University of Virginia Library

The thankless Rump, not yet content
With their last fortunate Event,
Owing to that malicious Brood,
By Nature so averse to Good,
That Royal Mercy could not move
Their Hearts Gratitude or Love;
Now fancy'd, that their late Success
Was made, thro' some Misconduct, less;
And that their Gen'ral had neglected
Doing those Wonders they expected;
Nor that he'ad won at Newb'ry Fight,
So great a Vict'ry as he might;
That is, he did not kill and slay
The Wicked when he'ad won the Day,
Nor shew his Temper in cool Blood
So barb'rous, as they thought he shou'd.

Thus Doubts and Jealousies arose,
Among the ruling Saints, of those
Who to their Int'rest were as true,
As Turk to Turk, or Jew to Jew,
And scorn'd, as all wife Men suggest,
To be less wicked than the rest.
But he that undertakes to please
A Tribe of Hypocrites, like these,
Rebels so sacred and religious,
Must something do that is prodigious;
Not sneak, but act his cruel Part
With so much Wickedness and Art,
That might, at one rebellious Heat,
Their bold infernal Work compleat,
And make the Devils blush to see't:
Such Heroes they alone admire,
Cruel as Wolves, and hot as Fire,
Who can do e'ery Thing that's vile,
Yet talk Religion all the while,
And in the Lord's Name, break his Laws,
To spur on their fanatick Cause.

Therefore, the Rump took speedy Courses
To mend and regulate their Forces,
That when new model'd, they might be
More fit for e'ery Villany.

Cornutus seeing now most plain,
That all his Labours were in vain;
And, that the mighty Feats he 'ad done,
Were but as Trifles look'd upon,
Because they thought he was too much
A Roy'list, to be truly such
A rig'rous Rebel as they needed,
To bring the King to be beheaded,
And to declare his Approbation
Of all their Ills in Agitation.
Yet 'twas by honest Men believ'd,
In's Lordship's they were much deceiv'd;
For that he was, without Contest,
As grand a Rebel as the best;
And had as true a Roundhead's Will
To conquer, plunder, and to kill,
As any Traytor to the Crown,
Tho' of less Honour and Renown.
Thus Mighty Men, who would be thought
To live almost without a Fau't,
Who boast so much of noble Blood,
And of their being Wise and Good,
When Faction once turmoils a State,
And Kingdoms grow unfortunate,
We see how oft they do mistake,
And what ignoble Shifts they make,
Abstracted from the Publick Well-fare,
To save themselves from any Ill-fare;
Nay, sacrifice the Royal Throne,
And pull down him that sits thereon,
To please a Crowd, who, like the Devil,
Delight in nothing, but in Evil;
And all to hear the Rabble cry,
Here comes Salvator Populi.
Therefore, methinks, that's sneaking Honour,
That will not vindicate its Donor,
And help the Crown, that made 'em Noble,
Whenever 'tis oppressd with Trouble:
Besides, when such oppose the State,
Who should be Good, as well as Great,
They teach all Men of Worth and Sense,
To scorn what they should reverence,
And think, that Honour's but a Mark
Only for Service done i'th' Dark:
And therefore Kings alone confer it
On fawning Tools, not Men of Merit,
And that's the Reason they're so oft
Pull'd down by those they've rais'd aloft:
For no rebellious Feud or Strife,
Could last above a Mushroon's Life,
If Honour were not pleas'd to head 'em,
And thro' their base Atchievements lead 'em,
For Honour oft supplies the Place
Of Justice, Honesty, or Grace,
And gives their Cause a better Face.

Cornutus finding their Suspicion,
In Time surrender'd his Commission;
Not thro' a Check from wading further
In Treason, Rapine, Spoil, and Murder,
But 'cause the Rumpers were about,
Thro' Jealousy, to turn him out,
Thinking he might have done much more
Than Fortune gave into his Pow'r.
For stubborn Rebels, boundless Pride,
Is, like their Consciences, so wide,
'Tis never to be satisfy'd.

