We begg for our bread,

But sometimes it happens,

we feast it with Pigg, Pullet, Conny and Capons, For Churches Affairs

We are no Men-slayers;

we have no Religion, yet live by our Prayers.

[i.e. volley.]

But if when we begg, Men will not draw their Purses,
We charge & give fire, with a vally of curses:
The Devil confound your good worship, we cry,
And such a bold brazen-fac'd Begger am I.

40

WE

And have so much Reason,

we raise no Rebellion, nor never talk Treason.

We Billet our mates

At very low Rates,

[Part 2.]

45

whilst some keepe their Quarters as high as the Gates. With Shinkin ap Morgan, with Blew-cap or Tege, [Teague.] We enter into no Covenant, nor League:

And therefore a bonney bold Begger I'le be;

For none lives a life so happy as he.

We never do prate,

In matters of State,

For fear we should come to Hugh Peters his Fate;
Whilst Scripture unfolders,

And Treason upholders,

Have lost their heads, we keep ours on our shoulders. Our Plots & our Projects, are never so tall

To reach to the Top-mast of Westminster-hall,
And therefore a merry brave Begger I'le be,
For none wears his Nodle so safely as he.

BAGFORD.

P

50

For such petty Pledges,

As shirts from the Hedges,

we are not in fear to be drawn upon Sledges; But sometimes the Whip,

Doth make us to skip,

65

And then we from Tything to Tything do trip,

For when in a poor bousing-ken we do bib it,

We stand more in awe of the Stocks then the Gibbet:

And therefore a merry mad Begger I'le be,
For when it is night, to the Barn goes he.

70

We throw down no Alter,

Nor ever do falter

So much as to change a Gold-Chain, for a Halter:

we nere go without forty peices about us;

But

many brave fellows are fine and look fiercer

That owe for their Cloaths to the Taylor and Mercer:
And if from the Stocks I can keep out my feet,
I fear not the Compter, Kings-bench nor the Fleet.

Sometimes I do frame,

My self to be lame;

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80

and when a coach comes, I do hop to my game:

We seldome miscarry,

Yet never do Marry,

85

By the Gowns Common Prayer, nor the Cloak-Directory,

But Harry & Mary (like birds of a feather)

do nothing but kiss, laugh, & lye down together:

Like Piggs in the pease-straw, intangld they lie,
Till there they beget such a bold Rogue as I.

To summe all in brief,

We live by relief,

And pray for King Charles, our Commander in chief:

God bless all the Peers,

The wise Over-seers,

that they may consider the poore Cavaliers,

For if they let them but lower to fall,
The[y]'l take our profession & begger us all :
And then it will be but a folly for me,

A merry soul'd, bonny bold Begger to be.

London, Printed for W. Thackeray, T. Passenger, and W. Whitwood.

100

[In Black-letter. Date of appearing in print, certainly before 1672: probably written between Oct. 1660 and the end of 1663.]

Answer to the Cook-Maid's Tragedy. FOR the present, it remains doubtful, whether the so-called

"Cook-Maid's Tragedy," and our Bagford "Chamberlain's Tragedy; or, The Cook-Maid's Cruelty," were one and the same production. If the same, they probably would have gone to

the same tune.

Despite the announcement of the following being the Answer to a ballad of "The Cook-Maid's Tragedy," we can scarcely overcome our suspicion that the two stories are disconnected. The absence of all reference to the Cookmaid's cruel murder of the Chamberlain seems to indicate a different sort of "Mary" altogether.

We have already given the earlier part of this lugubrious ballad (if it be the earlier part) on pp. 174 (Bagford Coll., ii. 52 verso). The copy of this "Answer," as well as of the " Tragedy," has been mutilated by the collector, or his book-binder, who "dressed the edges" and "trimmed" the ballads after the fashion employed by Demetrius and Chiron, against Lavinia, in Titus Andronicus. Another copy is found in the Pepys Collection, v. 318. It goes to the same tune, "If Love's a sweet Passion;" already recorded on our p. 179, ante.

[Bagford Coll. II. 59, verso; and II. 97, verso.]

An Answer to the

Cook-Maid's Tragedy;

Dr, The

Lamentation of Thomas the Coach-man, for Mary the Cook-Maid, in Covent Garden; who Popson'd herself in Dispair for his Sake.

TO THE TUNE OF, If Love's a sweet Passion, &c.

Ssist, all you Muses, to make my sad moan,

When alas! I am shipwreck'd on Rocks of dispair,
For my passion I now am not able to bear:

[Line pared away.]

[Not] an hour or minute [of joy] I have,
When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.

I see mine own folly, now, now 'tis too late,
And lament for dear Mary's sad desperate state,
Who was wounded, I know, by the Arrows of Love,
When she took that strong Poyson her grief to remove:
In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,

When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grare.

Her fancy young Cupid was pleas'd to confine,
That her heart could not wander, 'twas constantly mine;
Yet I needs must acknowledge I slighted her so,
That it proved her ruin and sad overthrow:
In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,

6

12

When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.

Whatever between us in private had past,
Was unknown to the World, therefore clearly at last,
I endeavour to smother and stoutly deny;

Was there ever Young-man so ungrateful as I?

In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,

18

When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.

24

I did my endeavour the same to conceal,
But I now sad passionate torment do feel,

Which bereaves me of all the delights of the World; With distracted confusion my thoughts they are hurl'd: In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,

When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave. 30

Now now she lies sleeping, poor Soul, in the dust,
Who was never faint-hearted, but loyal and just,
While in sorrow her Thomas is left to complain,
But it is not my tears can recal her again :

[Line pared away.]

In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,
When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.

So soon as her presence she found I forsook,
Straight a potion of Poison, poor creature, she took,
To release her kind heart from the torment she felt,
When she found like a false-hearted lover I dealt :
In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,
When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.

Where ever I wander she runs in my mind,
And methinks that I hear her cry, Thomas unkind,
Tell me, how could you flatter an innocent Maid?
Thus I fancy I hear how she does me upbraid:
In my conscience no comfort or quiet I have,
When I think how dear Mary was sent to the Grave.

Oh that I was able her Life to restore,
Then I'd labour to honour and dearly adore
My beloved dear innocent Mary, for why,
Since she's dead, there's none so unhappy as I:

But, alas! all my sighs and sad tears are in vain,
All the World cannot raise or recal her again.

FINIS.

Licensed according to Drder.

Printed for J. Deacon, at the Angel in Gillspur-street,

without Newgate.

36

42

48

54

[In White-letter, surrounded by a heavy funereal black-border. Printed about 1684-95, at the back of a copy of "Jack Had-Land's Lamentation"-"To all good fellows," &c., which had been licensed by Richard Pocock, and printed for Philip Brooksby, in 1685-8. When mounting this earlier-printed ballad, as being more important, the Bagford binder mutilated our "Answer to the CookMaid's Tragedy," shearing away lines from the two verses at head of each column. The second copy is at back of "The Soldiers Return"; also printed for P. Brooksby; which we give later, from Bagford Coll., ii. 97.]