 | Battel without Bloodshed |  |
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Battel without Bloodshed, &c.
Dub, dub, dubba dub, says the Drum in the Morning,
To give the bold Heroes of London-Town warning,
That Crippl'd old Watchmen, and Hobling old Porters,
In Almes-houses Lodg'd, or in such kind of Quarters,
May rise from their Flock-Beds, and shake off their Fleas,
And earn half a Crown with a great deal of ease.
Then to mending old Belts, and to scow'ring of Musquets,
And whetting of Backswords, whose Hilts are like Baskets.
To give the bold Heroes of London-Town warning,
That Crippl'd old Watchmen, and Hobling old Porters,
In Almes-houses Lodg'd, or in such kind of Quarters,
May rise from their Flock-Beds, and shake off their Fleas,
And earn half a Crown with a great deal of ease.
Then to mending old Belts, and to scow'ring of Musquets,
And whetting of Backswords, whose Hilts are like Baskets.
But Handicraft-Heroes, much harder and bolder,
Scorn Hirelings to send, but themselves play the Soldier.
Then hey for Long-Lane, among Salesmen and Brokers,
To hire Buff-Dublets, and Plate-Handl'd Pokers,
To March in the Front, where the Honour and Fame
Is the greater allow'd, tho' the Danger the same.
Scorn Hirelings to send, but themselves play the Soldier.
Then hey for Long-Lane, among Salesmen and Brokers,
To hire Buff-Dublets, and Plate-Handl'd Pokers,
To March in the Front, where the Honour and Fame
Is the greater allow'd, tho' the Danger the same.
Then Vintners and Victulars, the Chief of their Leaders,
Must cover their Horns with their Beavers and Feathers;
Relinquish Blue-Aprons to put on Blue-Coats,
And Arm: with gilt Gorgets their Wine-bibbing Throats:
The Stockins they wear Died of Scarlet in Grain,
That they might not be soil'd with the Blood of the Slain.
Then tying on Sashes, in room of their Aprons,
They leave their good Wives to take care how the Tap-runs.
Some stuffing their Pockets with Figs or with Raisin,
To comfort their Hearts in a Sweltering Season;
Whilst others due care of their Carcasses show,
By Victu'ling their Trousers with Ginger-Bread ho;
Each carry'ng a Quartan of Nants in a Vial,
As if the whole Regiment fear'd they should Dy-all:
For none can imagin, but those that must bear-it,
How sweating in Buff will a Soldier Dis-spirit.
Must cover their Horns with their Beavers and Feathers;
Relinquish Blue-Aprons to put on Blue-Coats,
And Arm: with gilt Gorgets their Wine-bibbing Throats:
The Stockins they wear Died of Scarlet in Grain,
That they might not be soil'd with the Blood of the Slain.
Then tying on Sashes, in room of their Aprons,
They leave their good Wives to take care how the Tap-runs.
Some stuffing their Pockets with Figs or with Raisin,
To comfort their Hearts in a Sweltering Season;
Whilst others due care of their Carcasses show,
By Victu'ling their Trousers with Ginger-Bread ho;
Each carry'ng a Quartan of Nants in a Vial,
As if the whole Regiment fear'd they should Dy-all:
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How sweating in Buff will a Soldier Dis-spirit.
When all thus Equip'd, from the Brewer to th' Drayman,
With Food to Preserve 'em, and Weapons to Slay-man,
To th' Change, or Guild-Hall, a full Gallop they run,
The Tallman with Pike, and the Short-Arse with Gun;
Considering whether the Right or Left Shoulder
Is proper to carry the Arms of a Soldier.
With Food to Preserve 'em, and Weapons to Slay-man,
To th' Change, or Guild-Hall, a full Gallop they run,
The Tallman with Pike, and the Short-Arse with Gun;
Considering whether the Right or Left Shoulder
Is proper to carry the Arms of a Soldier.
The Regiment now at their Rendezvous met,
Some stinking of Sot-weed, and others of Sweat,
Some Button'd in Woollen, some Lac'd into Leather,
With Heads lock'd in Helmets, some Fools with a Feather:
Thus some very Gaudy, and others as Plain;
Some Kicking of France, others Cuffing of Spain;
Some talking of Preaching, and others of Plots.
Some Praising of Burges, and some Doctor Oates;
Some setting forth old bloody Battles and Slaughters,
Some praising their Wives, or commending their Daughters,
Whilst others were wishing (being dry with the Heat)
For Beer from the Helmet in Bishopsgate-street:
And why from the Helmet? Because that the Sign
Makes the Liquor as welcom t' a Soldier as Wine.
Some stinking of Sot-weed, and others of Sweat,
Some Button'd in Woollen, some Lac'd into Leather,
With Heads lock'd in Helmets, some Fools with a Feather:
Thus some very Gaudy, and others as Plain;
Some Kicking of France, others Cuffing of Spain;
Some talking of Preaching, and others of Plots.
Some Praising of Burges, and some Doctor Oates;
Some setting forth old bloody Battles and Slaughters,
Some praising their Wives, or commending their Daughters,
Whilst others were wishing (being dry with the Heat)
For Beer from the Helmet in Bishopsgate-street:
And why from the Helmet? Because that the Sign
Makes the Liquor as welcom t' a Soldier as Wine.
