At _Keinton_, _Brainsford_, _Plymouth_, _York_, And divers places more, What victories we saints obtain, The like ne’er seen before: How often we Prince _Rupert_ kill’d, And bravely won the day, The wicked Cavaliers did run The clean contrary way. The true religion we maintain, The kingdom’s peace and plenty; The privilege of Parliament Not known to one and twenty; The ancient fundamental laws, And teach men to obey Their lawful sovereign, and all these The clean contrary way. We subjects’ liberties preserve By imprisonment and plunder, And do enrich ourselves and state By keeping th’ wicked under. We must preserve mechanicks now To lectorize and pray; By them the gospel is advanced The clean contrary way. And though the King be much misled By that malignant crew, He’ll find us honest at the last, Give all of us our due. For we do wisely plot, and plot Rebellion to alloy, He sees we stand for peace and truth The clean contrary way. The publick faith shall save our souls And our good works together; And ships shall save our lives, that stay Only for wind and weather: But when our faith and works fall down And all our hopes decay, Our acts will bear us up to heaven The clean contrary way. THE CAMERONIAN CAT. A well-known song from Hogg’s Jacobite Relics; and popular among the Cavaliers both of England and Scotland in the days of the Commonwealth. It was usually sung to a psalm tune; the singers imitating the style and manner of a precentor at a Presbyterian church. THERE was a Cameronian cat Was hunting for a prey, And in the house she catch’d a mouse Upon the Sabbath-day. The Whig, being offended At such an act profane, Laid by his book, the cat he took, And bound her in a chain. Thou damn’d, thou cursed creature, This deed so dark with thee, Think’st thou to bring to hell below My holy wife and me? Assure thyself that for the deed Thou blood for blood shalt pay, For killing of the Lord’s own mouse Upon the Sabbath-day. The presbyter laid by the book, And earnestly he pray’d That the great sin the cat had done Might not on him be laid. And straight to execution Poor pussy she was drawn, And high hang’d up upon a tree— The preacher sung a psalm. And when the work was ended, They thought the cat near dead, She gave a paw, and then a mew, And stretched out her head. Thy name, said he, shall certainly A beacon still remain, A terror unto evil ones For evermore, Amen. THE ROYAL FEAST. A Loyall Song of the Royall Feast kept by the Prisoners in the Towre, August last, with the Names, Titles, and Characters of every Prisoner. By Sir F. W., Knight and Baronet, Prisoner. (Sept. 16th, 1647.)