The Commoners

Written in 1645 to the Club-men, by Alex. Brome.

         Come your ways,
         Bonny boys
            Of the town,
      For now is your time or never:
         Shall your fears
         Or your cares
            Cast you down?
         Hang your wealth
         And your health,
            Get renown.
      We are all undone for ever,
      Now the King and the crown
      Are tumbling down,
And the realm doth groan with disasters;
      And the scum of the land
      Are the men that command,
And our slaves are become our masters.

         Now our lives,
         Children, wives,
            And estate,
      Are a prey to the lust and plunder,
         To the rage
         Of our age;
            And the fate
         Of our land
         Is at hand;
            ’Tis too late
      To tread these usurpers under.
      First down goes the crown,
      Then follows the gown,
Thus levell’d are we by the Roundhead;
      While Church and State must
      Feed their pride and their lust,
And the kingdom and king be confounded.

         Shall we still
         Suffer ill
            And be dumb,
      And let every varlet undo us?
         Shall we doubt
         Of each lout
            That doth come,
         With a voice
         Like the noise
            Of a drum,
      And a sword or a buff-coat, to us?
      Shall we lose our estates
      By plunder and rates,
To bedeck those proud upstarts that swagger?
      Rather fight for your meat
      Which those locusts do eat,
Now every man’s a beggar.

THE ROYALIST.

By Alex. Brome.  Written 1646.

Come pass about the bowl to me,
   A health to our distressed King;
Though we’re in hold let cups go free,
   Birds in a cage may freely sing.
The ground does tipple healths afar
   When storms do fall, and shall not we?
A sorrow dares not show its face
   When we are ships, and sack’s the sea.

Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let’s sing;
   Shall’s kill ourselves for fear of death?
We’ll live by th’ air which songs do bring,
   Our sighing does but waste our breath.
Then let us not be discontent,
   Nor drink a glass the less of wine;
In vain they’ll think their plagues are spent
   When once they see we don’t repine.

We do not suffer here alone,
   Though we are beggar’d, so’s the King;
’Tis sin t’ have wealth when he has none,
   Tush! poverty’s a royal thing!
When we are larded well with drink,
   Our head shall turn as round as theirs,
Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink
   Clean down the wind like Cavaliers.

Fill this unnatural quart with sack,
   Nature all vacuums doth decline;
Ourselves will be a zodiac,
   And every mouth shall be a sign.
Methinks the travels of the glass
   Are circular, like Plato’s year;
Where everything is as it was
   Let’s tipple round: and so ’tis here.