The Houre being come, they flock in, in a Cluster,
For fear of a Forfeit to th' Master of the Muster:
So Grounding their Arms, take a Dram of the Bottle,
And then, like their Brethren, fall into a Tattle.
For fear of a Forfeit to th' Master of the Muster:
So Grounding their Arms, take a Dram of the Bottle,
And then, like their Brethren, fall into a Tattle.
At last comes a little decripped old Creature,
Tho' Bold as a Lion, f'r ought I know, in Nature;
The Colonel I mean, with his Cheeks and his Nose,
One as Blue as his Coat, tother Red as his Hose;
With Age being Hamstring'd (a very sad thing)
He hobbles along like a Pig in a String:
Yet being well warm'd with a dose of Canary,
Tho' Foundr'd, he looks both Couragious and Merry;
Which shows by the help of a moderate Cup,
His Heart is still good, tho' his Heels will not up:
I call it still Good, tho' perhaps it's a little
With K---ry touch'd, not the worse for't a Tittle;
For K---ry's accounted but Self Preservation,
A Cunning that's useful in every Profession;
And therefore as Souldier and Citizen too,
A double Proportion's no more than his Due;
Tho' Bold as a Lion, f'r ought I know, in Nature;
The Colonel I mean, with his Cheeks and his Nose,
One as Blue as his Coat, tother Red as his Hose;
With Age being Hamstring'd (a very sad thing)
He hobbles along like a Pig in a String:
Yet being well warm'd with a dose of Canary,
Tho' Foundr'd, he looks both Couragious and Merry;
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His Heart is still good, tho' his Heels will not up:
I call it still Good, tho' perhaps it's a little
With K---ry touch'd, not the worse for't a Tittle;
For K---ry's accounted but Self Preservation,
A Cunning that's useful in every Profession;
And therefore as Souldier and Citizen too,
A double Proportion's no more than his Due;
A Man by the use on't no Credit e'er Loses,
Except when he's baulk'd of the end he proposes:
For Frauds, if successful, are Crown'd with applause,
As Conquest in War gives a right to the Cause.
Except when he's baulk'd of the end he proposes:
For Frauds, if successful, are Crown'd with applause,
As Conquest in War gives a right to the Cause.
The Regiment now about twelve being met,
Perhaps my Lord-Mayor gives the Heroes a Treat.
The Officers Honour'd to Dine with my Lord,
Where Dainties from Leaden-Hall, furnish the Board;
As Lamb, Veal, and Mutton, Fish, Poultrie, and Sallat,
To please ev'ry Soldier and Citizens Pallat.
The Dinner summ'd up with a Course of good Custard,
And Plenty of Wine, they may Drink till they're Fluster'd;
Much Custard I say, and much strugling about-it,
For the Charter is lost, should my Lord Dine without-it:
But as for the Hirelings, they're keept at a distance,
And Cram'd with good wholesome substantial Subsistance;
As Buttocks of Powder'd Beef, Carrot and Mustard,
But for the poor Rogues, not a spoonful of Custard;
And that it might never be said, they should Dine
At my Lord-Mayor of London's without Drinking Wine,
A Bottle of Claret, is Nobly Disposen
To every File that is Ten or a Dozen.
Perhaps my Lord-Mayor gives the Heroes a Treat.
The Officers Honour'd to Dine with my Lord,
Where Dainties from Leaden-Hall, furnish the Board;
As Lamb, Veal, and Mutton, Fish, Poultrie, and Sallat,
To please ev'ry Soldier and Citizens Pallat.
The Dinner summ'd up with a Course of good Custard,
And Plenty of Wine, they may Drink till they're Fluster'd;
Much Custard I say, and much strugling about-it,
For the Charter is lost, should my Lord Dine without-it:
But as for the Hirelings, they're keept at a distance,
And Cram'd with good wholesome substantial Subsistance;
As Buttocks of Powder'd Beef, Carrot and Mustard,
But for the poor Rogues, not a spoonful of Custard;
And that it might never be said, they should Dine
At my Lord-Mayor of London's without Drinking Wine,
A Bottle of Claret, is Nobly Disposen
To every File that is Ten or a Dozen.
When thus they have Din'd, all arise from the Board.
And with Bows to the Ground, take their Leaves of my Lord;
The Hoit-Boys now Squeak, and the Drums beat Alarms,
And the Heroes confus'dly run all to their Arms:
And after an Hour is wasted, or near,
To know Right from Left, and the Front from the Rear,
With abundance of bustle they're jumbl'd together;
The Cobler, the Porter, the Beau and his Feather.
The Sloutch-Hat, and Helmet, all mix'd in a File,
S' unlike one another, 'twou'd make a Dog smile:
Then as a fine show to the Cities great Honour,
They march thro' the Streets in the following manner.
And with Bows to the Ground, take their Leaves of my Lord;
The Hoit-Boys now Squeak, and the Drums beat Alarms,
And the Heroes confus'dly run all to their Arms:
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To know Right from Left, and the Front from the Rear,
With abundance of bustle they're jumbl'd together;
The Cobler, the Porter, the Beau and his Feather.
The Sloutch-Hat, and Helmet, all mix'd in a File,
S' unlike one another, 'twou'd make a Dog smile:
Then as a fine show to the Cities great Honour,
They march thro' the Streets in the following manner.
