This sarcastic exultation of triumphant loyalty is printed from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in "A choice collection of 120 loyal songs. &c." 1684, 12mo.-To the tune of Old Simon the king.

REBELLION hath broken up house,

And hath left me old lumber to sell;
Come hither, and take your choice,
I'll promise to use you well:
Will you buy the old speaker's chair?
Which was warm and easie to sit in,
And oft hath been clean'd I declare,
When as it was fouler than fitting.

Says old Simon the king, &c.

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Which was made of a butcher's stump And has been safely apply'd,

To cure the colds of the rump.

And for a small matter I'll sell ye 'um; They are made of the presbyters lungs, To blow up the coals of rebellion. Says old Simon, &c.

I had thought to have given them once To some black-smith for his forge; But now I have considered on't,

They are consecrate to the church. So I'll give them unto some quire,

They will make the big organs roar, And the little pipes to squeeke higher, Than ever they could before. Says old Simon, &c.

Here's a couple of stools for sale,

One's square, and t'other is round;

Betwixt them both the tail

Of the Rump fell down to the ground. Will you buy the states council-table,

With which old Noll's horns she did rub,

When he was got drunk with false bumpers. Says old Simon, &c.

Here's the purse of the public faith;

Here's the model of the Sequestration,
When the old wives upon their good troth,
Lent thimbles to ruine the nation.
Here's Dick Cromwell's Protectorship,
And here are Lambert's commissions,
And here is Hugh Peters his scrip
Cramm'd with the tumultuous petitions.
Says old Simon, &c.

And here are old Noll's brewing vessels,
And here are his dray, and his slings;
Here are Hewson's awl, and his bristles;
With diverse other odd things:
And what is the price doth belong

To all these matters before ye?
I'll sell them all for an old song,
And so I do end my story.
Says old Simon, &c.

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Given (with some corrections) from a MS. copy, and collated with two printed ones in Roman character in the Pepys dollection.

THERE was a knight was drunk with wine,

A riding along the way, sir;

And there be met with a lady fine,
Among the cocks of hay, sir.

Shall you and I, O lady faire,

Among the grass lye down-a: And I will have a special care Of rumpling of your gowne-a.

Upon the grass there is a dewe,

Will spoil my damask gowne, sir: My gowne and kirtle they are newe, And cost me many a crowne, sir.

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He from his scabbard drew his brand, And wiped it upon his sleeve-a! And cursed, he said, be every man, That will a maid believe-a!

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It is worth attention, that the English have more songs and ballads on the subject of madness, than any of their neighbours. Whether there be any truth in the insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers; we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of French, Italian Songs, &c.

Out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a dozen" Mad Songs" for this work. The three first are originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the three last is chiefly that of imitation. They were written at considerable intervals of time; but we have here grouped them together, that the reader may the better examine their comparative merits. He may consider them as so many trials of skill in a very peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals to shoot in the bow of Ulysses. The two first were probably written about the beginning of the last century; the third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within the eighteenth century.

This is given from the Editor's folio MS. compared with two or three old printed copies.-With regard to the author of this old rhapsody, in Walton's Complete Angler, cap. 3. is a song in praise of

angling, which the author says was made at his request by Mr. William Basse, one that has made the choice songs of the Hunter in his Career,' and of 'Tom of Bedlam,'and many others of note," 84. See Sir John Hawkins's curious edition, 8vo. of that excellent old book.

FORTH from my sad and darksome cell,
Or from the deepe abysse of hell,
Mad Tom is come into the world againe
To see if he can cure his distempered braine.

Feares and cares oppresse my soule;
Harke, howe the angrye Fureys houle!
Pluto laughes, and Proserpine is gladd
To see poore naked Tom of Bedlam madd.

Through the world 1 wander night and day
To seeke my straggling senses,
In an angry moode I mett old Time,
With his pentarchye of tenses:

When me he spyed,
Away he hyed,

For time will stay for no man :
In vaine with cryes
I rent the skyes,
For pity is not common.

p.

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