When this was done, the next Gradation
Made tow'rds this Marshal Innovation,
By th' ruling Saints behind the Curtain,
Uneasy at their doubtful Fortune,
Was to procure a Vote, that no
One Member of the House below,
Or of the Lords, should, in the Host,
Bear any Military Post,
Or any other Office Civil;
At which some grumbl'd like the Devil,
To think they should be us'd so oddly
By the Rump Saints, that seem'd so Godly,
After they'd ventur'd Souls and Bodies
To serve the democratick Noddies:
For by this oblique Ordinance,
So call'd by Legislative Saints,
The jealous Rump at once got rid of
Those doubtful Friends they had no need of,
That only such might bear Command,
More zealous for the Work in Hand,
Whose cruel Tempers made 'em fit
For all that Rebels could commit.
Therefore, to shew what Love they bore
To their dear Idol Oliver,
That barb'rous, tho' a praying Saint,
So fam'd for Courage, and for Cant:
Him, for his Service, they excepted,
Because they knew him well adapted
To e'ery villanous Intention
The wicked Rump could frame or mention.

To sooner had the Senate planted
Such Men in Office as they wanted,
And for those Mischiefs they design'd,
Model'd the Army to their Mind;
But Hero Fairfax lead his Men
To the Relief of Taunton-dean,
Whilst Cromwell, with an armed Rout
Of puritannick Horse and Foot,
Watch'd the King's Motions; tho' the Rebel,
To give him Battel, was unable.
The injur'd Prince, well pleas'd to find
An Opportunity so kind,
March'd out of Oxon all his Force,
Artill'ry, Infantry, and Horse,
To shew, by his Approaches near 'em,
He had too great a Soul to fear 'em.
This caus'd the Senate to recal
With speed their Western General,
And ord'r 'im to besiege the Town
Of Oxford, in the Hands o' th' Crown.
Their Hero their Commands obey'd,
And to the Walls his Army lead,
In hopes, by his rebellious Fools,
To spoil the Colledges and Schools,
The ancient Fountains of those three,
Religion, Learning, Loyalty;
Those Glories of a Christian State,
Which sordid Rebels only hate,
Who, like the Devil, bend their Wits
To subtil Lies and vile Deceits,
And labour chiefly to advance
Confusion, Pride, and Ignorance.

Cromwell now wanting Strength, retir'd,
And gave what Way the King desir'd,
Who march'd his Forces on to Chester,
Reliev'd it, and return'd to Leic'ster,
A Town well stor'd with Ammunition,
Artill'ry, Arms, and good Provision,
But too rebellious to surrender,
Nothing but Force could bring 'em under;
Which the King us'd, with such Success,
That made him Master of the Place,
Which was of great Importance to him,
And did such timely Service do him,
That when this Town he had possest,
The very Rump themselves confest
The Loyal Party had the best.

The Rump now being advertis'd
Of their ill Fortune, seem'd surpriz'd,
And so confounded in their Wits,
That some were free to quit their Seats,
And fly the Land, in hopes to shun
That Fate they fear'd was drawing on.
But, upon due Deliberation,
They thought it best to keep their Station,
And so resolv'd at once to try
For a decisive Victory,
Relying, as their last best Way,
Upon the Fortune of one Day.

To put this suddain Resolution
Into a speedy Execution,
Their Gen'ral Fairfax they oblig'd
To quit the Town he had besieg'd,
Commanding him to join his Force
To Cromwell's, which were chiefly Horse,
And with united Strength, endeavour
To gain a Vict'ry, now or never;
For that the Cause must be undone,
Without a speedy Battel won,
To raise the Spirits of the Saints,
Inclin'd to Murmurs and Complaints.