At first comes a File of Huge Fat Lusty strong-Men,
Call'd Martials, that is, all the Regiments Hang-Men;
Distinguish'd by Truncheon, a Scarf, and a Feather,
And bound up in Buff, as a Book in Calves-Leather,
For the very same purpose, that is to Defend-'em
From Accidents, that otherwise might attend-'em.
Call'd Martials, that is, all the Regiments Hang-Men;
Distinguish'd by Truncheon, a Scarf, and a Feather,
And bound up in Buff, as a Book in Calves-Leather,
For the very same purpose, that is to Defend-'em
From Accidents, that otherwise might attend-'em.
The next that succeeds is the Col'nels Great Horse,
May-be, Old, Lame, and Blind, yet he's little the worse
For a Journey so short; being only led round,
In a show Cloth from thence to th' Artillery-Ground:
And walks once a Twelvemonth to Black-Fryars-Stairs,
With's Master on's Back, to attend the Lord-Mayors.
May-be, Old, Lame, and Blind, yet he's little the worse
For a Journey so short; being only led round,
In a show Cloth from thence to th' Artillery-Ground:
And walks once a Twelvemonth to Black-Fryars-Stairs,
With's Master on's Back, to attend the Lord-Mayors.
The next that comes up, is a Slave in a Liv'ry,
With a Cloak on his Arm, to hide some-bodies Knav'ry;
The Cape with Gold Flowers made wonderful Taudry,
Turn'd out-wards on purpose to show the Embroidery,
And in his Right Hand, does the Leading-Staff carry,
To keep the old Col'nel from being a weary.
With a Cloak on his Arm, to hide some-bodies Knav'ry;
The Cape with Gold Flowers made wonderful Taudry,
Turn'd out-wards on purpose to show the Embroidery,
And in his Right Hand, does the Leading-Staff carry,
To keep the old Col'nel from being a weary.
Then up comes a Noise of untunable Pipes,
With a March that would give a Musitian the Gripes;
One of Holloway, Hamp-shire, and Hog-Island Jigs,
Like the squeaks and the Grunts of a Sow and her Pigs;
Behind the poor Pipers, the Col'nel advances,
And after the Musick he Hobbles, not Dances,
Oppress'd with his Corns, he no faster can Crawl,
Than a Snail o'er a Cabbage, or Fly up a Wall.
The Estrich, the Silk-Worm, the Sheep, and Gold-Mine,
Fine Beaver, and Whores-Hair, together all Joyn
With Flanders, to make the old Gentleman fine.
But with Age on his Brows, he seems Peevish and Vext,
At the Cares of this World, and the Fear of the next.
With a March that would give a Musitian the Gripes;
One of Holloway, Hamp-shire, and Hog-Island Jigs,
Like the squeaks and the Grunts of a Sow and her Pigs;
Behind the poor Pipers, the Col'nel advances,
And after the Musick he Hobbles, not Dances,
Oppress'd with his Corns, he no faster can Crawl,
Than a Snail o'er a Cabbage, or Fly up a Wall.
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Fine Beaver, and Whores-Hair, together all Joyn
With Flanders, to make the old Gentleman fine.
But with Age on his Brows, he seems Peevish and Vext,
At the Cares of this World, and the Fear of the next.
The Captains, nay Cuckolds, for ought that they know,
Succeeds the old Colonel all in a Row,
So Gallantry Drest, 'tis a very fine show.
There's Coffee-Man, Vintner, the Vict'lar and Brewer,
Brave Tun-Belly'd Heroes, who always Fight sure.
In Arms one would think, they must needs be Excelling,
Each uses such Discipline in his own Dwelling.
Here Drawer, you Rascal, Pray what is the meaning,
The Maiden-head stinks, and the Kings-head wants cleaning,
Besides, I Remember, your Yesterdays Fault,
You're a very fine Rogue to get Drunk in the Vault.
Then Fir'd with Passion, of Patience Bereft,
He Cuffs him about, from the Right to the Left:
Then about to the Reer, crys the Chollerick Mars,
And his Conquests Compleats with a Kick on the Arse.
Thus Train'd up in Scuffles, is made a Commander,
And Struts in his March like a Great Alexander.
Succeeds the old Colonel all in a Row,
So Gallantry Drest, 'tis a very fine show.
There's Coffee-Man, Vintner, the Vict'lar and Brewer,
Brave Tun-Belly'd Heroes, who always Fight sure.
In Arms one would think, they must needs be Excelling,
Each uses such Discipline in his own Dwelling.
Here Drawer, you Rascal, Pray what is the meaning,
The Maiden-head stinks, and the Kings-head wants cleaning,
Besides, I Remember, your Yesterdays Fault,
You're a very fine Rogue to get Drunk in the Vault.
Then Fir'd with Passion, of Patience Bereft,
He Cuffs him about, from the Right to the Left:
Then about to the Reer, crys the Chollerick Mars,
And his Conquests Compleats with a Kick on the Arse.
Thus Train'd up in Scuffles, is made a Commander,
And Struts in his March like a Great Alexander.
Then on comes the Front, a most Noble Division,
That moves Admiration at once, and Derision;
A parcel of Men, would be thought so at least,
Each proudly disguis'd in the hide of a Beast:
They are Wolves to the French, and have therefore a Loathing,
When e'er they're in Arms to appear in Sheeps Cloathing.
