A City Ballad

To the Tune of Down in a Bottom .


S I nce the Realm lost its head
All our trading is dead,
And our Money and Credit is flown;
We have try'd many new,
But find it too true,
That no Head fits so well as our own.


The Drum and the Trump
Devour'd all to the Rump ,
And then they drank healths for that,
But that yielding no grease,
They next came to squeeze
The City because it was fat .


The City declar'd
That they were afeard,!
And they their Militia would settle;
But, except the Boyes,
They made only a noyse,
Their Votes were in dock out nettle .


The Mayor and his Peers
Durst not for their ears
Assert the Militia's power:
Though once he seem'd for it,
He does now abhor it,
And Revolted in lesse than an hour.


'Tis that cursed wedge
That took off his edge,
For he looks like a jolly Clubber;
If he had but the life
And spirit of his Wife,
He would not lye still like a Lubber .


Our pair of new Sheriffs
Hang by them like sleeves,
Their valour will ne're be their sin;
So they be high and rich
They do not care which
Side loose, if they may but win.


That Earwigg that doth write
Himself Lord and Knight ,
(And is one as much as the other)
Doth so still undermine,
That he spoyles our design,
By the help of old Besse his Brother .


He cares not a pin,
So as he may get in,
Who ere he keep out of his right,
He'll turn and return,
But be hang'd ere he'll burn,
For he dares neither suffer nor fight .


His Ambition him thrust
Into a Pageant at first,
And up to the Pulpit next;
And then into the Chair
Of our City Lord Mayor ,
Which he better improv'd then his Text .


O there did he squeeze
Out the Fines and Fees ,
Nor the Church nor Laity 'scapes,
Had he staid another Year,
At which he did lear,
He had prest us like Canaans Grapes .


There's just such another
May well be call'd Brother ,
A Collonel stout, and a Knight ,
And an Alderman too,
As now Aldermen go,
That will neither take wrong nor do right.


We ne're yet did know
That he durst meet a foe,
And his pale colour speaks him afraid
Yet in story we read
He did one valiant deed,
Which was to his Masters Maid .


Then to get an Estate,
He found out a Mate,
Which was an old Usurers daughter,
Supplanted the Son,
And then he begun
To be Wealthy and Worshipfull after.


There are more besides him
Stands for the back Limb ,
A crue of such Harlotry tools,
That who's not more blind
Then Fortune, may find
That he raises some besides Fools.


Some are wary grave Sirs,
In their Chains and their Furs,
That dare not declare their opinion,
If hang'd they were all,
One tear would not fall
Without the help of an Onion.


There's one kin to a Miter ,
That's no Presbyter ,
But loyal and honest and free,
Had we took down the Mayor,
And plac'd him in the Chair,
Up some body had gone and we.


There's another, a Wit,
Was for all he could get,
But now wheels about and is true:
He may win all our hearts
Would he use his best parts
With our foes as he did with the Jew .


The rest of the Court
Are a mixt colourd sort,
Rank Presbyter , rank Independent ,
They do still so prevail
For the Westminster tayle,
'Tis feard we shall ne're have an end on't.


But our Counsel of Commons
Are valiant old Romans ,
And stand for our peace and freedom ,
If that Dog that sells Leather,
And the Salesman together
Would either be honest or be dumb.


But yet we cann't see
Any reason why we
Should all be so much at their becks,
If we chains must forbear,
Pray why should they wear
A Militia about their necks?


Our Town Clerk we took,
Has a serious look,
And his silence did shew him a wit ,
But we discern him no more
Than the Court heretofore
Did that sullen Mask which he writ.


The late Petticoat Squire
From his shop mounted higher
To the Sword , and from that he did start
By his mony and grace
To a Remembrances place
Now reports when the Rump let a fart .


Their Chaplain that praid
Now recants what he said,
And walks by a perfecter light:
The cause why he straid
Was he wincked when he praid,
Now his eyes are open he's right.


What ere the Cause be
We clearly may see,
No good thing propos'd for the City's,
But mens policy bends
It to their private ends,
That 'tis spoyl'd by the close Committee .


And it needs must be so,
For we all do well know
'Tis for wealth men are put into office ;
And he that has store
Domineers or'e the poor,
Whether Fool, Knave, Elder , or Novice .


We our Members have sent,
But the quick Parliament
Had first sent their Members we find,
Yet no body knows
With which side Monk will close
Or will stand for before , or behind .


Hee's a Souldier no doubt
Both skilfull and stout
But had need be more than a Stalian ,
If his love should extend
To the hindermost end,
And use us like Italian .


A thousand a year
If he could but tell where,
They thought would have made him to mind 'em;
But they promise still,
As Diego made his will,
Great things, but none knows where to find 'em


In this prodigal trick
They have out-done old Nick,
For what he did give he did show.
Their title's the same,
And so is their aime
For ought any man doth know.


Let it go as it will,
We are Citizens still,
And free to this side, or that
We may prate, and may Vote,
But when it comes to't,
We'l be true to no body knows what.


But this we see plain
'Twas for honour and gain
That we at the first did fall out,
And were not publick lands
Got in private mens hands
The times would soon turn about.


And now we do find,
These Saints in their kind,
Those are mad that to aid them in flocks come,
And he that will fight
To keep us all from our right
Shall be chronicled for a Coxcomb .
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