Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Popular music of the olden time > Volume 2

412
CAVALIERS AND ROUNDHEADS.
possession of Mr. Willis, the bookseller, who printed the following in his
Current Notes for December, 1852. A copy is also in MSS. Ashmole 39 and 37.
" A prognostication on W. Laud, late Archbishop of Canterbury, written
A.D., 1641, which accordingly is come to pass. — Sold at the Black Ball in Corn-
hill, near the Exchange." (With a woodcut of an execution, the body stretched
on the scaffold, and the executioner holding up a bleeding head.)
My little lord, methinks 'tis strange
That you should suffer such a change
In such a little space.
You, that so proudly t'other day
Did rule the King, and country sway,
Must trudge to 'nother place.
Remember now from whence you came,
And that your grandsires of your name
Were dressers of old cloth ; a
Go, bid the dead men bring their shears,
And dress your coat to save your ears,
Or pawn your head for both.
The wind shakes cedars that are tall,
An haughty mind must have a fall,
You are but low I see ;
And good it had been for you still,
If both your body, mind, and will,
In equal shape should be.
Your cheesecake cap and magpie gown,
That made such strife in every town,
Must now defray your charge.
Within this six years, six ears have
Been cropt off worthy men and grave,
For speaking what was true ;
But if your subtle head and ears
Can satisfy those six of theirs,
Expect but what's your due.
Poor people that have felt -your rod
Yield Laud to the devil, praise to God,
For freeing them from thrall ;
Your little " Grace," for want of grace,
Must lose your patriarchal place,
And have no grace at all.
Your white lawn sleeves that were the wings
Whereon you soar'd to lofty things,
Must be your fins to swim ;
The King, by hearkening to your charms, Th' Archbishop's see by Thames must go,
Hugg'd our destruction in his arms,
And gates to foes did ope ;
Your staff would strike his sceptre down
Your mitre would o'ertop the crown,
If you should be a Pope.
But you that did so firmly stand,
To bring in Popery in this land,
Have miss'd your hellish aim ;
Your saints fall down, your angels fly,
Your crosses on yourself do lie,
Your craft will be your shame.
We scorn that Popes with crozier staves,
Mitres or keys, should make us slaves,
And to their feet to bend :
The Pope and his malicious crew
We hope to handle all, like you,
And bring them to an end.
The silene'd clergy, void of fear,
In your damnation will have share,
And speak their mind at large :
* Laud's lather was a clothier, of Reading
With him unto the Tower below,
There to be rackt like him.
Your oath cuts deep, your lies hurt sore,
Your canons made Scot's cannons roar,
But now I hope you'll find
That there are cannons in the Tower
Will quickly batter down your power,
And sink your haughty mind.
The Commonalty have made a vow,
No oath, no canons to allow,
No bishops' Common Prayer ;
No lazy prelates that shall spend
Such great revenues to no end
But virtue to impair.
Dumb dogs that wallow in such store,
That would suffice above a score
Pastors of upright will ;
Now they'll make all the bishops teach,
And you must in the pulpit preach
That stands on Tower Hill.