Their Heads Lock'd in Helmets, they won't March without 'em,
Because that's the Place that is softest about-'em,
And where the Pate's Tender, it must be Confest,
'Tis a part that needs Armour much more than the rest.
These Helmets are made of a Cozening Mettle,
Not Iron, or Steel, or yet Brass like a Kettle.
They look very bright, and are Chas'd very fine,
The Mob think 'em Silver, tho' some say they're Tin;
Indeed 'tis most likely of that they are made,
F'r a Cap of Block-Tin, will best fit a Block-Head.
That moves Admiration at once, and Derision;
A parcel of Men, would be thought so at least,
Each proudly disguis'd in the hide of a Beast:
They are Wolves to the French, and have therefore a Loathing,
When e'er they're in Arms to appear in Sheeps Cloathing.
Their Heads Lock'd in Helmets, they won't March without 'em,
Because that's the Place that is softest about-'em,
And where the Pate's Tender, it must be Confest,
'Tis a part that needs Armour much more than the rest.
These Helmets are made of a Cozening Mettle,
Not Iron, or Steel, or yet Brass like a Kettle.
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The Mob think 'em Silver, tho' some say they're Tin;
Indeed 'tis most likely of that they are made,
F'r a Cap of Block-Tin, will best fit a Block-Head.
The Children in Clusters run hollowing by-'em,
(The Serjeants take Care that they shan't come too nigh-'em,)
Who mimick the Heroes with Helmets of Paper,
And Swords made of Laths, which they Brandish and Vapour;
With some old Blew Apron ty'd on to a Pole,
Which some forward Child for a Colours has stole;
By which Moral Emblem, the Captains may see,
They're advanc'd to that height from the lowest degree;
And is to a Wiseman, as much as to say;
Tho' Abroad they Command, they at Home must Obey.
From Gorget and Sash, stoop so low as the Tap,
And deliver the Quart with a Bow and a Scrape:
A Chamber-Pot here, Noble Captain we Crave;
Noble Captain replies, What you want you shall have.
Thus look big to Day, but to Morrow must shrink,
From Commanding of Porters, to drawing them Drink.
Thus City-Train-Bands, Ape the Bold and the Brave,
And the Heroe is mimick'd in Buff by the Slave;
Whilst Children their Follies in Miniature show,
And march by their sides with a Row, dow, dow, dow.
(The Serjeants take Care that they shan't come too nigh-'em,)
Who mimick the Heroes with Helmets of Paper,
And Swords made of Laths, which they Brandish and Vapour;
With some old Blew Apron ty'd on to a Pole,
Which some forward Child for a Colours has stole;
By which Moral Emblem, the Captains may see,
They're advanc'd to that height from the lowest degree;
And is to a Wiseman, as much as to say;
Tho' Abroad they Command, they at Home must Obey.
From Gorget and Sash, stoop so low as the Tap,
And deliver the Quart with a Bow and a Scrape:
A Chamber-Pot here, Noble Captain we Crave;
Noble Captain replies, What you want you shall have.
Thus look big to Day, but to Morrow must shrink,
From Commanding of Porters, to drawing them Drink.
Thus City-Train-Bands, Ape the Bold and the Brave,
And the Heroe is mimick'd in Buff by the Slave;
Whilst Children their Follies in Miniature show,
And march by their sides with a Row, dow, dow, dow.
Behind this Division in order there comes,
What gives Life to a Soldier, a Noise of fine Drums,
Which serves as a Call to their Wives and Relations,
To come and peep out on such Solemn Occasions,
Who Crowd to the Windows of every Story,
To see 'em March by in their Pomp and their Glory.
The Cuckold is pleas'd that his Wife does behold-him;
But who stands behind her, I have not yet told-him,
His Absence no doubt ont's supply'd by a Lover;
But that is his Business, not mine to Discover.
What gives Life to a Soldier, a Noise of fine Drums,
Which serves as a Call to their Wives and Relations,
To come and peep out on such Solemn Occasions,
Who Crowd to the Windows of every Story,
To see 'em March by in their Pomp and their Glory.
The Cuckold is pleas'd that his Wife does behold-him;
But who stands behind her, I have not yet told-him,
His Absence no doubt ont's supply'd by a Lover;
But that is his Business, not mine to Discover.
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Thus the Musquets march on in their Martial array,
Some Soldiers for Pleasure, and others for Pay;
The Gyant, the Pigmy, the Beau, and the Slouch,
The Hireling worth Little, the Miser worth Much;
The Wital, the Coward, the Trojan that's Trusty,
The Old, and the Crippl'd, the Young and the Lusty;
The Buff-Coat, the Bare-Coat, the Campaign and Frock,
The Knave that has Brains, and the Fool that's a Block,
The Master, the Prentice, the Cuk, and the Gallant,
All march in a File, and all equally Valiant.
Some Soldiers for Pleasure, and others for Pay;
The Gyant, the Pigmy, the Beau, and the Slouch,
The Hireling worth Little, the Miser worth Much;
The Wital, the Coward, the Trojan that's Trusty,
The Old, and the Crippl'd, the Young and the Lusty;
The Buff-Coat, the Bare-Coat, the Campaign and Frock,
The Knave that has Brains, and the Fool that's a Block,
The Master, the Prentice, the Cuk, and the Gallant,
All march in a File, and all equally Valiant.
