University of Virginia Library

The Spy of the Buttery,

Or the Welsh Dove:
Walias,
Jacke Price the feirce
To the Cooke Dicke Peirce.
This newes was tell her,
From the Kings Cellar.

Dicke , I had wrote to thee before,
But filthy Fairefax (say no more)
Thou knowst 'twould be a dismall hearing.
To send a Letter out pickearing.
Your Better sort of Letters goe.
With Pistols at the Saddle Bow,
And though surpriz'd they much condole,
May be dismiss'd upon Parole.
But mine once snapt goes sure to Prison,
Nay faith perhaps they'd slit her Weezon.

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54

And oh the Rogues how would they vapour,
To see the Carcasse of Cap-paper.
Yet now at last thou seest it comes,

But stay here, Dicke, and wipe your Thumbes.
And now if Freind gaine Freinds beleife,
I've tasted nought but powder'd Beefe,
And (Sirrah) that in my opinion,
Greene as the driven Leekes or Onion,
Come Dicke 'twould make your Pallat whine,
To spit Salt-Peter and pisse Brine.
I would the King were bound to dubbe
Each man, whose Gut's a Powdring Tubbe
A freind of yours if he were righted,
Would not be long from being Knighted:
But that's all one, I long to stickle,
For such another fortnights Pickle.
Our Beefe was salt, but harke it Cozen,
We kill'd fresh Round-heads by the dozen,
I thinke the Varlets dare not utter,
How deare they paid for our fresh Butter,
By my consent if they would tarry,
The Rogues should rent the Kingdomes Dary
Methinkes their pay was faire and good.
A Pale of Milke was two of Blood,
And ere their Butter 'gan to coddle
A Bullet churnd i'th Roundheads Noddle.

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55

Then for their Cheese, when they Begunne it,
We op't their Veines to let out Runnet,
On Botly Causeway, on our Words,
Their Braines lay thicker then their Curds.

And now I thinke on't I can't chuse
But give the more account oth' Newes,
Fairefax in person Northward lay,
Thou knowst he drinkes that Climats Whey,
But oh! his Tent his Tent alacke!
'Twas nither Greene, nor White, nor Blacke,
But in such Colour it appeares
Which mortall sees, and Mortall feares,
Riddle the Raine-bow Colours round,
Or plucke a Pedlers packe to ground,
See Ribbons which may binde your Artirs,
See Pointes and if you can see Gartirs.
I say this Pedler, or that Clowd,
More dismall colour ne're allow'd
'Twas flaming Crimson, Dick, which did portend,
O Oxford, Oxford thou art at an end!
Like some fell Comet sure this must affright us,
Like that or'e the fam'd City sackt by Titus.
Or like a flame breath'd out by Furze or Bavins,
And flame thou knowst frights Horses worse then Spavins.
Into this dismall Tent this fierce Knight comes,
Mumme quoth the Trumpets, be unbrac't ye Drummes.

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56

Then thrice o're head bright glistring blade he shakes,
Thrice were our eyes much dazled for their sakes.
After some Pauze and Pauze thou knowest was fitten,
He pluckt his Gantlet off, his Iron Mitten.
Oxford (quoth he) on thee I'le have no pity,
For I am sent from far by the Committee.
The Still-borne child shall rue the day,
For want of Butter, Milke and Whey.
Diseased Infants (Dire mishap!)
Shall wish their Coffins full of Pap.
Custards from thee 'tis I will thrust,
That shake like Agues bak't in Crust.
No more no more of fresh Cheese dreame,
Which like an Island floates in Creame.
I and my men will eate eft soones,
Th' Island with Knives, that Sea with Spoones.
Thy Cheese-cakes fram'd I make no doubt,
Sometimes with Plums, sometimes without,
I'le send to London's Lycorish Sisters,
They'l coole their bodies more then glisters.
When they are full this fame may be begun,
I am their Generall and their Islington.
At this, one Night it must be said,
Our Governour that Gallant Blade,
But to the wise thou knowest few words,
He drew us out, we drew our Swords.

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57

Ith' twinkling of a zealous ey,
Downe fell their foot, their horse they fly.
We kil'd and tooke, like Mice in Cupboard,
Two hundred Varlets Dicke, and upward.
In what a case Dicke think'st thou than
Was Fairefax feirce the Dairy-man?
And which shooke most, guesse by his Screeches,
His Earth-quake Custards, or his Breeches.
To Marson bridge who scaped went,
There stood the Bloudy-Dairy Tent:
Slash't to the Bridge they come, but one supposes,
Without the Bridges of their Noses.
Now Dicke,
At other Ports lay Browne and others,
In time they'l curse they ere had Mothers.
Twas Browne I say, and thou mayest tell it,
Oh that's a heart of Oake like Billet.
We claw'd him from each Counterscarfe,
Sure his Accounts come short at's Wharfe:
From every Port we kill'd the Maggots,
There's one, there's two, so on like Faggots.
The East line common souldiers kept,
The North the Honest Townesmen swept.
The West was man'd by th' Loyall Schollers,
Whose Gownes you slave are blacke as Colliers.

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58

They taw'd it faith, their Gunnes would hit,
As sure as they had studied it.
They ramm'd their Bullet, they would ha't in,
Bounce went the Noise, like Greeke and Latine.
And for their Colonell moreover,
It was the valiant Earle of Dover.
These Knaves talkt much oth' siege of Troy.
And at this siege they leapt for Joy.
They defied Fairefax and his Forces.
Said he was Sinon and brought Woodien Horses.
Now for the South Port Dicke, why there I say
The Noble Loyall, stout Lord Keeper lay,
His men made th' Rascalls cry they were mistaken,
To shew their hungry teeth at Friar-Bacon.
They conjurd 'em yfaith and laid 'em dead,
As each there Helmet were a Brasen head.
I thinke the Knaves will hardly be in heart,
Where Courage is, and they suspect Blacke Art.
'Tis strange by both the buckles of my Girdle,
The Deele tooke Roundheads 'cause they were oth' circle
Yet Pluto cryed they need not be so eager,
For why their Heads alone were in that Figure,
But to conclude Dicke all Ports played their parts,
As they had had some finger in those Arts.
And all the Rebels are runne hence so fast,
As twere from Bacon yes and Vandermast.