Fairfax, encourag'd by his Zeal
To th' Rump, as well as Common-weal,
Join'd Cromwell, and the King pursu'd
With all the Force and Speed he cou'd.
In Naseby-Fields both Armies met,
Their Envy, like their Numbers, great;
And in that spacious fatal Place,
Contended boldly for Success,
'Till the rank Soil was overflow'd
With Show'rs of Sweat, and Streams of Blood;
And dying Pray'rs, and dismal Groans,
Were loud as Thunder from their Guns;
For Hours they kept the wreaking Field,
No Side inclinable to yield;
Foes, eagerly engag'd with Foes,
Exchang'd such undeciding Blows,
That neither, for a while, could see,
Which should be crown'd with Victory,
'Till Fortune (who, because she's blind,
Proves often to the Wicked, kind)
Discover'd in the fatal End,
Her self to be the Rebels Friend;
And gave at once the utmost Fruits
Of Vict'ry to the spiteful Brutes;
Who, tho' so vile, did yet obtain
All that a conqu'ring Host could gain.
Thus was the best of Kings undone,
That ever was in Field o'erthrown,
And the small Remnants of his Troops,
Left destitute of future Hopes;
So that the King, who just before
Was thought by all superior,
By th' ill Fortune of one Fight,
Lost all he had, except his Right,
And those inherent Vertues, which
Preserv'd his Mind still Great and Rich,
Whose Graces multiply'd their Store,
By each Misfortune that he bore:
As Camomil, when most 'tis prest,
Grows up, and flourishes the best.
When Fortune, that inconstant Jilt,
Had favour'd their rebellious Guilt,
And crown'd the Scum of human Race,
At their last Stake, with such Success,
Flush'd with the Vict'ry they had won,
Which had at once their Bus'ness done;
They daily now enlarg'd their Ground,
And rang'd the bleeding Nation round;
Those Loyal Towns and Holds subdu'd,
Which bravely had so long withstood
Those Hunters after Royal Blood.