Then up comes the Pikes, who're the Horse to offend,
Wih their Spouses old Shooe-Tiy's, ty'd on at the end.
These Poking old Knaves arm'd with Hop-Poles, and Rapiers
Are Grocers, and Mercers, Atorneys and Drapers,
Rich Cits of Repute, who a Musquet Dis-daining,
As a Load for a Porter, yet Crawl out a Training,
With what their old Shoulders are able to carry,
And all for the City's great Honour and Glory;
But march in a Figure instead of a Line,
Each File like a Billet that's Crook'd for a Sign;
Or if I should say (sure I do not Transgress)
Like the Fly'r of a Jack in the Shape of an S,
I'th' Body of these all their Colours are Posted,
Which like to their Arms stand the Kingdom in no-stead,
Except now and then, to most bravely sustain,
The Fatigue of high Winds, or a Shower of Rain;
In a Nook of their Ensigns, the Arms of the City,
A Dagger all Bloody, is Painted to Fright-ye.
'Tis wisely design'd with a Noble Intent,
To show the just Fate of Wat Tyler of Kent;
Whom Walworth the May'r, being a Man of huge Force;
To the City's geeat Honour, knock'd off from his Horse,
And when by surprize, with his Mace he had fell'd him;
Amongst 'em they maul'd the poor Rogue till they Kill'd-him.
Wih their Spouses old Shooe-Tiy's, ty'd on at the end.
These Poking old Knaves arm'd with Hop-Poles, and Rapiers
Are Grocers, and Mercers, Atorneys and Drapers,
Rich Cits of Repute, who a Musquet Dis-daining,
As a Load for a Porter, yet Crawl out a Training,
With what their old Shoulders are able to carry,
And all for the City's great Honour and Glory;
But march in a Figure instead of a Line,
Each File like a Billet that's Crook'd for a Sign;
Or if I should say (sure I do not Transgress)
Like the Fly'r of a Jack in the Shape of an S,
I'th' Body of these all their Colours are Posted,
Which like to their Arms stand the Kingdom in no-stead,
Except now and then, to most bravely sustain,
The Fatigue of high Winds, or a Shower of Rain;
In a Nook of their Ensigns, the Arms of the City,
A Dagger all Bloody, is Painted to Fright-ye.
'Tis wisely design'd with a Noble Intent,
To show the just Fate of Wat Tyler of Kent;
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To the City's geeat Honour, knock'd off from his Horse,
And when by surprize, with his Mace he had fell'd him;
Amongst 'em they maul'd the poor Rogue till they Kill'd-him.
On each side the Colours, a short Brasen Gun,
Is carry'd b' a Swine, with a Gut like a Tun,
Who looks in his Helmet and Doublet of Buff,
So terribly Fierce, so surprizing and Bluff;
That a Hog put in Armour, becomes not his Dress,
With a Gallanter Mein, or more Porculent Grace.
Each Arm'd with a Blunderbus, I think they call it,
Which never since made was e'er charg'd with a Bullet;
Tho' often with Gunpowder, and when it's Fir'd,
If 'twill but cry Pop, it is all that's desir'd:
These Magogs are posted the Colours to Guard,
From the Catch of their Foes, when there's none to be Fear'd.
Is carry'd b' a Swine, with a Gut like a Tun,
Who looks in his Helmet and Doublet of Buff,
So terribly Fierce, so surprizing and Bluff;
That a Hog put in Armour, becomes not his Dress,
With a Gallanter Mein, or more Porculent Grace.
Each Arm'd with a Blunderbus, I think they call it,
Which never since made was e'er charg'd with a Bullet;
Tho' often with Gunpowder, and when it's Fir'd,
If 'twill but cry Pop, it is all that's desir'd:
These Magogs are posted the Colours to Guard,
From the Catch of their Foes, when there's none to be Fear'd.
Such Comical Pikes, Pikes, Pikes march after,
And Guns, Guns, Guns, that wou'd burst you with Laughter;
Some Stag'ring with Drink; and some Hobling with Corns,
Some Scratching their Heads, as if Groping for Horns;
Whilst others examine their Bottles of Brandy,
To see if the Cork be as close as it can-be:
For if the Good Liquor shou'd come by Mis-fortune,
Their Courage is lost with their Cordial most certain.
Thus all march confus'dly along to the Battel,
Like droves of Scotch Runts, mix'd with Lancashire Cattel,
Some very Tall Cuckolds and some very little;
Encourag'd by Drums, which they Manfully follow,
Because like themselves, they're both Noisey and Hollow.
And Guns, Guns, Guns, that wou'd burst you with Laughter;
Some Stag'ring with Drink; and some Hobling with Corns,
Some Scratching their Heads, as if Groping for Horns;
Whilst others examine their Bottles of Brandy,
To see if the Cork be as close as it can-be:
For if the Good Liquor shou'd come by Mis-fortune,
Their Courage is lost with their Cordial most certain.
Thus all march confus'dly along to the Battel,
Like droves of Scotch Runts, mix'd with Lancashire Cattel,
Some very Tall Cuckolds and some very little;
Encourag'd by Drums, which they Manfully follow,
Because like themselves, they're both Noisey and Hollow.
