Classic Poem

I'le tell you a Story that never was told,
A tale that hath both head and heel,
And though by no Recorder inroll'd,
I know you will find it as true as steel.

When General Monck was come to the Town,
A little time after the Rump had the rout,
When Loyalty rose, and Rebellion fell down,
They say, that Tower-hill and Tyburne fell out.

Quoth terrible Tyburne to lofty Tower-hill ,
Thy longed-for daies are come at last,
And now thou wilt dayly thy belly fulfill
With King-killers bloud whilst I must fast.

The High Court of Justice will come to the Bar,
There to be cooked and dressed for thee,
Whilst I, that live out of Town so far,
Must only be fed by Fellony.

If Treason be counted the foulest fact,
And dying be a Traytor's due,
Then why should you all the glory exact?
You know, they are fitter for me than you.

To speak the plain truth, I have groan'd for them long,
For when they had routed the Royal Root,
And done the Kingdom so much wrong,
I knew at the last they would come to't.

When Titchburne sate upon the Bench,
Twirling his Chain in high degree,
With a Beardless Chin, like a withered Wench,
Thought I, the Bar is fitter for thee.

But then, with stately composed face,
Tower-hill to Tyburne made reply,
Do not complain, in such a Case
Thou shalt have thy share as well as I.

There are a sort of Mongrils, which
My Lordly Scaffold will disgrace:
I know Hugh Peters his fingers itch
To make a Pulpit of the place.

But take him Tyburn , he is thine own,
Divide his quarters with thy knife,
Who did pollute with flesh and bone
The quarters of the Butchers wife.

The next among these Petticoat-Peers
Is Harry Martin , take him thither,
But he hath been addle so many years,
That I fear he will hardly hang together.

There's Hacker , zealous Tom Harrison too,
That boldly defends the bloudy deed,
He practizeth what the Jesuites do,
To murder his King, as a part of his Creed.

There's single-eyed Hewson the Cobler of Fate,
Translated into Buff and Feather,
But bootless are all his seams of State
When the soul is unript from the upper-leather.

Is this prophane mechanical Brood
For me, that have been dignify'd
With loyal Laud and Straffords blood,
And holy Hewet , who lately dy'd?

Do thou contrive with deadly Dun
To send them to the River of Stix ,
'Tis pitty, since those Saints are gone,
That Martyrs and Murtherers bloud should mix.

Then do not fear me that I will
Deprive thee of that fatal Day;
'Tis fit those that their King did kill
Sould hang up in the Kings high-way.

My Priviledge, though I know it is large,
Into thy hand I'le freely give it,
For there is Cook that read the Kings Charge,
Is only fit for the Devils tribute.

Then taunting Tyburn , in great scorn,
Did make Tower-hill this rude reply:
So much rank bloud my stomack will turn,
And thou shalt be sick as well as I.

These Traytors made those Martyrs bleed
Upon the Block, that thou dost bear,
And there it is fit they should dye for the deed;
But Tower-hill cryed, they shall not come there.

With that grim Tyburn began to fret,
And Tower-hill did look very grim:
And sure as a Club they both would have met,
But that the City did step between.