Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
 | SONGS OF THE CAVALIERS AND ROUNDHEADS. |
 |
|
|
 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
1
SONGS OF THE CAVALIERS AND ROUNDHEADS.
3
RUPERT'S MARCH.
Carabine slung, stirrup well hung,
Flagon at saddle-bow merrily swung;
Toss up the ale, for our flag, like a sail,
Struggles and swells in the hot July gale.
Colours fling out, and then give them a shout—
We are the gallants to put them to rout.
Flagon at saddle-bow merrily swung;
Toss up the ale, for our flag, like a sail,
Struggles and swells in the hot July gale.
Colours fling out, and then give them a shout—
We are the gallants to put them to rout.
Flash all your swords, like Tartarian hordes,
And scare the prim ladies of Puritan lords;
Our steel caps shall blaze through the long summer days,
As we, galloping, sing our mad Cavalier lays.
Then banners advance! By the lilies of France,
We are the gallants to lead them a dance.
And scare the prim ladies of Puritan lords;
Our steel caps shall blaze through the long summer days,
As we, galloping, sing our mad Cavalier lays.
Then banners advance! By the lilies of France,
We are the gallants to lead them a dance.
4
Ring the bells back, though the sexton look black,
Defiance to knaves who are hot on our track.
“Murder and fire!” shout louder and higher;
Remember Edge-hill and the red-dabbled mire,
When our steeds we shall stall in the Parliament hall,
And shake the old nest till the roof-tree shall fall.
Defiance to knaves who are hot on our track.
“Murder and fire!” shout louder and higher;
Remember Edge-hill and the red-dabbled mire,
When our steeds we shall stall in the Parliament hall,
And shake the old nest till the roof-tree shall fall.
Froth it up, girl, till it splash every curl,
October's the liquor for trooper and earl;
Bubble it up, merry gold in the cup,
We never may taste of to-morrow night's sup.
(Those red ribbons glow on thy bosom below
Like apple-tree bloom on a hillock of snow.)
October's the liquor for trooper and earl;
Bubble it up, merry gold in the cup,
We never may taste of to-morrow night's sup.
(Those red ribbons glow on thy bosom below
Like apple-tree bloom on a hillock of snow.)
No, by my word, there never shook sword
Better than this in the clutch of a lord;
The blue streaks that run are as bright in the sun
As the veins on the brow of that loveliest one;
No deep light of the sky, when the twilight is nigh,
Glitters more bright than this blade to the eye.
Better than this in the clutch of a lord;
The blue streaks that run are as bright in the sun
As the veins on the brow of that loveliest one;
No deep light of the sky, when the twilight is nigh,
Glitters more bright than this blade to the eye.
Well, whatever may hap, this rusty steel-cap
Will keep out full many a pestilent rap;
This buff, though it's old and not larded with gold,
Will guard me from rapier as well as from cold;
This scarf, rent and torn, though its colour is worn,
Shone gay as a page's but yesterday morn.
Will keep out full many a pestilent rap;
This buff, though it's old and not larded with gold,
Will guard me from rapier as well as from cold;
5
Shone gay as a page's but yesterday morn.
Here is a dint from the jagg of a flint,
Thrown by a Puritan just as a hint;
But this stab through the buff was a warning more rough,
When Coventry city arose in a huff;
And I met with this gash, as we rode with a crash
Into Noll's pikes on the banks of the Ash.
Thrown by a Puritan just as a hint;
But this stab through the buff was a warning more rough,
When Coventry city arose in a huff;
And I met with this gash, as we rode with a crash
Into Noll's pikes on the banks of the Ash.
No jockey or groom wears so draggled a plume
As this that's just drenched in the swift-flowing Froom.
Red grew the tide ere we reached the steep side,
And steaming the hair of old Barbary's hide;
But for branch of that oak that saved me a stroke,
I had sunk there like herring in pickle to soak.
As this that's just drenched in the swift-flowing Froom.
Red grew the tide ere we reached the steep side,
And steaming the hair of old Barbary's hide;
But for branch of that oak that saved me a stroke,
I had sunk there like herring in pickle to soak.
Pistolet crack flashed bright on our track,
And even the foam of the water turned black.
They were twenty to one, our poor rapier to gun,
But we charged up the bank, and we lost only one;
So I saved the old flag, though it was but a rag,
And the sword in my hand was snapped off to a jagg.
And even the foam of the water turned black.
They were twenty to one, our poor rapier to gun,
But we charged up the bank, and we lost only one;
So I saved the old flag, though it was but a rag,
And the sword in my hand was snapped off to a jagg.
6
The water was churned as we wheeled and we turned,
And the dry brake to scare out the vermin we burned.
We gave our halloo, and our trumpet we blew;
Of all their stout fifty we left them but two;
With a mock and a laugh, won their banner and staff,
And trod down the cornets as thrashers do chaff.
And the dry brake to scare out the vermin we burned.
We gave our halloo, and our trumpet we blew;
Of all their stout fifty we left them but two;
With a mock and a laugh, won their banner and staff,
And trod down the cornets as thrashers do chaff.
Saddle my roan, his back is a throne,
Better than velvet or gold, you will own.
Look to your match, or some harm you may catch,
For treason has always some mischief to hatch;
And Oliver's out with all Haslerigg's rout,
So I'm told by this shivering, white-livered scout.
Better than velvet or gold, you will own.
Look to your match, or some harm you may catch,
For treason has always some mischief to hatch;
And Oliver's out with all Haslerigg's rout,
So I'm told by this shivering, white-livered scout.
We came over the downs, through village and towns,
In spite of the sneers, and the curses and frowns;
Drowning their psalms, and stilling their qualms,
With a clatter and rattle of scabbards and arms.
Down, the long street, with a trample of feet,
For the echo of hoofs to a cavalier's sweet.
In spite of the sneers, and the curses and frowns;
Drowning their psalms, and stilling their qualms,
With a clatter and rattle of scabbards and arms.
Down, the long street, with a trample of feet,
For the echo of hoofs to a cavalier's sweet.
See black on each roof, at the sound of our hoof,
The Puritans gather, but keep them aloof;
Their muskets are long, and they aim at a throng,
But woe to the weak when they challenge the strong!
Butt-end to the door, one hammer more,
Our pike-men rush in and the struggle is o'er.
The Puritans gather, but keep them aloof;
7
But woe to the weak when they challenge the strong!
Butt-end to the door, one hammer more,
Our pike-men rush in and the struggle is o'er.
Storm through the gate, batter the plate,
Cram the red crucible into the grate;
Saddle-bags fill, Bob, Jenkin, and Will,
And spice the staved wine that runs out like a rill.
That maiden shall ride all to-day by my side,
Those ribbons are fitting a cavalier's bride.
Cram the red crucible into the grate;
Saddle-bags fill, Bob, Jenkin, and Will,
And spice the staved wine that runs out like a rill.
That maiden shall ride all to-day by my side,
Those ribbons are fitting a cavalier's bride.
Does Baxter say right, that a bodice laced tight,
Should never be seen by the sun or the light?
Like stars from a wood, shine under that hood,
Eyes that are sparkling, though pious and good.
Surely this waist was by Providence placed,
By a true lover's arm to be often embraced.
Should never be seen by the sun or the light?
Like stars from a wood, shine under that hood,
Eyes that are sparkling, though pious and good.
Surely this waist was by Providence placed,
By a true lover's arm to be often embraced.