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The Reer is brought up by their Slouching Lieutenants,
Who Proud of their Partizans, think it no Pennance,
To creep at the Arse of a parcel of Dunces,
Meer Crackfarts, who only go out to make Bounces;
The only true Reason that can be assign'd,
Why these are so pleas'd with their Office behind;
Because they resolve tho' the Loyal deride-'em,
To stand by the Rump still what e'er does be-tide-'em;
Well knowing 'tis facing about but once more,
And the Tail will be Head as it was heretofore.
Who Proud of their Partizans, think it no Pennance,
To creep at the Arse of a parcel of Dunces,
Meer Crackfarts, who only go out to make Bounces;
The only true Reason that can be assign'd,
Why these are so pleas'd with their Office behind;
Because they resolve tho' the Loyal deride-'em,
To stand by the Rump still what e'er does be-tide-'em;
Well knowing 'tis facing about but once more,
And the Tail will be Head as it was heretofore.
Then after the Regiment marches along,
Of Crippled old Porters, a numberless Throng;
Sustaining great Bundles of Coats on their Shoulders,
In case of bad Weather, to shelter the Soldiers.
The Danger of Battel, they wholly disdain,
And dread nothing more than a shower of Rain;
The project is Good, whosoever advanc'd-it,
To therefore bring with 'em good Armour against-it;
For Armies oft find (you may tak't on my Word)
Bad Weather kills more, than the Bullet or Sword.
Of Crippled old Porters, a numberless Throng;
Sustaining great Bundles of Coats on their Shoulders,
In case of bad Weather, to shelter the Soldiers.
The Danger of Battel, they wholly disdain,
And dread nothing more than a shower of Rain;
The project is Good, whosoever advanc'd-it,
To therefore bring with 'em good Armour against-it;
For Armies oft find (you may tak't on my Word)
Bad Weather kills more, than the Bullet or Sword.
In this mighty Pomp, thro' the City they go,
The Children all think 'tis a very fine Show;
And cry out aloud to each other, Look Yonder
There's one with a Helmet; as if 'twas a wonder;
From whence it is manifest, (more is the Pity)
A Head-peice is rare to be found in the City;
They are of such Weight, that few Shoulders can bear-'em;
Their May'rs, and their Aldermen never cou'd wear-'em:
I'th' City of late they are quite out of Fashion,
(Except in the East-India Old Corporation.)
Their Skulls are so thick, they imagine from thence,
That their huge Bullet-Heads have no need of Defence;
In so much that they scorn even th' Armour of Sence.
The Children all think 'tis a very fine Show;
And cry out aloud to each other, Look Yonder
There's one with a Helmet; as if 'twas a wonder;
From whence it is manifest, (more is the Pity)
A Head-peice is rare to be found in the City;
They are of such Weight, that few Shoulders can bear-'em;
Their May'rs, and their Aldermen never cou'd wear-'em:
I'th' City of late they are quite out of Fashion,
(Except in the East-India Old Corporation.)
12
That their huge Bullet-Heads have no need of Defence;
In so much that they scorn even th' Armour of Sence.
With fine Flying Colours, and Groaning board Hums,
Of Curtels and Hoitboys, and Ratling of Drums,
To show their Buff Dublets, they march the Town round,
Till led in at last to th' Artillery-Ground;
Where tired with walking, and drown'd in their sweat,
Near stifl'd with Dust, and half roasted with Heat.
After many Debates about how or which way,
They're drawn with much Pains into Battel array.
The Col'nel then wiping his pearls from his Face;
Cries Silence, and then, Ground your Arms on the Grass;
We've had a long March, I do therefore Command-ye;
Pace, clear off your Arms, and away to your Brandy.
Then ev'ry Man lugs out his Bottle of Nants,
And in its own Wine, Drinks confusion to France;
Forgetting that no way would Ruin them quicker,
Then never to swallow one drop of their Liquor.
Then out comes Tobacco-Box, Flint, Steel and Tinder,
With nasty foul Pipes, scarce the length of my Finger;
Then each with his own Rank and Quality herds,
So to Funking of Noses, and Singeing of Beards.
Of Curtels and Hoitboys, and Ratling of Drums,
To show their Buff Dublets, they march the Town round,
Till led in at last to th' Artillery-Ground;
Where tired with walking, and drown'd in their sweat,
Near stifl'd with Dust, and half roasted with Heat.
After many Debates about how or which way,
They're drawn with much Pains into Battel array.
The Col'nel then wiping his pearls from his Face;
Cries Silence, and then, Ground your Arms on the Grass;
We've had a long March, I do therefore Command-ye;
Pace, clear off your Arms, and away to your Brandy.
Then ev'ry Man lugs out his Bottle of Nants,
And in its own Wine, Drinks confusion to France;
Forgetting that no way would Ruin them quicker,
Then never to swallow one drop of their Liquor.
Then out comes Tobacco-Box, Flint, Steel and Tinder,
With nasty foul Pipes, scarce the length of my Finger;
Then each with his own Rank and Quality herds,
So to Funking of Noses, and Singeing of Beards.
Then others more Hungry, their Stomachs to Please,
Sit down to their Luncheons of House-hold and Cheese,
Without saying Grace, do so heartily Twist,
That each bit they swallow's as big as my Fist.
Sit down to their Luncheons of House-hold and Cheese,
Without saying Grace, do so heartily Twist,
That each bit they swallow's as big as my Fist.
Then up comes a Sutler, whose Trade is to cry,
A Can of Mild Beer, who's a Dry, who's a Dry?
