K

Ballad of the Armada

ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would
sack us;

With an army of heathenish names

He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And scatter our ships on the main;

But we had bold Neptune to back us-
And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,

And Drake to his Devon again,

And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—
For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let His Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us;
He must play at some lustier games

Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us

To tug at his bullet and chain;

Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!— But where are the galleons of Spain?

ENVOY

GLORIANA! the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain;

He must reach us before he can rack us,

And where are the galleons of Spain?

Austin Dobson.

When the Assault was Intended to the City

(1642)

APTAIN or Colonel, or Knight in arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,

If deed of honour did thee ever please,

Guard them, and him within protect from
harms.

He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground: and the repeated air
Of sad Electra's poet had the power

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

To the Lord General

Milton.

ROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud

Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast
ploughed,

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
Hast reared God's trophies, and His work pursued;
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued,

And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer still; Peace hath her victories

No less renowned than War; new foes arise,
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains:
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.

Milton.

N

The Riddle

(Written in 1644)

O more, no more,

We are already pin'd,
And sore and poor
In body and in mind:

And yet our sufferings have been

Less than our sin.

Come, long-desired Peace, we thee implore,
And let our pains be less, or power more.

One body jars,

And with itself does fight;

War meets with wars,

And might resisteth might;

And both sides say they love the king,

And peace will bring.

Yet since these fatal civil broils begun,

Strange riddle! both have conquered, neither won.

One God, one king,

One true religion still,

In every thing

One law both should fulfil:

All these both sides do still pretend

That they defend;

Yet to increase the king and kingdom's woes, Which side soever wins, good subjects lose.

The king doth swear

That he doth fight for them;

And they declare

They do the like for him:

Both say they wish and fight for peace,

Yet wars increase.

So between both, before our wars be gone,
Our lives and goods are lost, and we're undone.

Since 't is our curse

To fight we know not why,

'Tis worse and worse

The longer thus we lie.

For war itself is but a nurse

To make us worse;

Come, blessed Peace! we once again implore,

And let our pains be less, or power more.

Alexander Brome

ד

The Battle of Naseby

By Obadiah Bind-their- Kings-in-chains- and - their -
Nobles-with-links - of- iron, Sergeant in Ireton's

Regiment

(1645)

H! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,

Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day in June,

That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses

shine,

And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced
hair,

And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the
Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The General rode along us to form us to the fight,
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into
a shout,

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.