Our parliament did that prevent,

Were hang'd for long agoe.

And wisely them defended,
For plots they will discover still,
Before they were intended.

But neither man, woman, nor child,
Will say, I'm confident,
They ever heard it speak one word
Against the parliament.

An informer swore, it letters bore,
Or else it had been freed;

I'll take, in troth, my Bible oath,

It could neither write, nor read.

The committee said, that verily

To popery it was bent;

For ought I know it might be so,
For to church it never went.

What with excise, and such device,

The kingdom doth begin

To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross, Without doors nor within.

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Whitelocke says, "May 3, 1643, Cheapside cross and other crosses were voted down," &c.-But this Vote was not put in execution with regard to Charing Cross" till four years after, as appears from Lilly's Observations on the Life, &c. of King Charles, viz." Charing-Cross, we know, was pulled down, 1647, in June, July, and August. Part of the stones were converted to pave before Whitehall. I have seen Knife-hafts made of some of the stones, which, being well polished, looked like marble." Ed. 1715, p. 18, 12mo.

See an Account of the pulling down Cheapside Cross, in the Supplement to Gent. Mag. 1764.

This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's "Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I." London 1668, fol. p. 96. He speaks of it as the composition of a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living with no other reward than the conscience of having suffered. The author's name he has not mentioned, but, if tradition may be credited, this song was written by Sir Roger L'Estrange.-Some mistakes in Lloyd's copy are corrected by two others, one in MS. the other in the "Westminster Drollery, or a choice Collection of Songs and Poems, 1671."

12mo.

The cynick loves his poverty;

The pelican her wilderness; And 'tis the Indian's pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus: Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see Make torments easie to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm

I, as my mistress' favours, wear;
And for to keep my ancles warm,

I have some iron shackles there : These walls are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel I'm in the cabinet lockt up,

Like some high-prized margarite,
Or, like the great mogul or pope,

Am cloyster'd up from publick sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty,

And thus proud sultan, I'm as great as thee.
Here sin for want of food must starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen?
And these strong walls do only serve
To keep vice out, and keep me in:
Malice of late's grown charitable sure,
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.

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Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wisht to be retir'd,

Into this private room was turn'd;

As if their wisdoms had conspir'd
The salamander should be bun'd:

Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,
I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

"This prince, like his father, did not confine himself to prose: Bishop Burnet has given us a pathetic elegy, said to be written by Charles in Carisbrook castle [in 1648.] The poetry is most uncouth and unharmonious, but there are strong thoughts in it, some good sense, and a strain of majestic piety." Mr. Walpole's Royal and Noble Authors, vol. I.

It is in his "Memoirs of the Duke of Hamilton," p. 379, that Burnet hath preserved this elegy, which he tells us he had from a gentleman, who waited on the king at the time when it was written, and copied it out from the original. It is there intitled, "MAJESTY IN MISERY: OR AN IMPLORATION TO THE KING OF KINGS."

Hume hath remarked of these stanzas, "that the truth of the sentiment, rather than the elegance of the expression, renders them very pathetic." See his History, 1763, 4to. Vol. V. pp. 437. 442. which is no bad comment upon them. These are almost the only verses known of Charles's composition. Indeed a little Poem "On a Quite Conscience," printed in the Poetical Calendar, 1763, vol. VIII is attributed to King Charles I; being reprinted from a thin 8vo. published by Nahum Tate, called "Miscellanea Sacra, or Poems on Divine and Moral Subjects."

GREAT monarch of the world, from whose power
The potency and power of kings,
Record the royal woe my suffering sings;

And teach my tongue, that ever did confine
Its faculties in truth's seraphick line,
To track the treasons of thy foes and mine.

Nature and law, by thy divine decree, (The only root of righteous royaltie) With this dim diadem invested me:

With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe, The holy unction, and the royal globe: Yet am I levell'd with the life of Job.