Down on your knees, you villains in frieze,
A draught to King Charles, or a swing from those trees;
Blow off this stiff lock, for 'tis useless to knock,
The ladies will pardon the noise and the shock.
From this bright dewy cheek, might I venture to speak,
I could kiss off the tears though she wept for a week.
A draught to King Charles, or a swing from those trees;
Blow off this stiff lock, for 'tis useless to knock,
The ladies will pardon the noise and the shock.
From this bright dewy cheek, might I venture to speak,
I could kiss off the tears though she wept for a week.
8
Now loop me this scarf round the broken pike-staff,
'Twill do for a flag, though the Crop Heads may laugh.
Who was it blew? Give an halloo,
And hang out the pennon of crimson and blue;
A volley of shot is a welcoming hot;—
It cannot be troop of the murdering Scot?
'Twill do for a flag, though the Crop Heads may laugh.
Who was it blew? Give an halloo,
And hang out the pennon of crimson and blue;
A volley of shot is a welcoming hot;—
It cannot be troop of the murdering Scot?
Fire the old mill on the brow of the hill,
Break down the plank that runs over the rill,
Bar the town gate; if the burghers debate,
Shoot some to death, for the villains must wait;
Rip up the lead from the roofing o'er head,
And melt it for bullets or we shall be sped.
Break down the plank that runs over the rill,
Bar the town gate; if the burghers debate,
Shoot some to death, for the villains must wait;
Rip up the lead from the roofing o'er head,
And melt it for bullets or we shall be sped.
Now look to your buff, for steel is the stuff
To slash your brown jerkins with crimson enough;
There burst a flash—I heard their drums crash;
To horse! now for race over moorland and plash;
Ere the stars glimmer out, we will wake with a shout
The true men of York, who will welcome our rout.
To slash your brown jerkins with crimson enough;
There burst a flash—I heard their drums crash;
To horse! now for race over moorland and plash;
Ere the stars glimmer out, we will wake with a shout
The true men of York, who will welcome our rout.
We'll shake their red roofs with our echoing hoofs,
And flutter the dust from their tapestry woofs;
Their old Minster shall ring with our “God save the king,”
And our horses shall drink at St. Christopher's spring;
We shall welcome the meat, O the wine will taste sweet,
When our boots we fling off, and as brothers we meet.
And flutter the dust from their tapestry woofs;
9
And our horses shall drink at St. Christopher's spring;
We shall welcome the meat, O the wine will taste sweet,
When our boots we fling off, and as brothers we meet.
10
THE TILT-YARD.
Noisy ran the blue and orange,
Noisy ran the red,
Like a flight of crimson birds,
With their broad wings spread.
Lusty, all in scarlet,
Ran the sturdy grooms—
And, oh! wherever broke the spears,
The tossing of the plumes!
Noisy ran the red,
Like a flight of crimson birds,
With their broad wings spread.
Lusty, all in scarlet,
Ran the sturdy grooms—
And, oh! wherever broke the spears,
The tossing of the plumes!
First the black and silver,
Then the blue and brown;
But John of the Beard, in yellow,
Carried away the crown.
He rode, and quick the shivers
Flew up—in ran the grooms—
And, oh! whoever rose or fell,
The tossing of the plumes!
Then the blue and brown;
But John of the Beard, in yellow,
Carried away the crown.
He rode, and quick the shivers
Flew up—in ran the grooms—
And, oh! whoever rose or fell,
The tossing of the plumes!
11
Then came the black and yellow,
The russet and the blue;
Never met in tilting-yard,
Such a merry crew.
The ladies laughed, a rippling wave,
Mirth spread to all the grooms—
And, oh! whenever snapped a spear,
The tossing of the plumes!
The russet and the blue;
Never met in tilting-yard,
Such a merry crew.
The ladies laughed, a rippling wave,
Mirth spread to all the grooms—
And, oh! whenever snapped a spear,
The tossing of the plumes!
12
THE CAVALIERS' MUSTER.
Here is Sir Reginald, gentle and true,
Courtly and bright in his silver and blue;
There is old Philip behind him as gruff,
Sturdy and grim in his orange and buff.
Courtly and bright in his silver and blue;
There is old Philip behind him as gruff,
Sturdy and grim in his orange and buff.
Here is Bob Darcy still smoothing his hair,
For the frost dew has silvered his love-lock so fair;
And there is the blackamoor close at his back,
Laughing and patting a pottle of sack.
For the frost dew has silvered his love-lock so fair;
And there is the blackamoor close at his back,
Laughing and patting a pottle of sack.
See how old Oliver (fie on his name)
Opens the flag that blows out like a flame;
Up fly the swords of a dozen or two,—
Were gentlemen ever so trusty and true?
Opens the flag that blows out like a flame;
Up fly the swords of a dozen or two,—
Were gentlemen ever so trusty and true?
13
How the brave lad with the feather of white,
Struggles and strains, yet with looks of delight,
At the huge sable charger his father has lent,
His red coat still drips from the flood of the Trent.
Struggles and strains, yet with looks of delight,
At the huge sable charger his father has lent,
His red coat still drips from the flood of the Trent.
With careful set faces the trumpeters puff,
The drummer works hard at the drum-skin so tough,
As the sheriff rides up, with a parchment pulled out,
And reads as he can through the cheer and the shout.
The drummer works hard at the drum-skin so tough,
As the sheriff rides up, with a parchment pulled out,
And reads as he can through the cheer and the shout.
Now a pull at their bridles, a word and a cry,
A frown at the earth and a smile at the sky,
A setting of cloaks, a low curse (half in play),
And the sixty brave gentlemen gallop away.
A frown at the earth and a smile at the sky,
A setting of cloaks, a low curse (half in play),
And the sixty brave gentlemen gallop away.
14
THE FOUNTAIN BEAULIEU.
The silver plume of the fountain
Shakes in the summer wind,
Bright spray drops slowly trickle
Down the beech's glossy rind;
Untiring sweet, as woman's tongue,
Those waters do appear,
That fill the Fountain Beaulieu
In the spring time of the year.
Shakes in the summer wind,
Bright spray drops slowly trickle
Down the beech's glossy rind;
Untiring sweet, as woman's tongue,
Those waters do appear,
That fill the Fountain Beaulieu
In the spring time of the year.
