XIII.

St. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND,

THE SECOND PART,

-was written about the end of the last century by JOHN GRUBB M. A. of Chrift Church, Oxford. All that we can learn concerning this facetious writer is contained in a few extracts from the univerfity Register; by which it appears that he was matriculated in 1667, aged 20 years, being the fon of John Grubb “ de Acton Burnel in Comitatu Salop. "pauperis." He took his degree of Batchelor of Arts, Jun. 7, 1671. And became Mafier of Arts Jun. 28, 1675. He was fill living in Oxford, when a celebrated wit wrote the following Diftich:

*

Alma novem genuit celebres Rhedycina poetas,

Bub, Stubb, Grubb, Crabb, Trapp, Young,

Carey, Tickel, Evans.

Thefe were Bub Dodington (the late Lord Melcombe,) Dr. Stubbes, our Poet Grubb, Mr. Crabb, Dr. Trapp the Poetry Profeffor, Dr. Edw. Young the poet, Walter Carey, Thomas Tickel Efq; and Dr. Evans the Epigrammatift.

The Editor has never met with any two copies of the following ballad in which the ftanzas were ranged alike, he has therefore thrown them into what seemed to him the most natural order. The verfes were originally written in long lines as Alexandrines, but the narrowness of the page made it neceffary to fubdivide them.

*The author of Pfyche in Dodfley's Mifcel. Vol. 3.

The

The knights around his table in

A circle fate, d' ye fee;

And altogether made up one

Large hoop of chivalry.

He had a fword, both broad and sharp,

Y-cleped Caliburn,

Would cut a flint more easily,

Than pen-knife cuts a corn;
As cafe-knife does a capon carve,

So would it carve a rock,
And split a man at fingle flash,
From noddle down to nock.
He was the cream of Brecknock,
And flower of all the Welsh:

But George he did the dragon fell,
And gave him a plaguy fquelsh.

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St George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.

Sing, Honi foit qui mal y pense.

Pendragon, like his father Jove,
Was fed with milk of goat;

And like him made a noble fhield

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Of the-goat's fhaggy coat:

On top of burnifht helmet he

Did wear a crest of leeks;

And onions' heads, with dreadful nods,

Drew tears down hoftile cheeks.

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Itch, and Welsh blood did make him hot,

And very prone to ire;

H' was ting'd with brimftone, like a match,

And would as foon take fire:

As brimstone he took inwardly
When fcurf gave him occafion.
His postern puff of wind was a
Sulphureous exhalation.
The Briton never tergivers'd,

But was for adverse drubbing,

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And never turn'd his back for aught,

But to a poft for scrubbing.

His fword would ferve for battle, or

For dinner, if you please ;

When it had flain a Cheshire man,

'Twould toft a Cheshire cheese.

He wounded, and, in their own blood,

Did anabaptize Pagans.

But George he made the dragon an

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Example to all dragons.

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St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.

Sing, Honi foit qui mal y pense.

Brave Warwick Guy, at dinner time,

Challeng'd a gyant favage;

And ftreight came out the unweildy lout
Brim-full of wrath and cabbage:

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He

U 3

He had a phiz of latitude,

And was full thick i' th' middle;
The cheeks of puffed trumpeter,

And paunch of squire Beadle.*

But the knight fell'd him, like an oak,

And did upon his back tread;

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The valiant knight his weazon cut,

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And Atropus his packthread.
Befides he fought with a dun cow,

As fay the poets witty,

A dreadful dun, and horned too,

Like dun of Oxford city :

The fervent dog-days made her mad,

By caufing heat of weather,

Syrius and Procyon baited her,

As bull-dogs did her father:

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Grafiers, nor butchers this fell beaft,

E'er of her frolick hindred;

John Dorfet + fhe'd knock down as flat,
As John knocks down her kindred:

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Her heels would lay ye all along,

And kick into a fwoon;

Frewin's | cow-heels keep up your corpfe,

But hers would beat

you

down;

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She

* Men of bulk anfwerable to their places, as is well known at

Oxford.

A butcher at Oxford.

A cook, who on faft nights was famous for felling cow-beel and tripe.

She vanquisht many a sturdy wight,
And proud was of the honour;
Was pufft by mauling butchers fo,

As if themfelves had blown her:
At once the kickt, and pusht at Guy,

But all that would not fright him;

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Who wav'd his whinyard o'er fir-loyn,
As if he'd gone to knight him:

He let her blood, her frenzy to cure,

And eke he did her gall rip;

His trenchant blade, like cook's long spit,

Ran thro' the monfter's bald-rib:

He rear'd up the vaft crooked rib,

Inftead of arch triumphal.

But George hit th' dragon fuch a pelt,

As made him on his bum fall.

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St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.

Sing, Honi foit qui mal y penfe.

Tamerlain, with Tartarian bow,
The Turkish fquadrons flew ;

And fetch'd the pagan crefcent down,
With half-moon made of yew:
His trufty bow proud Turks did gall,
With fhowers of arrows thick,

And bow-ftrings, without throtling, feat
Grand-Vifiers to old Nick:

ICO

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