The Wiltshire BALLAD:
OR,
A New Song Compos'd by an Old Cavalier,
Of Wonders at
Sarum, by which doth appear,
That th' old Devil came again lately there,
To Raise a Rebellion,
By way of Petition;
But by Musicks Divine and powerful Charms,
Which Satan and's Saints abhor; such Alarms
Were made, that he fled, and they all kept from harms.
FRom
Salisbury, that low-Hous'd Town,
Where Steeple is of high Renown,
Of late was brought unto the Crown
A Lesson:
'Twas drawn up by three worthy Wights,
Members they were, and two were Knights,
Great Trencher Men, but no one Fights
Monpes—
Through discontent his Hand did set,
First to this Scrole without Regret;
Then Pilgrim-like travel'd to get
Some others.
From House to House, in Town and Close,
Our zealous Preservator goes,
Tells them of Dangers and of Foes;
But smothers
The true intent of what they bring;
Who beg'd the House may sit; a thing
Which only can preserve the King,
When Nothing
Destroys him more; for should he give
Consent, he'd never that Retrieve,
But part with his Prerogative;
A low thing
Make himself by't, the Rabble get
Into his High Imperial Seat,
They'd make him Gloriously Great,
We know it:
They serv'd his Father so before,
These Saints would still increase the store
Of Royal Martyrs, Hum! no more,
We know it.
The Herd of Zealots long to see
A Monarch in Effigie,
A Project which appears to be
Most Witty;
And they at Helm aspire to Sit,
There Govern without Fear or Wit,
King and un-King, when they think fit;
That's pretty.
To see ('twould make a Stoick smile)
Geneva-Jack thus Moyl and Toyl
To Lord it in our Brittish Isle
Again Sir;
And Pulpit-Cuff us, till we Fight,
Lose our Estates and Lives outright;
And when all's done, he gets all by't,
That's plain Sir.
The Col'nel, who came from place, where
A Quaker bugger'd four leg'd Mare,
Who o'th' old Leaven had his share,
Petition'd:
For which, both he, and Knight Sir
Gil—
I'll boldly say't, (blame not my Quill)
To say no more, were very ill
Condition'd.
But this, I hope, nor makes, nor marrs,
Charles knows what's meant by all these Jars,
And these Domestick, Paper-Wars,
Conceive it:
Tom of Ten Thousand is come in,
Sure such a
Hero much will win,
On Sculs as thick, as his is
Thin,
Believe it.
The People would have power to call
Parliaments, and Dissolve them; all
Regalia's posses; what shall
The Saint Sir,
Not have the power of Peace and War?
Religion steer? Holy we are,
And Rich, the King shall we (be't far)
Acquaint Sir?
This was the Humble Holy Guise
Of the Religiously Precise,
Which made them Gallop to Mic. Wise,
To Sign it.
Thisselth —and Sir How, said he,
And you Sir Knight, nam'd first should be,
The dregs of Treason, Juice of Bee,
Nor Wine yet,
This Morning have refresh'd my Pate
Or Heart, I'm so unfortunate,
My Head akes early, though when'ts late,
I take it,
With Cheerful and a thoughtless Soul
Of poyson'd Zeal or Treason foul,
And drink the King's Health in a Bowl,
And make it
With Jovial, Loyal Heart go round,
In Mirth and Musick then abound;
In Scholarship I'm not profound.
My Name Sirs
I cannot write; yet set I shall
A Tune to your new Madrigal,
And fetch't from Forty One withal.
No blame Sirs.
Was in that Holy, like this Time,
For from poor
Tom flows honest Rhime,
And in the Tune there was no Crime;
'Twas take 'em
Derrick, the Tune that they did sing,
Derrick, who in
June with a swing
Cur'd strange Distempers, and a String;
Forsake 'em.
Thus the sage Council of Mic. Wise,
Turn'd up the whites of Zeal-burn'd Eyes,
But did not Honest Men surprise,
They Laughing,
Said, Time's the Life of Musick, Mic.
And thou hast hit it in the Nick,
By touching on this Crop-Ear'd Trick.
Our Quaffing
Shall at the Angel be this Night,
David's Harp did
Saul's Devil 'fright,
And thine and Wine shall cure our Sprite
Phanatick.
We'll leave the Rule unto the King,
Pray for his Health, a Loyal thing;
Let great
Charles Rule: who this won't sing,
's Lunatick.
Which does me to the Doctor bring,
Whose Name made 'mongst the rest nothing,
To him I give now in the Spring
Good Advice.
When Worm
Cephalick Restless grows,
Let him lose Blood in Tongue or Toes,
Or take our Dr.
Derrick's Dose,
Once, not Twice.
For once as certainly doth Kill,
As Potion made by him, or Pill:
And thus my Muse doth make her Will.
O may this City!
'Cause She refus'd that Toy to Sign,
Never want Health, Wealth, or Good Wine,
Nor our King's Smiles, nor the Divine;
Thus ends my Ditty.
LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1680.