The King, with some few broken Troop
Too weak to comfort him with Hopes,
Wander'd about from Place to Place,
His Loyal Remnants to encrease,
Giving the Round-heads, here and there,
A few Side-Boxes of the Ear;
But still his Loss, at Naseby Fight,
Had struck his Friends with such a Fri
That he no farther Strength could add
To those few Forces that he had,
Who, when they found that no Supplies
Would join 'em 'gainst their Enemies,
Deserted by Degrees, and left
Their most unhappy King to shift:
For suddain Fear, that will asswage
The most malicious human Rage,
Had startl'd now the Just and Good,
And chill'd the Warmth of Loyal Blood.
So that the flatt'ring Scene of War,
That seem'd so prosp'rous just before,
Was now so chang'd, that it appear'd
With Streams of Loyal Gore besmear'd,
And look'd so dreadful to the Sight,
When view'd by that rebellious Light;
Which of a Suddain, only shone
Like the Eclipsed Moon or Sun,
And falsely glimmer'd here and there,
Thro' Clouds of Horror and Dispair.
For so the dreadful Storm appear'd
To those, that to the King adher'd
Who, now, good Prince, of all bereft,
And by his routed Army left,
Could no kind Star behold, that shew'd.
It self inclining to his Good:
Yet, with a Soul, divinely great,
Unmov'd at all the Frowns of Fate,
With Christian Patience still inspir'd,
To Oxon be again retir'd;
Whose ancient venerable Walls,
Fam'd Colledges, and sacred Schools,
Were greatly reverenc'd long since
By that forgiving injur'd Prince,
Whose Suff'rings made his Virtues shine,
As if not Human, but Divine;
For nothing could his Soul oppress,
Or make his Royal Greatness less.
So the old Christian Proto-Martyrs,
Amidst their cruel Pains and Tortures,
Despis'd their Wracks and flaming Piles,
And crown'd their Torments, with their Smiles,
That barb'rous Heathens, swell'd with Spite,
Who glory'd in the dismal Sight;
Might, to their own Conversion, see
Their Patience, and Stability;
And wonder, as they gazing stood,
To find in sinful Flesh and Blood,
Minds so immovable, and so good
The King, when under this Distress,
Consid'ring his unhappy Case,
And viewing with a careful Eye,
Those Dangers that appear'd too nigh;
Thought himself very ill provided
At Oxford, where he now resided,
Against those Rebels, who pursu'd
With reaking Sword, his Royal Blood;
And would not be content alone,
To rob their Sov'reign of his Throne;
But spurr'd by Malice, hurry'd further
To crown their Rapine, with his Murder.
Just so, the sanguinary Thief
That robs, to give his Wants Relief,
In Hopes his Rogu'ry may be stifl'd,
Destroys the Person he has rifl'd.
Therefore, the King, who saw too late,
Some Omens of his evil Fate,
And knowing that the Rump Defenders,
Those cruel, sanctify'd Pretenders,
Now rais'd by Fortune, Cock-a-hoop,
Would soon in Oxford block him up,
Resolv'd, upon Advice, to try
The treach'rous Scots Fidelity,
Who'd sent beforehand to assure him,
Of the great Duty they had for him;
Making large Vows and Protestations,
(But with damn'd mental Reservations)
He should not only be protected,
But daily honour'd and respected:
Tho' all their fawning Invitations,
Back'd with such base Asseverations,
Prov'd but the old fanatick Way,
Of flatt'ring those they should obey,
In order to at last betray.
However, as the Scene appear'd
So full of Dangers to be fear'd,
The King was forc'd to now rely
Upon the Scots Integrity:
Accordingly he made his Way
Disguis'd, and on the first of May;
At Newark found the scabby Host,
Unhappy Monarch, to his Cost!
Great Shews of Friendship did they give him,
That they the better might deceive him.
For Scots, like Sicophants at Court,
Fawn upon those they mean to hurt;
And like our Saints, bow lowest to
That Sov'reign Pow'r they would undo.
So when a Trayt'rous Plot is grown
Full ripe against a flatter'd Throne,
Th' audacious Villain cringes low,
In his Approach, that gives the Blow.
Thus Royal Goodness, by a Turn
Of Fate, was made the Rebels Scorn,
And by one unexpected Blow,
Reduc'd from Strength, superior low;
Which shews, that Victory in Fight,
Befriends the Wrong, as well as Right,
And is no standing Rule to try
The Justice of a Cause thereby;
For tho' no Mortal could disown
His lawful Title to the Throne;
Yet Fortune, who does often please
The Wicked with her Flatteries;
Brought (after many warm Disputes,
With restless and rebellious Brutes)
The best of Monarchs to rely
O'th' Mercy of an Enemy;
And forc'd him, in Distress, to trust
An Army that could ne'er be just:
Whilst their base Av'rice, could foresee
An Int'rest in their Perfidy;
For Mammon is the only Idol,
In which Fanaticks do confide all;
That makes the Presbyterian Race,
So cruel, treach'rous, and base;
And is alone the very Wheel,
That turns their Conscience, and their Zeal,
And makes them of a Suddain vary
From one Thing to the quite contrary.
For Government, or other Matter,
Is damn'd with Libel, Lies, and Satyr,
When any Thing starts up a new,
That seems to promise at first View,
The greater Int'rest of the two.
So, if as Whim Poetick teaches,
The God of Hell's, the God of Riches.
Let him but bait his Hook with Gold,
That tempting Devil's Dross of old,
And he may catch such Saints as fast,
As Boys do Roach with colour'd Paist.

