THE CAVALIER'S MARCH TO LONDON. To horse! to horse! brave cavaliers! To horse for church and crown! Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears! The imperial harlot, doomed a prey To our avenging fires, Sends up the voice of her dismay From all her hundred spires. The Strand resounds with maiden's shrieks The 'Change with merchant's sighs, And blushes stand on brazen cheeks, And tears in iron eyes; And, pale with fasting and with fright, Hath summoned forth to prayer and fight And soon shall London's sentries hear And London's dames, in wilder fear, Shall cry, Alack! They come ! Fling the fascines ;-tear up the spikes; And forward, one and all. Down, down with all their train-band pikes, Quarter?-Foul fall your whining noise, No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys. What ho! The craven slaves retire. Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch, Brave lads, to tell us where, Sure London's sons be passing rich, Her daughters wondrous fair: Their lean divines, of solemn brow, Sworn foes to throne and steeple, From an unwonted pulpit now Shall edify the people: Till the tired hangman, in despair, Shall curse his blunted shears, We'll hang, above his own Guildhall, In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair, With them shall perish, cheek by jowl, The colonel's canting muster-roll The chaplain's dog-eared Bible. We'll tread a measure round the blaze The beauties of the friars: Then smiles in every face shall shine, Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine, And as with nod and laugh ye sip The wink of invitation; Drink to those names,-those glorious names,— Our church and king for ever! |