[springs

The fiercest furies, that do daily tread
Upon my grief, my grey discrowned head,
Are those that owe my bounty for their bread.
They raise a war, and christen it the cause,
While sacrilegious hands have best applause,
Plunder and murder are the kingdom's laws;

Tyranny bears the title of taxation,
Revenge and robbery are reformation,
Oppression gains the name of sequestration.
My loyal subjects, who in this bad season
Attend me (by the law of God and reason),
They dare impeach, and punish for high treason.

Next at the clergy do their furies frown,
Pious episcopacy must go down,
They will destroy the crosier and the crown.

Churchmen are chain'd, and schismaticks are freed,
Mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed,
The crown is crucified with the creed.

The church of England doth all factions foster, The pulpit is usurpt by each impostor, Extempore excludes the Paternoster.

The Presbyter, and Independent seed

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This sarcastic exultation of triumphant loyalty is printed from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in "A choice collection of 120 loyal songs, &c." 1684, 12mo.-To the tune of Old Simon the king.

REBELLION hath broken up house,

And hath left me old lumber to sell;
Come hither, and take your choice,
I'll promise to use you well:
Will you buy the old speaker's chair?
Which was warm and easie to sit in,
And oft hath been clean'd I declare,
When as it was fouler than fitting.

Says old Simon the king, &c.

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Which was made of a butcher's stum And has been safely apply'd,

To cure the colds of the rump.

Here's a lump of Pilgrim's-Salve,
Which once was a justice of peace,
Who Noll and the Devil did serve;
But now it is come to this.
Says old Simon, &c.

Here's a roll of the states tobacco,

If any good fellow will take it;

No Virginia had e'er such a smack-o,

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And I'll tell you how they did make it : 'Tis th' Engagement, and Covenant cookt Up with the Abjuration oath ;

And many of them, that have took't,
Complain it was foul in the mouth.
Says old Simon, &c.

Yet the ashes may happily serve To cure the scab of the nation, Whene'er 't has an itch to swerve,

To Rebellion by innovation.

• Alluding probably to Major-General Harrison, a butcner's son, who assisted Cromwell in turning out the long parliament April 20, 1653.

Upon the grass there is a dewe,

Will spoil my damask gowne, sir: My gowne and kirtle they are newe, And cost me many a crowne, sir.

I have a cloak of scarlet red,

Upon the ground I'll throwe it; Then, lady faire, come lay thy head; We'll play, and none shall knowe it.

O yonder stands my steed so free
Among the cocks of hay, sir;

And if the pinner should chance to see,
He'll take my steed away, sir.

Upon my finger I have a ring

Its made of finest gold-a,

And, lady, it thy steed shall bring
Out of the pinner's fold-a.

O go with me to my father's hall;
Fair chambers there are three, sir:
And you shall have the best of all,
And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.

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He mounted himself on his steed so tall,
And her on her dapple gray, sir:
And there they rode to her father's hall,
Fast pricking along the way, sir.

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Ver. 86. This was a cant name given to Cromwell's wife by the Royalists, though her name was Elizabeth. She was taxed with exchanging the kitchen-stuff for the candles used in the Protector's household, &c. See Gent. Mag. for March 1788, p. 242.

To her father's hall they arrived strait; 'Twas moated round about-a;

She slipped herself within the gate,
And lockt the knight without-a.

Here is a silver penny to spend,

And take it for your pain, sir;

And two of my father's men I'll send To wait on you back again, sir.

He from his scabbard drew his brand, And wiped it upon his sleeve-a ! And cursed, he said, be every man, That will a maid believe-a!

She drew a bodkin from her haire, And whip'd it upon her gown-a; And curs'd be every maiden faire, That will with men lye down-a!

Ver. 94. See Grey's Hudibras, Pt. I, Cant. 2, ver. 570 &c. V. 100, 102, Cromwell had in his younger years fol lowed the brewing trade at Huntingdon. Col. Hewson is said to have been originally a cobler.