The fountain's glittering banner
The wind blows struggling out,
Sprinkling, like showers of April,
The young flowers all about;
With lavish hand the sea-god flings
The silver far and near,
Gaily at Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
The wind blows struggling out,
Sprinkling, like showers of April,
The young flowers all about;
With lavish hand the sea-god flings
The silver far and near,
Gaily at Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
15
Through a veil of crystal drippings
A marble form appears:
It might, indeed, be Niobe,
Melting away in tears;
Gay in the granite basin
The bubbles swim and veer
Round the palace fount at Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
A marble form appears:
It might, indeed, be Niobe,
Melting away in tears;
Gay in the granite basin
The bubbles swim and veer
Round the palace fount at Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
And when the sun looks smiling out,
Bright rainbow mists arise,
As glorious as if Juno
Had sent the peacock's dyes
To veil her marble image,
And worshippers to cheer,
Such pleasures are at Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
Bright rainbow mists arise,
As glorious as if Juno
Had sent the peacock's dyes
To veil her marble image,
And worshippers to cheer,
Such pleasures are at Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
Gold paves the stately terrace,
The sun of an April morn,
And far beyond the gardens
Rings out the lusty horn;
The dogs are hoarsely baying,
To wake the sleepers near,
Rousing thy echoes, Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
The sun of an April morn,
And far beyond the gardens
Rings out the lusty horn;
The dogs are hoarsely baying,
To wake the sleepers near,
Rousing thy echoes, Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
16
In the court-yard stands a dial,
With the motto “Man's a shade,”
The peacock, like a sultan,
His glory has displayed;
Through emeraldine lustre
Flushes of gold appear
Beside the Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
With the motto “Man's a shade,”
The peacock, like a sultan,
His glory has displayed;
Through emeraldine lustre
Flushes of gold appear
Beside the Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
The cock, that stately monarch,
Leads out his chattering wives,
The lime trees all in blossom
Are grown to mountain hives,
The pigeons on the gables
Are cooing without fear
Above thy fountain, Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
Leads out his chattering wives,
The lime trees all in blossom
Are grown to mountain hives,
The pigeons on the gables
Are cooing without fear
Above thy fountain, Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
The spray from the music water
Drives off the cruizing bees,
Its babble drowns the thrushes' song
Among the dewy trees;
Against the sky of azure
The dove's white wings appear
Beside the Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
Drives off the cruizing bees,
Its babble drowns the thrushes' song
Among the dewy trees;
Against the sky of azure
The dove's white wings appear
Beside the Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
17
Soft shone the sun of April
Upon the swarded grass,
Pale gleams from amber cloudings
Over the green turf pass;
The blackbird piped and fluted,
The throstle chanted clear
Beside the Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
Upon the swarded grass,
Pale gleams from amber cloudings
Over the green turf pass;
The blackbird piped and fluted,
The throstle chanted clear
Beside the Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
So stately down the river,
Between the sloping lawns,
Floated the swan and cygnets,
Scaring the drinking fawns;
Their white breasts scarcely ruffled,
The water crystal clear—
O! the pleasant fount of Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
Between the sloping lawns,
Floated the swan and cygnets,
Scaring the drinking fawns;
Their white breasts scarcely ruffled,
The water crystal clear—
O! the pleasant fount of Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
The noisy rooks were building
In the tops of the lofty elms,
That shook in the breeze of April
Like plumes in a thousand helms;
For morn had come to the weeping earth,
And kissed away each tear,
O! pleasant home of Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
In the tops of the lofty elms,
That shook in the breeze of April
Like plumes in a thousand helms;
For morn had come to the weeping earth,
And kissed away each tear,
O! pleasant home of Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
18
The sun on blazoned windows
Shone with a lustre rare,
The mole came up from his winter grave,
The snake from his silent lair;
The swallow tired with travel,
The young birds' carols cheer.
O the noisy woods of Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year!
Shone with a lustre rare,
The mole came up from his winter grave,
The snake from his silent lair;
The swallow tired with travel,
The young birds' carols cheer.
O the noisy woods of Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year!
Bright bursts of sun so laughter-like
With fitful joy broke out;
The lark, blue heaven's hermit,
Sprang up from the fields without;
White in the happy sunlight,
The rooks' black wings appear,—
'Twas at the Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
With fitful joy broke out;
The lark, blue heaven's hermit,
Sprang up from the fields without;
White in the happy sunlight,
The rooks' black wings appear,—
'Twas at the Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
The clock in the great court turret
Was glistening in the sun,
But Time, with shadowy finger,
Athwart the disc began
To point to noon and evening,
Alas! to morn too near,
O! pleasant Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
Was glistening in the sun,
But Time, with shadowy finger,
Athwart the disc began
To point to noon and evening,
Alas! to morn too near,
O! pleasant Fountain Beaulieu,
In the spring time of the year.
19
WIGAN'S RETREAT.
Hurrah! for the trumpeter blowing his best—
Blood on his feather, and blood on his crest;
Here was old Warrener, trusty as steel,
Fitting a crimson spur fast to his heel.
Blood on his feather, and blood on his crest;
Here was old Warrener, trusty as steel,
Fitting a crimson spur fast to his heel.
There rode the banner-man—Lord! how his flag
Blew all about with its patch and its rag—
But he shook it, and made the old tawny and blue
Flutter its welcome words, “Tender and true.”
Blew all about with its patch and its rag—
But he shook it, and made the old tawny and blue
Flutter its welcome words, “Tender and true.”
Robinson's helmet had tokens of work;
Jenkin was powder-scorched, black as a Turk;
There were notches inch deep in young Bellamy's sword,
He had shed his best blood at the Yellow-stone ford.
Jenkin was powder-scorched, black as a Turk;
There were notches inch deep in young Bellamy's sword,
He had shed his best blood at the Yellow-stone ford.
20
Powder-black, bleeding lads, hungry and torn;
Brown faces, wan faces, haggard and worn,
Laughing to think of the ups and the downs,
Riding rough-shod o'er the Puritan clowns.
Brown faces, wan faces, haggard and worn,
Laughing to think of the ups and the downs,
Riding rough-shod o'er the Puritan clowns.
Steady and slow, with a thought for the dead,
Some with a bandage on arm and on head
Scarcely awake, till the rap at a flint
Showed them good coin, sirs, sound from the mint.
Some with a bandage on arm and on head
Scarcely awake, till the rap at a flint
Showed them good coin, sirs, sound from the mint.
When the gun spoke and long barrels looked out,
From window and loop-hole, and gable and spout,
Then they struck spurs, and the trumpeter, Jack,
Blew till his yellow face clouded with black.
From window and loop-hole, and gable and spout,
Then they struck spurs, and the trumpeter, Jack,
Blew till his yellow face clouded with black.
Like a swift lightning flame, through the ripe corn
Ran the loud welcome of anger and scorn;
Up went the sabres—a flashing of light
Spread from the cheering left on to the right.
Ran the loud welcome of anger and scorn;
Up went the sabres—a flashing of light
Spread from the cheering left on to the right.
A staggering blinding of shot and of flame,
Struck down the scarfs and the feathers that came,
But when the black thunder-cloud burst with a roar,
Out broke the Wiganers—thirty-two score.
Struck down the scarfs and the feathers that came,
But when the black thunder-cloud burst with a roar,
Out broke the Wiganers—thirty-two score.
Have you seen the sea leap when a dyke has broke in?
Or a swollen Scotch torrent leap down in a linn?
Then you've seen the hot charge that swept Bolsover through,
When Wigan rode first of the “tender and true.”
Or a swollen Scotch torrent leap down in a linn?
21
When Wigan rode first of the “tender and true.”
Wigan was bloody, and dusty and worn,
His buff torn with pike-head and bramble and thorn,
His scarf all awry, and his feather in twain,
His saddle-cloth purple with blood of the slain.
His buff torn with pike-head and bramble and thorn,
His scarf all awry, and his feather in twain,
His saddle-cloth purple with blood of the slain.
His collar of point-lace, all mudded and red,
A gash on his forehead, a rag round his head;
Yet still bowing low to the townsmen, who scowl,
And calling for sack at the “Flagon and Bowl.”
A gash on his forehead, a rag round his head;
Yet still bowing low to the townsmen, who scowl,
And calling for sack at the “Flagon and Bowl.”
The host by the sleeve, and the maid by the hand,
He praised her—the beauty of Bolsover land;
Then with strong shouting of hurry and force,
Crying with pistol shot—“Gallants to horse!’
He praised her—the beauty of Bolsover land;
Then with strong shouting of hurry and force,
Crying with pistol shot—“Gallants to horse!’
22
THE TROOPERS' RIDE.
Good men and trusty men,
Riding together,
Shoulder to shoulder,
Minding no weather;
Splash through the marshes,
Tramp o'er the mountains,
Close by the gable-ends,
Under the fountains.
