A brewer may be like a fox in a cub, And teach a lecture out of a tub, And give the wicked world a rub; Which nobody, etc. A brewer, by’s excise and rate, Will promise his army he knows what, And set upon the college-gate; Which nobody, etc. Methinks I hear one say to me, Pray why may not a brewer be Lord Chancellor o’ the University? Which nobody, etc. A brewer may be as bold as Hector, When as he had drank his cup o’ Nectar, And a brewer may be a Lord Protector; Which nobody, etc. Now here remains the strangest thing, How this brewer about his liquor did bring To be an emperor or a king; Which nobody, etc. A brewer may do what he will, And rob the Church and State, to sell His soul unto the devil in hell; Which nobody, etc. THE ARRAIGNMENT OF THE DEVIL FOR STEALING AWAY PRESIDENT BRADSHAW. John Bradshaw, who had presided over the court of justice which condemned Charles I. to the scaffold, and who by his extreme republican principles had rendered himself obnoxious to Cromwell, began again to be distinguished in public affairs after the Protector’s death, and was elected President of the Council of State. He did not live long to enjoy this honour, but died, according to some authorities, on the 31st October, 1659. Chalmers places his death on the 22nd of November in that year. To the tune of “Well-a-day, well-a-day.” IF you’ll hear news that’s ill, Gentlemen, gentlemen, Against the devil, I will Be the relator; Arraigned he must be, For that feloniously, ’Thout due solemnity, He took a traitor. John Bradshaw was his name, How it stinks! how it stinks! Who’ll make with blacker fame Pilate unknown. This worse than worse of things Condemn’d the best of kings, And, what more guilt yet brings, Knew ’twas his own. Virtue in Charles did seem Eagerly, eagerly, And villainy in him To vye for glory. Majesty so compleat And impudence so great Till that time never met:— But to my story. Accusers there will be, Bitter ones, bitter ones, More than one, two, or three, All full of spight; Hangman and tree so tall, Bridge, tower, and city-wall, Kite and crow, which were all Robb’d of their right. But judges none are fit, Shame it is, shame it is, That twice seven years did sit To give hemp-string dome; The friend they would befriend, That he might in the end To them like favour lend, In his own kingdome. Sword-men, it must be you, Boldly to’t, boldly to’t, Must give the diver his due; Do it not faintly, But as you raised by spell Last Parliament from hell, And it again did quell Omnipotently.