Here's Stale-Beer, and Mild-Beer, good Stich-Back and Pharaoh;
Tho' all his whole Cellar, is but a Wheel-Barrow:
Wherein he has mounted a Runlet of Liquor,
Tho' some may be Stronger, there's none can be Thicker;
And this he drives round with a cozening Can,
To water the Camp at a Penny a Man.
A Can of Mild Beer, who's a Dry, who's a Dry?
13
Tho' all his whole Cellar, is but a Wheel-Barrow:
Wherein he has mounted a Runlet of Liquor,
Tho' some may be Stronger, there's none can be Thicker;
And this he drives round with a cozening Can,
To water the Camp at a Penny a Man.
When each brave Commander had chear'd up his Spirit
With Racy Canary, or else with good Clarret;
Brought into the Field with a Noble Design,
E'er the Battel begins to Inspire 'em with Wine;
That each may their Prowess and Courage exert,
Which dwells in a true Valiant Citizens Heart.
The Drums were commanded to beat an Alarm;
And the cry of a sudden, was Arm, Arm, Arm;
The Hoitboys began most confuss'dly to sound,
And their Pipes but half Smoak'd were all thrown to the Ground;
The Musqueteers run, and their Bandaleers rattled,
Such hurry there was, you'd have thought them betwatled.
The old feeble Pike-Men came hobbling soon after,
Like Oxen first Ham-string'd and drove to the Slaughter.
And when they had wasted an hour almost,
In each finding out his own Arms, and his Post;
Each Captain to take a survey of the Ground,
Drew his Company out, and March'd twice or thrice round.
But finding they had no French Enemy near-'em,
To Face-'em, to Fight-'em, to Fright-'em, or Fear-'em.
With Racy Canary, or else with good Clarret;
Brought into the Field with a Noble Design,
E'er the Battel begins to Inspire 'em with Wine;
That each may their Prowess and Courage exert,
Which dwells in a true Valiant Citizens Heart.
The Drums were commanded to beat an Alarm;
And the cry of a sudden, was Arm, Arm, Arm;
The Hoitboys began most confuss'dly to sound,
And their Pipes but half Smoak'd were all thrown to the Ground;
The Musqueteers run, and their Bandaleers rattled,
Such hurry there was, you'd have thought them betwatled.
The old feeble Pike-Men came hobbling soon after,
Like Oxen first Ham-string'd and drove to the Slaughter.
And when they had wasted an hour almost,
In each finding out his own Arms, and his Post;
Each Captain to take a survey of the Ground,
Drew his Company out, and March'd twice or thrice round.
But finding they had no French Enemy near-'em,
To Face-'em, to Fight-'em, to Fright-'em, or Fear-'em.
The Col'nel to show he was skill'd in the Arts
Of Bellona, divided them into two parts;
That Father and Son, Master, Prentice, and Brother,
Might Fight like true Englishmen, one against t'other.
The Regiment thus after grand Consultation,
Drawn into two Battalions after a Fashion,
Like Heroes undaunted advance very near,
Without the least Signs of a Cowardly Fear.
Then, Make ready all, crys th' Commander in chief,
To his Punch-Gutted Boys, made Couragious by Beeff,
And a Sundays Bag-Pudding, for want of which Food,
They would Swear what they heard at Church did 'em no Good.
Then to Priming, and Charging, and Ramming their Powder,
So hard, that the Bounce may be so much the louder;
Then he that Commands, with a hurtless Intent,
Cries, If you are ready my brave Lads, Present.
Then holding his Cane with both Hands up higher,
A Foot than his Head; his next Word is Fire;
But dops down his Noddle almost to the Grass,
Not fearing a Bullet shou'd fly in his Face;
But lest the fierce Flame, which admits no restraining,
Should burn his fine Wig, kept on purpose for Training.
The Mob cry Huzza, and the Drums Rat, tat, too;
There is Snap, Slap, and Bounce, and the Devil to do:
Such Firing, and Popping, a Fight you may Swear,
Was ne'er better mimick'd in Barthol'mew-Fair:
And when all their Powder and No-Ball is spent,
To pleasure the Mob with a harmless Intent;
And the Smoak of the Gun-Powder mix'd with their Sweat,
Died some like to Saffron and others like Jet;
Their Drums and their Musquets, at once ceas'd to Rattle,
And thus without Blood-shed they ended their Battle.
Having no Ammunition to further Maintain-it,
They grew as good Friends, as before they began-it:
Their Judges, the Rabble, do then dispute whether
O'th' the two Fir'd best, that is closest together;
By th' Rule of the Mob, where they Fire most even:
To that side the Victory always is given,
With many Huzza's, being the old Fashion'd way
They have us'd down from Adam to this very day,
To set forth their Thanks, or their Gratitude pay.
Having tired themselves with their Counterfeit Strife;
And mimick'd a Fight without Death to the Life;
They March from the Wars to their Counters, or Shopboards,
And first Kiss their Wives, then away to their Cupboards;
Where Hungry as Hawks, having Food to delight-'em,
They out-Eat the French, rather more than out-Fight-'em.
When Supper is ended, and Bow Bell Rings Nine:
With Paunches well stuff'd, as an Offal-fed Swine;
They strip off their Buff from their Hides and their Tallows,
And Leap into Bed to their Dear Blouzabella's.