Riding together,
Shoulder to shoulder,
Minding no weather;
Splash through the marshes,
Tramp o'er the mountains,
Close by the gable-ends,
Under the fountains.
Stopping to bait and eat,
Hand to the flagon,
Hungry as good St. George,
Fresh from the dragon;
Cheering Sir Robert,
Lord of the manor,
When he rode up to us,
Shaking his banner.
Hand to the flagon,
Hungry as good St. George,
Fresh from the dragon;
Cheering Sir Robert,
Lord of the manor,
When he rode up to us,
Shaking his banner.
23
Firing a pelt of shot,
Fierce at Sir Roger's,
Coward! he's turning red,
Seeing the sogers,
Firing a loud salute;
As was our duty,
When we passed Deveril,
Casket of beauty.
Fierce at Sir Roger's,
Coward! he's turning red,
Seeing the sogers,
Firing a loud salute;
As was our duty,
When we passed Deveril,
Casket of beauty.
24
THE SALLY FROM COVENTRY.
“Passion o' me!” cried Sir Richard Tyrone,
Spurning the sparks from the broad paving-stone,
“Better turn nurse and rock children to sleep,
Than yield to a rebel old Coventry Keep.
No, by my halidom, no one shall say,
Sir Richard Tyrone gave a city away.”
Spurning the sparks from the broad paving-stone,
“Better turn nurse and rock children to sleep,
Than yield to a rebel old Coventry Keep.
No, by my halidom, no one shall say,
Sir Richard Tyrone gave a city away.”
Passion o' me! how he pulled at his beard.
Fretting and chafing if any one sneered,
Clapping his breastplate and shaking his fist,
Giving his grizzly moustachios a twist,
Running the protocol through with his steel,
Grinding the letter to mud with his heel.
Fretting and chafing if any one sneered,
Clapping his breastplate and shaking his fist,
Giving his grizzly moustachios a twist,
Running the protocol through with his steel,
Grinding the letter to mud with his heel.
25
Then he roared out for a pottle of sack,
Clapped the old trumpeter twice on the back,
Leaped on his bay with a dash and a swing,
Bade all the bells in the city to ring,
And when the red flag from the steeple went down,
Open they flung every gate in the town.
Clapped the old trumpeter twice on the back,
Leaped on his bay with a dash and a swing,
Bade all the bells in the city to ring,
And when the red flag from the steeple went down,
Open they flung every gate in the town.
To boot! and to horse! and away like a flood,
A fire in their eyes, and a sting in their blood;
Hurrying out with a flash and a flare,
A roar of hot guns, a loud trumpeter's blare,
And first, sitting proud as a king on his throne,
At the head of them all dashed Sir Richard Tyrone.
A fire in their eyes, and a sting in their blood;
Hurrying out with a flash and a flare,
A roar of hot guns, a loud trumpeter's blare,
And first, sitting proud as a king on his throne,
At the head of them all dashed Sir Richard Tyrone.
Crimson and yellow, and purple and dun,
Fluttering scarf, flowing bright in the sun,
Steel like a mirror on brow and on breast,
Scarlet and white on their feather and crest,
Banner that blew in a torrent of red,
Borne by Sir Richard, who rode at their head.
Fluttering scarf, flowing bright in the sun,
Steel like a mirror on brow and on breast,
Scarlet and white on their feather and crest,
Banner that blew in a torrent of red,
Borne by Sir Richard, who rode at their head.
The ‘trumpet’ went down—with a gash on his poll,
Struck by the parters of body and soul.
Forty saddles were empty; the horses ran red
With foul Puritan blood from the slashes that bled.
Curses and cries and a gnashing of teeth,
A grapple and stab on the slippery heath,
And Sir Richard leaped up on the fool that went down,
Proud as a conqueror donning his crown.
Struck by the parters of body and soul.
Forty saddles were empty; the horses ran red
With foul Puritan blood from the slashes that bled.
26
A grapple and stab on the slippery heath,
And Sir Richard leaped up on the fool that went down,
Proud as a conqueror donning his crown.
They broke them a way through a flooding of fire,
Trampling the best blood of London to mire,
When suddenly rising a smoke and a blaze,
Made all “the dragon's sons” stare in amaze:
“O ho!” quoth Sir Richard, “my city grows hot,
I've left it rent paid to the villanous Scot.”
Trampling the best blood of London to mire,
When suddenly rising a smoke and a blaze,
Made all “the dragon's sons” stare in amaze:
“O ho!” quoth Sir Richard, “my city grows hot,
I've left it rent paid to the villanous Scot.”
27
RAISING THE TOWN.
Set the big bell rocking, you sexton sot,
And rouse the burghers against the Scot.
Hang to the rope, the bell must have scope,
Pull with a will, and pull with a hope,
And then give the villains a shot—
Why not?
And rouse the city against the Scot.
And rouse the burghers against the Scot.
Hang to the rope, the bell must have scope,
Pull with a will, and pull with a hope,
And then give the villains a shot—
Why not?
And rouse the city against the Scot.
Cling to the clapper, and hammer and clash,
From Peter's to Andrew's, the 'prentices rash
Will leap to their swords, and leaving their boards,
Scurry like wild deer over the fords.
Now drag at the old fuzzed rope,
No Pope,
Or Knox shall rule us, while gibbet has rope.
From Peter's to Andrew's, the 'prentices rash
Will leap to their swords, and leaving their boards,
Scurry like wild deer over the fords.
Now drag at the old fuzzed rope,
No Pope,
Or Knox shall rule us, while gibbet has rope.
Beat the old brass, till its hurrying roar
Rouse the towns-people score by score,
Hammer and beat, till they scurry and meet
Up on the postern and down in the street,
Beat, beat!
We've need of them all in the street.
Rouse the towns-people score by score,
28
Up on the postern and down in the street,
Beat, beat!
We've need of them all in the street.
Ram out the gun, from the top of the tower,
There goes the bell, 'tis twelve by the hour,
Cram it with shot, we'll give it them hot,
Thief and pedlar and beggarly Scot.
Oh, we can't bate a bullet or shot,
'Od rot!
Blaze till it burst at the Scot.
There goes the bell, 'tis twelve by the hour,
Cram it with shot, we'll give it them hot,
Thief and pedlar and beggarly Scot.
Oh, we can't bate a bullet or shot,
'Od rot!
Blaze till it burst at the Scot.
Swinging and swaying, the ponderous chime
Shakes the steeple from time to time;
The torches they run, and one after one
The city is rousing, they jostle and run,
The game is started, the scrimmage begun.
The gun!
Comes like thunder to deafen and stun.
Shakes the steeple from time to time;
The torches they run, and one after one
The city is rousing, they jostle and run,
The game is started, the scrimmage begun.
The gun!
Comes like thunder to deafen and stun.
Lights are spreading from pane to pane,
There was a flash, and another again
From Michael's tower, with a flurry of shot,
Quick and steady, and fierce and hot,
Let the coward go shiver and rot,
Why not?
Rake the van of the staggering Scot.
There was a flash, and another again
From Michael's tower, with a flurry of shot,
Quick and steady, and fierce and hot,
Let the coward go shiver and rot,
Why not?
Rake the van of the staggering Scot.
29
THE TRUMPETER.
Of golden silk and crimson,
My trumpet flag was made,
I rode as in a forest
Of pike and gun and blade;
And I blew, blew, blew,
For I liked the merry crew,
And rap, rap, the kettle-drummers played.
