Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads :: :: University of Virginia Library

With a flagon in each hand,
And a bowl before us,
While the barrel's running gold,
Cavaliers, the chorus!
Lest misfortune enter here,
Let us now debar her,
Tossing off Canary cups,
With a Sassarara!

Through the lattice see the west,
Like a burning ruby;
Who to-night goes sober hence
Shall be dubbed a booby.
Redder than that core of fire
Flash the gathered torches,
Blaze the bonfires in the streets
Round a thousand porches,

Full cups round, my hearts of steel,
Lads of trusty mettle;
Split the chair and break the form,
Chop in two the settle;
So the bonfire, roof-tree high,
Leap up to the steeple,
While with waving hats and swords
We address the people.

Burn the books of crop-eared Prynn,
Make the Roundheads shiver;
Give a shout to scare the rogues
Right across the river.
Blow the organ trumpet-loud,
Set the mad bells clashing,
Redden all the stones of Cheap
With the wine-cup's splashing.

Traitors who to-night retire
Cheek unflushed and sober,
I'll drench with this metal can
Of the brown October.
Drain the tun, yes, every drop,
Then split up the barrel,
Beat the pewter till it's flat,
Chorus to the carol.

Cavaliers, upon your knees,
Here's a health to heroes;
Jenkin, when I give the sign,
Fire the patarreros.
Blow the trumpets till they burst,
Welcome to the Stuart,
Slit his weasand who will dare
To say he's not a true heart.

Lift the stone up, tear Noll out,
Lop his head and swing it
From the triple Tyburn tree,
Where with groans we bring it.
Shake old Whitehall with the roar
Till the windows clatter,
Then the bones of Oliver
On the dunghill scatter.

Open throw the prison doors,
Free the wounded troopers—
When the Brewer's sword is snapt,
Shall the brave be droopers?
Lead them out into the sun,
Let them feel the breezes;
Crowd around them with the cup,
For their life-blood freezes.

Even let the crosses red
Be for once forgotten;
Let the dying hear us shout
Ere he's black and rotten;
Round the plague-pit cry and sing,
Let the wine elate us;
Wine's the balm for blain and boil,
The real Mithridates.

Now they grind the Tyburn axe,
Sing the song of Wigan,
So it pierce the prison bars
While the graves are digging.
Vane turns pale to hear the hiss
Of a thousand-headed adder,
While his sour face, black and calm,
Makes the rabble madder.

Fire the muskets all at once,
Snap off every pistol,
Wave the glasses in the sun,
And then smash the crystal;
Drag the dusty maypole out,
Ring it round with blossom;
Throw your caps into the air,
As for banners toss 'em.

Rear the pole, and let us dance
Hand-in-hand in chorus;
Bid the piper blow his best,
Strutting on before us.
Bang the cans upon the board,
Cadence to the roaring
Of the crowds who with the Rumps
Down Fleet-street are pouring.

Swing me in my sword-belt up
If I do not clamour
Louder than the merry din
Of the pewterer's hammer.
Thin-cheeked debtors from the Fleet,
Red-eyed, hungry-hearted,
Cry for very joy to think
Red-nosed Noll departed.

Wave the flag until it split,
Break up all the benches,
Round the fires that roast the Rumps
Kiss the laughing wenches.
Fling broad pieces to the crowd,
Let them fight and trample,
Every starving caitiff soon
Will have “counters” ample.

Tories! hearts of steel and gold,
Flash your swords to heaven,
Now the Brewer's dead and gone
With his bitter leaven.
Shout until the steeples shake,
And the bells are swinging,
Every bell in every house
Should be set a-ringing.

Ring from Cheapside unto Paul's,
Right to Piccadilly;
Wave the flags from Temple-bar
To where Holborn's hilly;
From the Barbican to Bow,
Up the Strand to Charing,
All along the Surrey side
Are the bonfires flaring.

Gracious-street to Crooked-lane,
Eastcheap to Old Jewry,
Whitefriars, too, is all alive,
Ram-alley shouts in fury;
At the Compter window see
All the rogues are staring,
The very gaoler's wakened up
By the torches flaring.

Right from Stratford to the Thames,
Then away to Clapham,
Bang the war-drums, strain them tight,
Then with cudgel rap 'em;
Clash the brass and raise a din,
Maddening the Quakers,
Leave beside the grave the dead,
All ye undertakers.

Let the baker's cheek grow red,
And the butcher's redder,
Make the blacksmith leave his forge,
Smithfield hind his wedder;
Carpenters the coffin leave,
Half made do for traitors,
If a Crophead dare to frown,
Hang him in his gaiters.

Now then drink till we grow blind,
And our voices fail us,
When the spirits of the wine
All at once assail us.
Then let jug and table fall,
Pile the cups who love us;
Let the topers sober left
Sing a dirge above us.