A New Ballad to an Old Tune,—Tom of Bedlam

January 17th, 1659.—From the King’s Ballads, British Museum.

Make room for an honest red-coat
   (And that you’ll say’s a wonder),
      The gun and the blade
      Are the tools, and his trade
   Is, for pay, to kill and plunder.
      Then away with the laws,
      And the “Good old Cause;”
   Ne’er talk of the Rump or the Charter;
      ’Tis the cash does the feat,
      All the rest’s but a cheat,
Without that there’s no faith nor quarter.

’Tis the mark of our coin “God with us,”
   And the grace of the Lord goes along with’t.
      When the Georges are flown
      Then the Cause goes down,
   For the Lord has departed from it.
               Then away, etc.

For Rome, or for Geneva,
   For the table or the altar,
      This spawn of a vote,
      He cares not a groat—
   For the pence he’s your dog in a halter,
               Then away, etc.

Tho’ the name of King or Bishop
   To nostrils pure may be loathsome,
      Yet many there are
      That agree with the May’r,
   That their lands are wondrous toothsome.
               Then away, etc.

When our masters are poor we leave ’em,
   ’Tis the Golden Calf we bow to;
      We kill and we slay
      Not for conscience, but pay;
   Give us that, we’ll fight for you too.
               Then away, etc.

’Twas that first turn’d the King out;
   The Lords next; then the Commons:
      ’Twas that kept up Noll,
      Till the Devil fetch’d his soul,
   And then it set the Rump on’s.
               Then away, etc.

Drunken Dick was a lame Protector,
   And Fleetwood a back-slider;
      These we served as the rest,
      But the City’s the beast
   That will never cast her rider.
               Then away, etc.

When the Mayor holds the stirrup
   And the Shrieves cry, God save your honours;
      Then ’tis but a jump
      And up goes the Rump,
   That will spur to the Devil upon us.
               Then away, etc.

And now for fling at your thimbles,
   Your bodkins, rings, and whistles;
      In truck for your toys
      We’ll fit you with boys
   (’Tis the doctrine of Hugh’s Epistles).
               Then away, etc.

When your plate is gone, and your jewels,
   You must be next entreated
      To part with your bags,
      And to strip you to rags,
   And yet not think you’re cheated.
               Then away, etc.

The truth is, the town deserves it,
   ’Tis a brainless, heartless monster:
      At a club they may bawl,
      Or declare at their hall,
   And yet at a push not one stir.
               Then away, etc.

Sir Arthur vow’d he’ll treat ’em
   Far worse than the men of Chester;
      He’s bold now they’re cow’d,
      But he was nothing so loud
   When he lay in the ditch at Lester.
               Then away, etc.

The Lord has left John Lambert,
   And the spirit, Feak’s anointed;
      But why, O Lord,
      Hast thou sheath’d thy sword?
   Lo! thy saints are disappointed.
               Then away, etc.

Though Sir Henry be departed,
   Sir John makes good the place now;
      And to help out the work
      Of the glorious Kirk,
   Our brethren march apace too.
               Then away, etc.

Whilst divines and statesmen wrangle,
   Let the Rump-ridden nation bite on’t;
      There are none but we
      That are sure to go free,
   For the soldier’s still in the right on’t.
               Then away, etc.

If our masters won’t supply us
   With money, food, and clothing,
      Let the State look to’t,
      We’ll find one that will do’t,
   Let him live—we will not damn.
               Then away, etc.