My trumpet flag was made,
I rode as in a forest
Of pike and gun and blade;
And I blew, blew, blew,
For I liked the merry crew,
And rap, rap, the kettle-drummers played.
We saw them barricading,
They met us with a laugh,
But closing up we charged them grim,
As the colonel shook his staff;
And I blew, blew, blew,
For I liked the merry crew,
And we drove the Barebones as the wind drives chaff.
They met us with a laugh,
But closing up we charged them grim,
As the colonel shook his staff;
And I blew, blew, blew,
For I liked the merry crew,
And we drove the Barebones as the wind drives chaff.
30
Through lanes we swished our sabres,
Swam rivers, ramparts leaped,
We ride through snow and tempest,
When watch and sentry sleep;
And I blew, blew, blew,
For I liked the merry crew,
And I led them with a shout and with a leap.
Swam rivers, ramparts leaped,
We ride through snow and tempest,
When watch and sentry sleep;
And I blew, blew, blew,
For I liked the merry crew,
And I led them with a shout and with a leap.
31
ENTERING DUNDEE.
Shouting “Goring!” slashing, roaring,
Singing, swearing, musket flaring, colours blowing free,
On a day in pleasant May, never minding right of way,
Never stopping shot to pay,
Merry rode the troopers into fair Dundee.
Singing, swearing, musket flaring, colours blowing free,
On a day in pleasant May, never minding right of way,
Never stopping shot to pay,
Merry rode the troopers into fair Dundee.
Sparrow-shooting, crying, hooting,
Tossing, prancing, pennon dancing, through the window see—
Clashing scabbard, not a laggard, spurring fast from lea and haggard,
Shaking every noisy scabbard,
Merry rode the troopers into fair Dundee.
Tossing, prancing, pennon dancing, through the window see—
Clashing scabbard, not a laggard, spurring fast from lea and haggard,
Shaking every noisy scabbard,
Merry rode the troopers into fair Dundee.
32
THE THREE SCARS.
This I got on the day that Goring
Fought through York, like a wild beast roaring—
The roofs were black, and the streets were full,
The doors built up with the packs of wool;
But our pikes made way through a storm of shot,
Barrel to barrel till locks grew hot;
Frere fell dead, and Lucas was gone,
But the drum still beat and the flag went on.
Fought through York, like a wild beast roaring—
The roofs were black, and the streets were full,
The doors built up with the packs of wool;
But our pikes made way through a storm of shot,
Barrel to barrel till locks grew hot;
Frere fell dead, and Lucas was gone,
But the drum still beat and the flag went on.
This I caught from a swinging sabre,
All I had from a long night's labour;
When Chester flamed, and the streets were red,
In splashing shower fell the molten lead,
The fire sprang up, and the old roof split,
The fire-ball burst in the middle of it;
With a clash and a clang the troopers they ran,
For the siege was over ere well began.
All I had from a long night's labour;
When Chester flamed, and the streets were red,
In splashing shower fell the molten lead,
The fire sprang up, and the old roof split,
The fire-ball burst in the middle of it;
With a clash and a clang the troopers they ran,
For the siege was over ere well began.
33
This I got from a pistol butt
(Lucky my head's not a hazel nut;)
The horse they raced, and scudded and swore;
There were Leicestershire gentlemen, seventy score;
Up came the “Lobsters,” covered with steel—
Down we went with a stagger and reel;
Smash at the flag, I tore it to rag,
And carried it off in my foraging bag.
(Lucky my head's not a hazel nut;)
The horse they raced, and scudded and swore;
There were Leicestershire gentlemen, seventy score;
Up came the “Lobsters,” covered with steel—
Down we went with a stagger and reel;
Smash at the flag, I tore it to rag,
And carried it off in my foraging bag.
34
THE NIGHT OF THE SALLY.
The wind plays with the tight strings of the fiddle,
The chaplain's fiddle hanging on the wall,
And shakes the hawk-bells where they hang,
And the feathers, red and tall,
Of the Baron and his three and forty troopers,
Singing the loud hunting chorus in the hall.
The chaplain's fiddle hanging on the wall,
And shakes the hawk-bells where they hang,
And the feathers, red and tall,
Of the Baron and his three and forty troopers,
Singing the loud hunting chorus in the hall.
They join hands, clashing flagons, shouting, drinking,
Lifting their red Venice glasses to the light,
Shaking their corslets, laughing, flouting,
Their fierce eyes sad but bright;
For the Baron and his three and forty troopers
Are all sworn to die together on this night.
Lifting their red Venice glasses to the light,
Shaking their corslets, laughing, flouting,
Their fierce eyes sad but bright;
For the Baron and his three and forty troopers
Are all sworn to die together on this night.
35
One strokes the staghounds leaping from their couples,
One pulls the jester screaming by the ear,
A third says a quick prayer with the chaplain,
A fourth breaks out into a cheer;
For the Baron and his three and forty troopers
Are stout men who never know a fear.
One pulls the jester screaming by the ear,
A third says a quick prayer with the chaplain,
A fourth breaks out into a cheer;
For the Baron and his three and forty troopers
Are stout men who never know a fear.
36
LEAVING CHESTER.
Cannon bom, bom—cannon bom, bom,
Trumpeters sounding, away! away!
“Five kisses to you, pretty maiden in blue,
And a gold ring, but not just to-day, to-day.”
Trumpeters sounding, away! away!
“Five kisses to you, pretty maiden in blue,
And a gold ring, but not just to-day, to-day.”
Fifers tweet, tweet—fifers tweet, tweet,
Trumpeters sounding, away! away!
“Here's the bill and the score, twenty bottles or more;”
“O we'll settle, but not just to-day, to-day.”
Trumpeters sounding, away! away!
“Here's the bill and the score, twenty bottles or more;”
“O we'll settle, but not just to-day, to-day.”
Cannon bom, bom—cannon bom, bom,
Trumpeters sounding, away! away!
“Here's the charter and seal—do you think we would steal?”
“And the town plate?” “O not just to-day, to-day.”
Trumpeters sounding, away! away!
“Here's the charter and seal—do you think we would steal?”
“And the town plate?” “O not just to-day, to-day.”
37
Fifers tweet, tweet—fifers tweet, tweet,
Trumpeters sounding, away! away!
“Quick, the chalice and cup—here's that priest coming up,”
“And the paten!” “O not just to-day, to-day.”
Trumpeters sounding, away! away!
“Quick, the chalice and cup—here's that priest coming up,”
“And the paten!” “O not just to-day, to-day.”
Trumpeter sound—trumpeter sound,
The troopers are riding away! away!
“Here's the sheriff and mayor—how they noddle and stare!”
“And the town plate?” “Well, not just to-day, to-day.”
The troopers are riding away! away!
“Here's the sheriff and mayor—how they noddle and stare!”
“And the town plate?” “Well, not just to-day, to-day.”
38
MELTING OF THE EARL'S PLATE.
Here's the gold cup all bossy with satyrs and saints,
And my race-bowl (now, women, no whining and plaints!)
From the paltriest spoon to the costliest thing,
We'll melt it all down for the use of the king.
And my race-bowl (now, women, no whining and plaints!)
From the paltriest spoon to the costliest thing,
We'll melt it all down for the use of the king.
Here's the chalice stamped over with sigil and cross,—
Some day we'll make up to the chapel the loss.
Now bring me my father's great emerald ring,
For I'll melt down the gold for the good of the king.
Some day we'll make up to the chapel the loss.
Now bring me my father's great emerald ring,
For I'll melt down the gold for the good of the king.
