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us all stand bare;—

       In the presence we are,

       Let our noses like bonfires shine;

       Instead of the conduits, let the pottles run wine,

       To perfect this new coronation;

       And we that are loyal

       In drink shall be peers,

       While that face that wears

       Pure claret, looks like the blood-royal,

       And outstares the bones of the nation:

       In sign of obedience,

       Our oath of allegiance

       Beer-glasses shall be,

       And he that tipples ten is of the nobility.

      But if in this reign

       The halberted train

       Or the constable should rebel,

       And should make their turbill’d militia to swell,

       And against the King’s party raise arms;

       Then the drawers, like yeomen

       Of the guards, with quart pots

       Shall fuddle the sots,

       While we make ’em both cuckolds and freemen;

       And on their wives beat up alarums.

       Thus as each health passes

       We’ll triple the glasses,

       And hold it no sin

       To be loyal and drink in defence of our King.

UPON THE CAVALIERS DEPARTING OUT OF LONDON.

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      By Alex. Brome.

      Now fare thee well, London,

       Thou next must be undone,

       ’Cause thou hast undone us before;

       This cause and this tyrant

       Had never play’d this high rant

       Were’t not for thy argent d’or.

      Now we must desert thee,

       With the lines that begirt thee,

       And the red-coated saints domineer;

       Who with liberty fool thee,

       While a monster doth rule thee,

       And thou feel’st what before thou didst fear.

      Now justice and freedom,

       With the laws that did breed ’em,

       Are sent to Jamaica for gold,

       And those that upheld ’em

       Have power but seldom,

       For justice is barter’d and sold.

      Now the Christian religion

       Must seek a new region,

       And the old saints give way to the new;

       And we that are loyal

       Vail to those that destroy all,

       When the Christian gives place to the Jew.

      But this is our glory,

       In this wretched story

       Calamities fall on the best;

       And those that destroy us

       Do better employ us,

       To sing till they are supprest.

A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

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      From the King’s pamphlets, British Museum.

      We have a King, and yet no King,

       For he hath lost his power;

       For ’gainst his will his subjects are

       Imprison’d in the Tower.

      We had some laws (but now no laws)

       By which he held his crown;

       And we had estates and liberties,

       But now they’re voted down.

      We had religion, but of late

       That’s beaten down with clubs;

       Whilst that profaneness authorized

       Is belched forth in tubs.

      We were free subjects born, but now

       We are by force made slaves,

       By some whom we did count our friends,

       But in the end proved knaves.

      And now to such a grievous height

       Are our misfortunes grown,

       That our estates are took away

       By tricks before ne’er known.

      For there are agents sent abroad

       Most humbly for to crave

       Our alms; but if they are denied,

       And of us nothing have,

      Then by a vote ex tempore We are to prison sent, Mark’d with the name of enemy, To King and Parliament:

      And during our imprisonment,

       Their lawless bulls do plunder

       A license to their soldiers,

       Our houses for to plunder.

      And if their hounds do chance to smell

       A man whose fortunes are

       Of some account, whose purse is full,

       Which now is somewhat rare;

      A monster now, delinquent term’d, He is declared to be, And that his lands, as well as goods, Sequester’d ought to be.

      As if our prisons were too good,

       He is to Yarmouth sent,

       By virtue of a warrant from

       The King and Parliament.

      Thus in our royal sovereign’s name,

       And eke his power infused,

       And by the virtue of the same,

       He and all his abused.

      For by this means his castles now

       Are in the power of those

       Who treach’rously, with might and main,

       Do strive him to depose.

      Arise, therefore, brave British men,

       Fight for your King and State,

       Against those trait’rous men that strive

       This realm to ruinate.

      ’Tis Pym, ’tis Pym and his colleagues,

       That did our woe engender;

       Nought but their lives can end our woes,

       And us in safety render.

THE MAN O’ THE MOON.

       Table of Contents

      Hogg, in his second series of Jacobite Relics, states that he “got this song among some old papers belonging to Mr. Orr of Alloa,”

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