Brave Cabals, who states refine, Mingle their debates with wine, Ceres and the god o’ th’ vine Make every great commander; Let sober Scots small beer subdue, The wise and valiant wine do woo, The Stagerite had the horrors too, To be drunk with Alexander. _Stand to your arms_! and now advance, A health to the English King of France; And to the next of boon esperance, By Bacchus and Apollo; Thus in state I lead the van, Fall in your place by the right-hand man, Beat drum! march on! dub a dub, ran dan! He’s a Whig that will not follow. Face about to the right again, Britain’s admiral of the main, York and his illustrious train Crown the day’s conclusion; Let a halter stop his throat Who brought in the foremost vote, And of all that did promote The mystery of exclusion. Next to Denmark’s warlike prince Let the following health commence, To the nymph whose influence That brought the hero hither;— May their race the tribe annoy, Who the Grandsire would destroy, And get every year a boy Whilst they live together. To the royal family Let us close in bumpers three, May the ax and halter be The pledge of every Roundhead; To all loyal hearts pursue, Who to the monarch dare prove true; But for him they call True Blue, Let him be confounded. THE CAVALIER. By Alex. Brome.—(1661–2.) WE have ventured our estates, And our liberties and lives, For our master and his mates, And been toss’d by cruel fates Where the rebellious Devil drives, So that not one of ten survives; We have laid all at stake For his Majesty’s sake; We have fought, we have paid, We’ve been sold and betray’d, And tumbled from nation to nation; But now those are thrown down That usurped the Crown, Our hopes were that we All rewarded should be, But we’re paid with a Proclamation. Now the times are turn’d about, And the rebels’ race is run; That many-headed beast the Rout, That did turn the Father out, When they saw they were undone, Were for bringing in the son. That phanatical crew, Which made us all rue, Have got so much wealth By their plunder and stealth That they creep into profit and power: And so come what will, They’ll be uppermost still; And we that are low Shall still be kept so, While those domineer and devour. Yet we will be loyal still, And serve without reward or hire: To be redeem’d from so much ill, May stay our stomachs, though not still, And if our patience do not tire, We may in time have our desire. THE LAMENTATION OF A BAD MARKET, OR THE DISBANDED SOULDIER. (July 17th, 1660.)—From the King’s Pamphlets, British Museum.