Tom prayes heaven blesse sweet princesse Besse,

Loves none she thinks disloyall.

Blesse those few lords are honest,

From the armies adjutators,

Saints sent from heaven, to make all even,

Both church and state translaters:

Those stood not firm to the king, to the good king,

But have him forsaken,

Let the crownets they weare, and supporters should

beare,

Their arms from them be taken.

Blesse the reverent suffering bishops,

Each parson, vicar, curate,

From the Presbyter plots and subtile Scots,

Whose hearts are so obdurate.

Blesse those stood fast to the king, to the good king,

Masters, fellows, proctors;

Plague take the fool went with his counsell of Trent To visit Oxford doctors.*

Blesse the loyall hearted gentry,

In country, towns, and cities,

From the bane of us all (base Goldsmiths hall),
And from their close committees.

* The parliamentary visitation of the University of Oxford, by the Earl of Pembroke, took place in the April of 1648, and many of the masters, fellows, &c. were deprived and expelled.

Those who were false to the king, to the good king,

Irish, Scot, or English;

Some marks may they beare or colours weare

May them from us distinguish.

Blesse the city from their lord mayor,

From close committee treasons;

From those are unjust to the cities trust,

From traytors watch their seasons:

Now make amends to your king, to your good king,

For you have undon him;

Your coyne to the Scots, your strength and their plots Have brought these ills upon him.

By poore Tom be advised,

As

you at White-hall tryed,

So as stoutly call for a common hall,

It cannot be denyed.

Call on the states for your king, for your good king. Wish them to deliver

Unto justice those who the peace oppose,

You strike it dead for ever.

Blesse us all, 'tis a mad world,

Tom's heart is struck with pitty

To think how of late this thing call'd a state

Hath wrought upon this city.

'Tis time you call for the king, for the good king,

Else you will be undone;

If the army should bring to ruin your king,

What will become of London?

Blesse the valiant honest souldiers

From the hands of base commanders,

From those spirits employ'd so many destroy'd,
For want of pay in Flanders.

Those have been false to the king, to the good king,
May they ship at Dover,

Thence to Rupert in France, who will lead them a

dance

They hardly shall recover.

Blesse the printer from the searcher*

And from the houses takers!

Blesse Tom from the slash; from Bridewel's lash,

Blesse all poore ballad-makers!

Those who have writ for the king, for the good king Be it rime or reason,

If they please but to look through Jenkins his book, They'le hardly find it treason.

* The immense number of seditious publications had obliged the Long Parliament to adopt means for restraining the liberty (or licence) of the press; and the publishers of objectionable papers or pamphlets began to be visited with severity, when they could be discovered. Such publications were considered as libels on the parliament. The book of Judge Jenkins, alluded to below, was probably his "Lex Terræ," published in English in 1647, and in Latin in 1648.

COLONELL RAINSBOROWES GHOST:

OR A TRUE RELATION OF THE MANNER OF HIS DEATH, WHO WAS MURTHERED IN HIS BED-CHAMBER AT DONCASTER, BY THREE OF THE PONTEFRACT SOULDIERS WHO PRETENDED THAT THEY HAD LETTERS FROM LIEUTENANT GENERALL CROMWELL, TO DELIVER UNTO HIM.

To the Tune of "My bleeding heart with grief and care."

[1648.]

RAINSBOROUGH was one of the most energetic and faithful of Cromwell's officers, and had been very active in suppressing the royalist insurrections during the present year. He was considered as one of those most opposed to treating with the king; and he was murdered by three desperadoes of the. royalist party, at Doncaster, on the 29th October of this year. The following ballad, which gives a tolerably correct account of that event, is preserved in the seventh volume of the folio broadsides, King's Pamphlets.

You gallant blades of Mars his traine,

who serve the state for wealth and fame,
Such by respects will be your baine,
if onely at such things you aime.

My name was Rainsborow, slaine of late,
whose troubled ghost can take no rest,

Untill some things I doe relate,

which to the world must be exprest.

Then know fro whence my baine did spring,

vaine-glory and my thirst of blood,

I hated them that lov'd my king

as by his friends was understood.

Witnesse the bloody fights in Kent,

the siege at Colchester likewise, I served well the Parliament,

all deeds of mercy did dispise.

For when the towne they did surrend,
I ploted all against them then:
I quickly brought unto an end,
the lives of two brave gentlemen.

I would not give the generall rest,
till he unto their deaths had seal'd;
My troubled ghost hath here exprest,
what to the world should be reveald.

Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle,
two worthy men whom I did hate,
The glory of the British Isle,

whom I did make unfortunate.

With resolution stout they died,
and call'd me traytor to my face:
It did no whit abaite my pride,
I saw them fall in little space.

The death of them reveng'd hath bin

on me, by those that lov'd them well:

* The incidents connected with the siege of Colchester, in this year, will be familiar to most readers. Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle were shot, after the surrender of the town, as rebels.