And bring me the casket my mother has got,
And the jewels that fall to my Barbara's lot;
Then dry up your eyes and do nothing but sing,
For we're helping to coin the gold for the king.
And the jewels that fall to my Barbara's lot;
Then dry up your eyes and do nothing but sing,
For we're helping to coin the gold for the king.
39
This dross we'll transmute into weapons of steel,
Tempered blades for the hand, sharpest spurs for the heel;
And when Charles, with a shout, into London we bring,
We'll be glad to remember this deed for the king.
Tempered blades for the hand, sharpest spurs for the heel;
And when Charles, with a shout, into London we bring,
We'll be glad to remember this deed for the king.
Bring the hawk's silver bells, and the nursery spoon,
The crucible's ready—we're nothing too soon;
For I hear the horse neigh that shall carry the thing
That'll bring up a smile in the eyes of the king.
The crucible's ready—we're nothing too soon;
For I hear the horse neigh that shall carry the thing
That'll bring up a smile in the eyes of the king.
There go my old spurs, and the old silver jug,—
'Twas just for a moment a pang and a tug;
But now I am ready to dance and to sing,
To think I've thrown gold in the chest of my king.
'Twas just for a moment a pang and a tug;
But now I am ready to dance and to sing,
To think I've thrown gold in the chest of my king.
The earrings lose shape, and the coronet too,
I feel my eyes dim with a sort of a dew.
Hurrah for the posset dish!—Everything
Shall run into bars for the use of the king.
I feel my eyes dim with a sort of a dew.
Hurrah for the posset dish!—Everything
Shall run into bars for the use of the king.
That spoon is a sword, and this thimble a pike;
It's but a week's garret in London belike—
Then a dash at Whitehall, and the city shall ring
With the shouts of the multitude bringing the king.
It's but a week's garret in London belike—
Then a dash at Whitehall, and the city shall ring
With the shouts of the multitude bringing the king.
40
SEARCHING THE MANOR-HOUSE.
Flutter, feather, flutter,
Flutter, feather, flutter,
From head to heel, an't we covered with steel?
Why, then, let the mad fools mutter;
Our colours shall flap and flutter.
Flutter, feather, flutter,
From head to heel, an't we covered with steel?
Why, then, let the mad fools mutter;
Our colours shall flap and flutter.
Banner, struggle, banner,
The parliament claims this manor;
Are we not tough, in our iron and buff?
Tough as the oaks of the manor?
Up, then, lads, with the banner.
The parliament claims this manor;
Are we not tough, in our iron and buff?
Tough as the oaks of the manor?
Up, then, lads, with the banner.
A pottle of sack—a pottle—
And give us the merriest bottle;
Great judges of wine, are these lads of mine;
The oldest wine in your bottle,
You butler, there, a pottle.
And give us the merriest bottle;
Great judges of wine, are these lads of mine;
The oldest wine in your bottle,
You butler, there, a pottle.
Rattle, drummers, rattle,
I see the fools will battle;
And trumpeters blow, till your eye-balls show;
Sound for the instant battle—
Fire! when the drum-sticks rattle.
I see the fools will battle;
And trumpeters blow, till your eye-balls show;
Sound for the instant battle—
Fire! when the drum-sticks rattle.
41
HOW SIR RICHARD DIED.
Stately as bridegroom to a feast,
Sir Richard trod the scaffold stair,
And, bowing to the crowd, untied
The love-locks from his sable hair;
Took off his watch, “Give that to Ned,
I've done with time,” he proudly said.
Sir Richard trod the scaffold stair,
And, bowing to the crowd, untied
The love-locks from his sable hair;
Took off his watch, “Give that to Ned,
I've done with time,” he proudly said.
'Twas bitter cold—it made him shake—
Said one, “Ah! see the villain's look?”
Sir Richard, with a scornful frown,
Cried—“Frost not fear my body shook!”
Giving a gold piece to the slave,
He laughed—“Now praise me master knave!”
Said one, “Ah! see the villain's look?”
Sir Richard, with a scornful frown,
Cried—“Frost not fear my body shook!”
Giving a gold piece to the slave,
He laughed—“Now praise me master knave!”
42
They pointed, with a sneering smile,
Unto a black box, long and grim;
But no white shroud, or badge of death,
Had power to draw a tear from him;
“It needs no lock,” he said, in jest,
“This chamber, where to-night I rest.”
Unto a black box, long and grim;
But no white shroud, or badge of death,
Had power to draw a tear from him;
“It needs no lock,” he said, in jest,
“This chamber, where to-night I rest.”
Then crying out—“God save the king!”
In spite of hiss and shout and frown;
He stripped his doublet, dropped his cloak,
And gave the headsman's man a crown;
Then, “Oh! for heaven!” proudly cried,
And bowed his head—and so he died.
In spite of hiss and shout and frown;
He stripped his doublet, dropped his cloak,
And gave the headsman's man a crown;
Then, “Oh! for heaven!” proudly cried,
And bowed his head—and so he died.
43
THE KING IS COMING TO LONDON.
(A Song of the Restoration.)
Let bonfires shine in every place
And redden many a laughing face,
O pray that God may give His grace,
To Charles, who's coming to London.
And sing and ring the bells apace,
But let no Roundhead lean and base,
Dare of his crop ears show a trace,
When the King is coming to London.
And redden many a laughing face,
O pray that God may give His grace,
To Charles, who's coming to London.
And sing and ring the bells apace,
But let no Roundhead lean and base,
Dare of his crop ears show a trace,
When the King is coming to London.
At every window hang a flag,
Though it be torn and rent to a rag,
And shout till tongue refuse to wag,
The King is coming to London.
Let not one trooper dare to lag
His old slashed coat to button and tag,
But sling on his horn and his bullet bag,
For the King is coming to London.
Though it be torn and rent to a rag,
And shout till tongue refuse to wag,
The King is coming to London.
Let not one trooper dare to lag
His old slashed coat to button and tag,
But sling on his horn and his bullet bag,
For the King is coming to London.
44
And in the face of scented lords,
Point to the notches upon your swords,
And cry like the drunken gipsy hordes,
The King is coming to London.
Instead of a plume wear oaken boughs,
And open the door of every house,
Then make every passer-by carouse,
For the King is coming to London.
Point to the notches upon your swords,
And cry like the drunken gipsy hordes,
The King is coming to London.
Instead of a plume wear oaken boughs,
And open the door of every house,
Then make every passer-by carouse,
For the King is coming to London.
Jewel the hair of daughter and spouse,
Even the dying must carouse,
Crawl to the window and drink and bouse,
For the King is coming to London.
Pale madmen wake with cry and stare,
And run to taste the fresh blue air,
Then gibber to see the splendour there,
For the King is coming to London.
Even the dying must carouse,
Crawl to the window and drink and bouse,
For the King is coming to London.
Pale madmen wake with cry and stare,
And run to taste the fresh blue air,
Then gibber to see the splendour there,
For the King is coming to London.
The beggar shall rouse from his fever lair,
The butcher leave the bleeding bear,
And even gaolers forget their care,
For the King is coming to London.
Tear up benches, and rip up boards,
To build up fires sell brooches, and gauds,
And when you sing remember the chords,
The King is coming to London.
The butcher leave the bleeding bear,
And even gaolers forget their care,
For the King is coming to London.
Tear up benches, and rip up boards,
To build up fires sell brooches, and gauds,
And when you sing remember the chords,
The King is coming to London.