Of Bellona, divided them into two parts;
14
Might Fight like true Englishmen, one against t'other.
The Regiment thus after grand Consultation,
Drawn into two Battalions after a Fashion,
Like Heroes undaunted advance very near,
Without the least Signs of a Cowardly Fear.
Then, Make ready all, crys th' Commander in chief,
To his Punch-Gutted Boys, made Couragious by Beeff,
And a Sundays Bag-Pudding, for want of which Food,
They would Swear what they heard at Church did 'em no Good.
Then to Priming, and Charging, and Ramming their Powder,
So hard, that the Bounce may be so much the louder;
Then he that Commands, with a hurtless Intent,
Cries, If you are ready my brave Lads, Present.
Then holding his Cane with both Hands up higher,
A Foot than his Head; his next Word is Fire;
But dops down his Noddle almost to the Grass,
Not fearing a Bullet shou'd fly in his Face;
But lest the fierce Flame, which admits no restraining,
Should burn his fine Wig, kept on purpose for Training.
The Mob cry Huzza, and the Drums Rat, tat, too;
There is Snap, Slap, and Bounce, and the Devil to do:
Such Firing, and Popping, a Fight you may Swear,
Was ne'er better mimick'd in Barthol'mew-Fair:
And when all their Powder and No-Ball is spent,
To pleasure the Mob with a harmless Intent;
And the Smoak of the Gun-Powder mix'd with their Sweat,
Died some like to Saffron and others like Jet;
Their Drums and their Musquets, at once ceas'd to Rattle,
And thus without Blood-shed they ended their Battle.
15
They grew as good Friends, as before they began-it:
Their Judges, the Rabble, do then dispute whether
O'th' the two Fir'd best, that is closest together;
By th' Rule of the Mob, where they Fire most even:
To that side the Victory always is given,
With many Huzza's, being the old Fashion'd way
They have us'd down from Adam to this very day,
To set forth their Thanks, or their Gratitude pay.
Having tired themselves with their Counterfeit Strife;
And mimick'd a Fight without Death to the Life;
They March from the Wars to their Counters, or Shopboards,
And first Kiss their Wives, then away to their Cupboards;
Where Hungry as Hawks, having Food to delight-'em,
They out-Eat the French, rather more than out-Fight-'em.
When Supper is ended, and Bow Bell Rings Nine:
With Paunches well stuff'd, as an Offal-fed Swine;
They strip off their Buff from their Hides and their Tallows,
And Leap into Bed to their Dear Blouzabella's.
A Ballad in Praise of a certain Commander in the City.
A Heroe of no small Renown,
But Noted for a Man of Mettle;
Thro' all the Parts of London Town,
No Gentleman, nor yet a Clown,
No Grave Wise Man, nor Stupid Beetle.
But Noted for a Man of Mettle;
Thro' all the Parts of London Town,
No Gentleman, nor yet a Clown,
No Grave Wise Man, nor Stupid Beetle.
By many Deeds of Prowess done;
He's gain'd a matchless Reputation,
Perform'd by neither Sword or Gun;
But by what means you'll know anon;
And how he Work'd his Preservation.
He's gain'd a matchless Reputation,
Perform'd by neither Sword or Gun;
But by what means you'll know anon;
And how he Work'd his Preservation.
16
Well-mounted on a Noble Steed,
With Sword and Pistol charg'd before-him;
Altho' we must Confess indeed,
Of either Arms there was no need,
His Conduct did alone secure-him.
With Sword and Pistol charg'd before-him;
Altho' we must Confess indeed,
Of either Arms there was no need,
His Conduct did alone secure-him.
With's Wife upon a single Horse,
T'wards Eppin both Rid out together:
But what than ill-Luck can be worse?
A High-way-Man of equal Force,
Alas, Obstructed both their Pleasure.
T'wards Eppin both Rid out together:
But what than ill-Luck can be worse?
A High-way-Man of equal Force,
Alas, Obstructed both their Pleasure.
With Pistol Cock'd; he made Demand,
And told them he must have their Money;
The Major Wisely would not stand,
Nor on his Pistols clap'd a Hand;
He was not such a Fighting Tony.
And told them he must have their Money;
The Major Wisely would not stand,
Nor on his Pistols clap'd a Hand;
He was not such a Fighting Tony.
But Spur'd away as swift as Wind;
No Elk or Tyger could run Faster.
Was ever Man so Stout and Kind,
To leave his Frighted Wife behind,
Expos'd to such a sad Disaster?
No Elk or Tyger could run Faster.
Was ever Man so Stout and Kind,
To leave his Frighted Wife behind,
Expos'd to such a sad Disaster?
Her Necklace, Cloaths, and Diamond Ring,
The Greedy Robber quickly fell-to.
One Pettycoat he let her bring
Away, with Smock and t'other Thing;
To let her Noble Hero Smell-to.
The Greedy Robber quickly fell-to.
One Pettycoat he let her bring
Away, with Smock and t'other Thing;
To let her Noble Hero Smell-to.
This Slight bred sad Domestick Strife,
Altho' the Man's to be Commended:
For what's a Loving Handsome Wife,
To a Mans Money or his Life;
For all is Lost when that is ended?
Altho' the Man's to be Commended:
For what's a Loving Handsome Wife,
To a Mans Money or his Life;
For all is Lost when that is ended?
FINIS.
| Battel without Bloodshed | |