No sooner had the King made Way
To th' Scotch at Newark, where they lay;
But they were gently moving Home,
To th' Canaan of all Christendom,
That only Northern Paradise,
Which overflows with Scabs and Lice,
And not with lushious Milk and Honey,
For Food is there, as scarce as Money;
Yet, O how blest is Caledonia!
Where Vertue does all Vice repel,
And none but Saints and Sinners dwell,
Whose pious Deeds I'll not rehearse
In such memorializing Verse.
'Cause it's a sacred Task, we know,
Becoming none but D---l F---e;
He's only worthy of a Theme,
That needs so much Poetick Cream,
Mix'd up with Brimstone, and with Sage,
That every Distich may asswage
The Northern Scab, that is so catching,
And please the Scots, instead of Scratching.

Next to Newcastle, did they bring
The credulous unhappy King,
Where new dethroning Propositions,
Stuff'd full of treas'nable Conditions,
Were by some stiff-neck'd Rebels sent
To th' King, from the Rump Parliament,
If possible requiring more,
Than what they 'nsisted on before,
Because the Battel they had won,
Confirm'd them all was now their own,
And that the King, who'd lately lost
His chosen Friends, and Loyal Host,
And was but Pris'ner, in a Manner,
Beneath the Presbyterian Banner;
Would grant 'em all the Sov'reign Pow'r,
To have his Life the more secure;
But he, most gen'rous Prince, too great
To stoop to Ill, thro' Fear of Fate,
Regarding more the Nation's Good,
And his own Honour, than his Blood;
Refus'd to gratify their Pride,
And boldly their Demands deny'd,
With such Contempt, that did evince
The just Resentments of a Prince;
And, at the same Time, let them see
Their Insolence, and Infamy:
The very Scots themselves declar'd,
The Rump's Proposals were too hard,
Not thro' their Duty or Respect
To th' King they'd promis'd to protect;
But that their Brethren might discern
Their Aim, and by their Cavils learn,
That they design'd not to betray
The King, except for present Pay;
And therefore if they meant to try him,
That first they must agree to buy him.
The Rump soon took their Hellish Hint,
And found the Drift the Scots had in't;
So gave two Hundred Thousand Pound,
A Sum so tempting, and so round,
The Price of Royal Blood, much more
Than Scotland ever saw before;
Altho', at Home, they'd often Times
Been guilty of as wicked Crimes;
But never met with like Reward,
For all their Rog'ries on Record.

When thus the Scots had prov'd so crafty,
The King, to whom they'd vow'd such Safety,
Was to those Ruffains now resign'd,
Of base Descent, and bloody Mind:
Those Villains to receive him, sent
By th' Malice of the Parliament;
Pick'd out on Purpose to abuse him,
And by severe Restraint misuse him.

O cursed Scots! who for the Sake
Of Dross, could make your selves so black,
And stain your Country with an Action,
That bears so Hellish a Complexion:
A matchless Villany, compounded
Of all the wicked, damn'd, confounded
Evils, e'er done by Rump, or Round-head:
A solemn Treach'ry, that does make
Th' Infernals blush, for Scotland's Sake,
To think that a perfidious Race,
So false, so barbarously base,
Should all the sinful World exceed,
In such an execrable Deed;
So complicated of all Evils,
That it outdid the very Devils;
For in their Treach'ry might be seen
All that was infamous in Men;
Feign'd Religion, holy Fraud,
Rebellion, Treason, Guilt of Blood,
Perjury, Flatt'ry, Avarice,
Perfidiousness, and Cowardice,
Injustice, Cruelty, and Fear,
And all the Ills that could appear
In a Scotch Brood of Presbyterians,
Or pious English Oliverians.

The King, who tho' he could foresee
His Fate, from their Severity,
Bore still, with a Majestick Grace,
A patient Mind, and cheerful Face;
His Cares and Troubles, tho' their Weight
Were now become profusely great,
And only fit to be endur'd
By a good Prince to Wrongs inur'd,
Whose Soul was by his Vertues rear'd
Above the worst that could be fear'd;
No Suff'rings could his Passions move,
His steddy Mind still soar'd above,
And bore his Royal Fame too high
For all their cursed Calumny.