45
Grim felons free from fetter and bond,
Whisper at golden chain and wand,
And eye the gems with ogling fond,
When the King is coming to London.
The scrivener leaves the half-forged bond,
Forgets the wretched man he wronged,
And hurries where his clients thronged,
When the King is coming to London.
Whisper at golden chain and wand,
And eye the gems with ogling fond,
When the King is coming to London.
The scrivener leaves the half-forged bond,
Forgets the wretched man he wronged,
And hurries where his clients thronged,
When the King is coming to London.
Debtors whose blood's grown cold and thin,
Warm with the laughter and the din,
That thaws the half froze heart within.
When the King is coming to London.
The poorest tinker with kith and kin,
Must now forget his solder and tin,
For labour to-day is a sort of a sin,
When the King is coming to London.
Warm with the laughter and the din,
That thaws the half froze heart within.
When the King is coming to London.
The poorest tinker with kith and kin,
Must now forget his solder and tin,
For labour to-day is a sort of a sin,
When the King is coming to London.
Old men rub their palsied palm,
And sing with tremulous voice a psalm
Of Simeon blest now tempests calm,
For the King is coming to London.
The plague-smit man shall feel a balm,
And his sickness pass, as if by a charm,
When he waves for joy his bandaged arm.
For the King is coming to London.
And sing with tremulous voice a psalm
Of Simeon blest now tempests calm,
For the King is coming to London.
The plague-smit man shall feel a balm,
And his sickness pass, as if by a charm,
When he waves for joy his bandaged arm.
For the King is coming to London.
46
THE ENTRY INTO LONDON.
Swing it out from tower and steeple, now the dark crowds of the people
Press and throng as if deep gladness ruled them, as the moon the flood;
How they scream and sway about, sing and swear, and laugh and flout,
As if madness universal fevered the whole nation's blood.
Press and throng as if deep gladness ruled them, as the moon the flood;
How they scream and sway about, sing and swear, and laugh and flout,
As if madness universal fevered the whole nation's blood.
Drowsy watchers on the tower start to hear the sudden hour
Shouted out from pier and jetty, o'er the river's mimic waves;
When the bells, with clash and clang, into life and motion sprang,
As to rouse the dead and buried, peaceful sleeping in their graves.
Shouted out from pier and jetty, o'er the river's mimic waves;
When the bells, with clash and clang, into life and motion sprang,
As to rouse the dead and buried, peaceful sleeping in their graves.
47
Flags from every turret hung, thousands to the chimneys clung,
Shining pennons, gay and veering, from the belfry chamber float;
Weary poets ceased to rhyme, and the student at the chime
Closed his books and joined the rabble, and with shouting strained his throat;
Shining pennons, gay and veering, from the belfry chamber float;
Weary poets ceased to rhyme, and the student at the chime
Closed his books and joined the rabble, and with shouting strained his throat;
Every cooper left his vat—there was sympathy in that;
All the shops of 'Cheap and Ludgate were fast barred upon that day;
The red wine, that bubbled up, left the toper in his cup;
And his crutch and staff the cripple, in his gladness, threw away;
All the shops of 'Cheap and Ludgate were fast barred upon that day;
The red wine, that bubbled up, left the toper in his cup;
And his crutch and staff the cripple, in his gladness, threw away;
Then the bully left his dice, tailors leapt up in a trice,
The smith's fire upon the forges died and smouldered slowly out;
The Protector, in his tomb, slumbering till the crack of doom,
Might have frowned, and slowly waken'd at the thunder of that shout;
The smith's fire upon the forges died and smouldered slowly out;
The Protector, in his tomb, slumbering till the crack of doom,
Might have frowned, and slowly waken'd at the thunder of that shout;
48
The hot brazier hushed his clamour, and threw by his ponderous hammer;
The shipwright his arm upraising, the dogshores to knock away,
Let them stand just as they were, and ran out and left his care,
Then the sailors, flocking after, helped to swell the crowd that day.
The shipwright his arm upraising, the dogshores to knock away,
Let them stand just as they were, and ran out and left his care,
Then the sailors, flocking after, helped to swell the crowd that day.
Some are watching for the gun, some hold ale up to the sun,
And the bona-robas' eyes, love-sparkling, gather lustre from the wine;
Thames is all alive with barges, gilded prows and blazoned targes;
And the matrons' hoods of satin in the sunlight glow and shine.
And the bona-robas' eyes, love-sparkling, gather lustre from the wine;
Thames is all alive with barges, gilded prows and blazoned targes;
And the matrons' hoods of satin in the sunlight glow and shine.
There were bullies, thieves and churls, from the peasant up to earls,
Noisy crowds of fluttering varlets, and lace-cover'd serving-men;
And the children, held on high, laugh to see the clear blue sky,
Shouting, as their fathers told them, “Our good king is come again!”
Noisy crowds of fluttering varlets, and lace-cover'd serving-men;
And the children, held on high, laugh to see the clear blue sky,
Shouting, as their fathers told them, “Our good king is come again!”
49
Still the tramp of many feet echoes through each lane and street,
Like the heaving undulation of the tempest-driven tide;
And the belfries reel and rock, with the joy-bell's sudden shock,
Pulsing out fresh roars of welcome ere the last glad sounds subside.
Like the heaving undulation of the tempest-driven tide;
And the belfries reel and rock, with the joy-bell's sudden shock,
Pulsing out fresh roars of welcome ere the last glad sounds subside.
How the 'prentices they mustered, round each door and casement cluster'd;
At the merchant's latticed windows hung rich robings of brocade,
Cloth of gold, and Indian stuff, and in ample folds enough
All the princes of the world to have gorgeously arrayed.
At the merchant's latticed windows hung rich robings of brocade,
Cloth of gold, and Indian stuff, and in ample folds enough
All the princes of the world to have gorgeously arrayed.
And by every window stood, maidens veiled in silken hood,
Half-retreating, coy and modest, half-delighting to be seen;
Many a wild-rose you may seek, ere you match that blushing cheek;
Every 'prentice thinks his mistress beautiful as any queen.
Half-retreating, coy and modest, half-delighting to be seen;
Many a wild-rose you may seek, ere you match that blushing cheek;
Every 'prentice thinks his mistress beautiful as any queen.
50
Dark crowds, down each winding street, hurry, while the tramp of feet
Rises louder than the pealing of the massy cannons near;
Like an overflowing tide, press the people on each side,
With a din so deep and murmurous it is terrible to hear.
Rises louder than the pealing of the massy cannons near;
Like an overflowing tide, press the people on each side,
With a din so deep and murmurous it is terrible to hear.
How the sword-blades in the sun glitter as the signal-gun
Flashes through the flags and pennons, and the masts that line the shore;
And, slow swinging from each steeple, far above the shouting people,
The joy-bells, o'er roof and gable, do their thunder-music pour.
Flashes through the flags and pennons, and the masts that line the shore;
And, slow swinging from each steeple, far above the shouting people,
The joy-bells, o'er roof and gable, do their thunder-music pour.
Oh! the horns blow long and loudly, and the kettle-drums throb proudly,
Like the lark's voice 'mid the thunder, comes the shrill cry of the flute;
And the stormy acclamation of a new-deliver'd nation,
Fills the air with endless echoes, ere the Abbey bells grow mute.
Like the lark's voice 'mid the thunder, comes the shrill cry of the flute;
And the stormy acclamation of a new-deliver'd nation,
Fills the air with endless echoes, ere the Abbey bells grow mute.
