summer, and blow
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New Maggots in's Church, of more whimsical fashion.
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25. Methinks in his eyes the Waters do gather,
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As if the Lord Staffords Dust troubled his sight;
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Perhaps he repents, and intends (like his Father)
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Ev'n in his own Garter to do his Ghost right.
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26. There goes the twice treacherous Banquerout Sallaway
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From Westminster Wolves, to Tow'r Lions bound,
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Cause he from one Treason to another did fall away,
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And wil fall again, but not quite to the ground.
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27. The next is a politick pen-man that got-land
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By[']s Knavery more then his birth, and 'tis his-hope
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That Lambeth shal ever and ever be Scot-land,
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And Seat of an Arch-one, but not of a bishop.
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28. Here's Nevil, (who to be made in Scot's stead,
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A State-Secretary) did practice a New art,
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To th' Office, by Letters (unto the House read)
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He courted himself in the name of Charls Stuart.
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29. Now see with a POX, where Martin comes on,
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The Seed of corrupt and sinful Loyns,
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Who a Worthy had been, if as neer Solomon
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In Wisdom, as number of Concubines.
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30. If in utter darkness there should be a failing
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of Horror, the RUMP may furnish it with
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Squire Fleetwood to help out the weeping and wailing,
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And Sir William Brereton for gnashing of teeth.
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31. Now Mildmay, and Whitlock, and Lisle I might call in,
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And Master Lord Salesbury (from noble house,
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Who seems not descended, so much as downfallen)
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And others, which well may serve a fresh Muse.
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32. And now the RUMP's set in the Salt, and Monk
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Hath offer'd full fairly his own for to make it,
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But finding himself by the Devil out-drunk,
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He honestly cryes, Nay then let him take it.
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33. But for 'em when hence they go, (such were their follies)
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Above nor beneath, there no quiet place is,
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King Charls is in heaven, in hel tyrant NOL is,
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Who (as God us'd Fleetwood) wil spit in their faces.
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34. Now mark what sweet Morsels Hel swallowed of late,
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Theres Cromwel, and Prideaux, and Bradshaw, and theres
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He that made Old Nick (when he enterd his Gate)
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Cry, Oh my Son Pride, are you there with your Bears?
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35, And now I no longer wil rake in this fink,
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But shortly the RUMP is for Tiburn, and then
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Ile tel you more of it; but you (as I think)
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Do now stop your Noses, and Ile stop my pen.
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