A Coffin for King Charles, a Crown for Cromwell, and a Pit for the People
From a broadside in the King’s Pamphlets, vol. viii. in the British Museum, with the direction, “You may sing this to the tune of ‘Faine I would.’” The tune sometimes called “Parthenia,” and “The King’s Complaint,” is to be found in Mr Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time. The King was beheaded in January, 1649. This Ballad is dated the 23rd of April in the same year.
Cromwell on the Throne
So, so, the deed is done,
The royal head is sever’d,
As I meant when I first begun,
And strongly have endeavour’d.
Now Charles the First is tumbled down,
The Second I do not fear;
I grasp the sceptre, wear the crown,
Nor for Jehovah care.
King Charles in His Coffin
Think’st thou, base slave, though in my grave
Like other men I lie,
My sparkling fame and royal name
Can (as thou wishest) die?
Know, caitif, in my son I live
(The Black Prince call’d by some),
And he shall ample vengeance give
To those that did my doom.
The People in the Pit
Supprest, deprest, involved in woes,
Great Charles, thy people be
Basely deceived with specious shows
By those that murther’d thee.
We are enslaved to tyrants’ hests,
Who have our freedom won:
Our fainting hope now only rests
On thy succeeding son.
Cromwell on the Throne
Base vulgar! know, the more you stir,
The more your woes increase,
Your rashness will your hopes deter,
’Tis we must give you peace.
Black Charles a traitor is proclaim’d
Unto our dignity;
He dies (if e’er by us he’s gain’d)
Without all remedy.
King Charles in His Coffin
Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou
And thy degenerate train,
By mankind’s Saviour’s body vow
To me thy sovereign,
To make me the most glorious king
That e’er o’er England reign’d;
That me and mine in everything
By you should be maintain’d?
The People in the Pit
Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave
Of thy beloved shade;
’Tis we that brought thee to the grave,
Thou wert by us betray’d.
We did believe ’twas reformation
These monsters did desire;
Not knowing that thy degradation
And death should be our hire.
Cromwell on the Throne
Ye sick-brain’d fools! whose wit does lie
In your small guts; could you
Imagine our conspiracy
Did claim no other due,
But for to spend our dearest bloods
To make rascallions flee?
No, we sought for your lives and goods,
And for a monarchy.
King Charles in His Coffin
But there’s a Thunderer above,
Who, though he winks awhile,
Is not with your black deeds in love,
He hates your damned guile.
And though a time you perch upon
The top of Fortune’s wheel,
You shortly unto Acharon
(Drunk with your crimes) shall reel.
The People in the Pit
Meanwhile (thou glory of the earth)
We languishing do die:
Excise doth give free-quarters birth,
While soldiers multiply.
Our lives we forfeit every day,
Our money cuts our throats;
The laws are taken clean away,
Or shrunk to traitor’s votes.
Cromwell on the Throne
Like patient mules resolve to bear
Whate’er we shall impose;
Your lives and goods you need not fear,
We’ll prove your friends, not foes.
We (the elected ones) must guide
A thousand years this land;
You must be props unto our pride,
And slaves to our command.
King Charles in His Coffin
But you may fail of your fair hopes,
If fates propitious be;
And yield your loathed lives in ropes
To vengeance and to me.
When as the Swedes and Irish join,
The Cumbrian and the Scot
Do with the Danes and French combine,
Then look unto your lot.
The People in the Pit
Our wrongs have arm’d us with such strength,
So sad is our condition,
That could we hope that now at length
We might find intermission,
And had but half we had before,
Ere these mechanics sway’d;
To our revenge, knee-deep in gore,
We would not fear to wade.
Cromwell on the Throne
In vain (fond people) do you grutch
And tacitly repine.
For why? my skill and strength are such
Both poles of heaven are mine.
Your hands and purses both cohered
To raise us to this height:
You must protect those you have rear’d,
Or sink beneath their weight.
King Charles in His Coffin
Singing with angels near the throne
Of the Almighty Three
I sit, and know perdition
(Base Cromwell) waits on thee,
And on thy vile associates:
Twelve months 1 shall full conclude
Your power—thus speak the powerful fates,
Then vades your interlude.
The People in the Pit
Yea, powerful fates, haste, haste the time,
The most auspicious day,
On which these monsters of our time
To hell must post away.
Meanwhile, so pare their sharpen’d claws,
And so impair their stings,
We may no more fight for the Cause
Or other novel things!
Footnotes
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The prediction was not quite so speedily verified. ↩