51
As the dull throb of the drum pulses o'er the din and hum,
Slow the pike-heads gleam and glitter past the Palace and the Park;
And the Crop-heads frown and mutter, as the distant banners flutter;
While the crowd are bonfires piling, ready to light up the dark.
Slow the pike-heads gleam and glitter past the Palace and the Park;
And the Crop-heads frown and mutter, as the distant banners flutter;
While the crowd are bonfires piling, ready to light up the dark.
And the black and heaving crowds roll like tempest-driven clouds,
As from out that thunderous silence breaks the sudden shout and cheer
From the turrets and the roofs—for the sound of coming hoofs
Each one listens like a hunter waiting silent for the deer.
As from out that thunderous silence breaks the sudden shout and cheer
From the turrets and the roofs—for the sound of coming hoofs
Each one listens like a hunter waiting silent for the deer.
For indeed one common soul seems to animate the whole;
Louder than the bells or cannon give the multitude a shout;
From the Thames, alive with boats, all the rowers strain their throats;
From amid the striped awnings and the flags the wind does flout.
Louder than the bells or cannon give the multitude a shout;
From the Thames, alive with boats, all the rowers strain their throats;
From amid the striped awnings and the flags the wind does flout.
52
You should hear the thunder-claps as the royal banner flaps,
And the streams of lords and ladies file in slow procession by,
Like the clamour of a storm, when the dark clouds, without form,
Drift, in whirlwind, headlong, wildly 'cross the chasm of the sky.
And the streams of lords and ladies file in slow procession by,
Like the clamour of a storm, when the dark clouds, without form,
Drift, in whirlwind, headlong, wildly 'cross the chasm of the sky.
And he bowed to left and right, and the sunbeam's holy light
Lit his brow, and, like a circlet, or a glory, seem'd to burn:
Graciously he bent him low, down unto his saddle-bow,
And a smile lit all his features, usually so sad and stern.
Lit his brow, and, like a circlet, or a glory, seem'd to burn:
Graciously he bent him low, down unto his saddle-bow,
And a smile lit all his features, usually so sad and stern.
And he gazed with regal pride on the crowds on either side,
While his hat and sweeping feathers held he in his bridle-hand;
Bow'd him to his white steed's mane, where his dark locks' glossy rain
Mingled, then rose smiling, with a look of proud command.
While his hat and sweeping feathers held he in his bridle-hand;
Bow'd him to his white steed's mane, where his dark locks' glossy rain
Mingled, then rose smiling, with a look of proud command.
53
But he shudder'd as before him rose a fountain, arching o'er him;
Dark as blood it rose, empurpled with the juice of flashing wine.
As he passed the Banquet-room came a sudden cloud of gloom,
In his eyes no longer gladness seem'd with radiance, to shine.
Dark as blood it rose, empurpled with the juice of flashing wine.
As he passed the Banquet-room came a sudden cloud of gloom,
In his eyes no longer gladness seem'd with radiance, to shine.
Then, responsive to the people, swung the joy-bells in the steeple,
And the welcome of glad thousands drove all sorrow from his mind;
And the sweet spring-gather'd flowers fall before his feet in showers,
As the sky were raining blossoms, and their perfume fill'd the wind.
And the welcome of glad thousands drove all sorrow from his mind;
And the sweet spring-gather'd flowers fall before his feet in showers,
As the sky were raining blossoms, and their perfume fill'd the wind.
From old flag-staffs, black and shatter'd, hung red standards, rent and tatter'd,
Scorch'd with fire of Cromwell's cannon, hack'd by sword, and torn with shot;
Almost lost when stately Basing, with old Fairfax' fire was blazing;
Shredded in the struggle long 'tween brave Wigan and the Scott.
Scorch'd with fire of Cromwell's cannon, hack'd by sword, and torn with shot;
Almost lost when stately Basing, with old Fairfax' fire was blazing;
Shredded in the struggle long 'tween brave Wigan and the Scott.
54
And their crimson shadows fell on old faces he knew well:
Faces scarr'd, and grim, and swarthy, worn with suffering and with care;
Men who from the dungeon dim had burst forth to welcome him;
But their brows were grown more wrinkled, and their silver locks more bare.
Faces scarr'd, and grim, and swarthy, worn with suffering and with care;
Men who from the dungeon dim had burst forth to welcome him;
But their brows were grown more wrinkled, and their silver locks more bare.
Some deep-notch'd and broken brands waved in their feeble hands;
Others fill'd the echoing welkin with remember'd battle-cries;
Some fired off their musketoons as the pleasantest of tunes;
Others pulled their hats' broad flaps deeper o'er their moistening eyes.
Others fill'd the echoing welkin with remember'd battle-cries;
Some fired off their musketoons as the pleasantest of tunes;
Others pulled their hats' broad flaps deeper o'er their moistening eyes.
55
THE BONFIRE AT TEMPLE-BAR.
Sung by a party of merry fellows, dressed in greasy crimson and yellow satin, as they leaned out of the window of a Fleet-street tavern, May 29, 1660.
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!
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,
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,
56
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.
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.
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.
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.
57
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.
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.
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.
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.
58
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.
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.
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.
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.
59
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.
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.
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.
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.
60
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.
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.
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.
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.
61
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.
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.
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.
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.
62
UP THE THAMES.
(Twenty-ninth of May.)
Up the Thames with flashing oar,
Let the Tower guns flame and roar,
Belching fire from every bore.
Let the Tower guns flame and roar,
Belching fire from every bore.
All the water ripples red,
Fiery shines the river bed
With the bonfires over head.
Fiery shines the river bed
With the bonfires over head.
See the old bridge, black as jet,
Casting shadows, like a net,
Lights upon the parapet.
Casting shadows, like a net,
Lights upon the parapet.
Pipe and drum in every boat;
All the Templars sing and float
To the merry bugle note.
All the Templars sing and float
To the merry bugle note.
63
See the fellows' corslets flash;
How the bright oars drip and splash,
As beneath the arch we dash.
How the bright oars drip and splash,
As beneath the arch we dash.
Now from every roof and wall,
Shop and garret, yard and stall,
You can hear the cannon call.
Shop and garret, yard and stall,
You can hear the cannon call.
Varlet, yeoman, knight and lord,
Wave their hat, and wig, and sword;
Every thief forgot his fraud.
Wave their hat, and wig, and sword;
Every thief forgot his fraud.
Banners waved from London Bridge;
Pennons shook from roof and ridge,
Thick as wings of summer midge.
Pennons shook from roof and ridge,
Thick as wings of summer midge.
Ploughing water, dyed with flame;
Fast the royal galley came;
Blushed the river, as with shame.
Fast the royal galley came;
Blushed the river, as with shame.
Then again the cannon spoke;
And the clouds, as with a stroke,
Seemed in fragments to be broke.
And the clouds, as with a stroke,
Seemed in fragments to be broke.
Beating the black tide to froth,
Fell a thousand oars in wrath;
Cheers burst forth from south and north.
Fell a thousand oars in wrath;
Cheers burst forth from south and north.
64
From the steeples rose a blaze;
Every casement in amaze
Shone with red and sparkling rays.
Every casement in amaze
Shone with red and sparkling rays.
Bells swung madly thro' the mist;
Like a frown, the fog was kiss'd
Quite away to amethyst.
Like a frown, the fog was kiss'd
Quite away to amethyst.
From the gardens came the cheers
Of a million cavaliers,
Some could scarcely shout for tears.
Of a million cavaliers,
Some could scarcely shout for tears.
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |