The Loyall Subjects Jubilee, or Cromwels Farewell to England, being a Poem on his adÂvancing to Ireland, July the 11. 1649.
TIs high contempt not for to Fast and pray,
And hold as blest Saint
Cromwels Holy day,
The Devils a Saint, if he deserves to be
One for his Machivillian Treacherie.
Insatiate Monster, that doth swallow downe
At once a Kingdome and a glorious Crowne,
Whose splendor dazled Mortalls while it stood
On
Charles his head, but dim'd since dipt in blood
May every stone that did adorne it round,
As witnesses against thee once be found,
And weigh thee down to Hell, thou horrid fel lion,
To have reward for this thy grand Rebellion.
But first thy progresse into
Ireland take,
And see what preparations they will make,
(To entertaine thee) for that end a day
Weel set apart, and for thee this we'l pray;
Come yee grim Furies of the
Stigian Lake,
With hideous cryes, and make the welking shake,
Rouze
Charon up, winds, Seas, and all implore,
To waft this Rebell to the
Irish shore,
Where such a Feast prepar'd for him shall be,
The like at
Grocers-Hall he ne're did see:
Ormond chief Cook will be to please his pallet,
And send a fiery Bullet for a Sallet,
Which shall such terrour to his Saintship bring,
And make him cry, would he had spar'd our King;
The blood methinks doth startle in his face,
That he no rest can take in any place,
His
Exits come,
Ireland the Stage must be,
Where he must act his latest Tragedie,
Where he his life shall spend in discontent,
And bid farewell to
Englands Parliament.
May thy horses founder, thy Souldiers weary grow
Upon their march they can no further goe,
Or if march on upon the
Irish sight,
Take to their heeles, and finely give thee flight,
And may this noise of their most eager running,
Still make thee think that
Charles the II comming
To claime his due with a victorious hand,
And purge all Rebels from his
English Land.
May the day look black, and soon convert to night,
Onely thy ruby Nose to give thee light;
And that thou mayst to shipping safely get,
Hell for thy life-guard shall the Furies set,
Charon thy Ferry-man shall be, and once being ore,
Mayst thou nere come to vex the
English shore.
Finis.