And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's

ills,

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword;

And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear

What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.

CAVALIER TUNES

BY ROBERT BROWNING

I. MARCHING ALONG

I

KENTISH Sir Byng stood for his King,
Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:
And, pressing a troop unable to stoop

And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,

Marched them along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

II

God for King Charles! Pym and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!

Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup
Till you're-

CHORUS.-Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!

III

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell
Serve Hazlerig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!
England, good cheer! Rupert is near!
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here
CHORUS.-Marching along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this

song?

IV

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles !
Hold by the right, you double your might;
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,
CHORUS.-March we along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this
song!

II. GIVE A ROUSE

I

King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!

II

Who gave me the goods that went since ?
Who raised me the house that sank once?

Who helped me to gold I spent since ?
Who found me in wine you drank once?
CHORUS.-King Charles, and who'll do him right

now?

King Charles, and who's ripe for fight

now?

Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite

now,

King Charles!

III

To whom used my boy George quaff else,
By the old fool's side that begot him?
For whom did he cheer and laugh else,
While Noll's damned troopers shot him?

CHORUS.-King Charles, and who'll do him right now ?

King Charles, and whose ripe for fight

now?

Give a rouse here's, in hell's despite

now,

King Charles!

III. BOOT AND SADDLE

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray.

(Chorus)-Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray, God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay(Chorus)-Boot, saddle, to horse, and

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,

away

Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, (Chorus)-Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!
I've better counsellors; what counsel they?
(Chorus)-Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON

BY RICHARD LOVELACE

WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free-
Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

When, (like committed linnets,) I
With shriller throat shall sing

The sweetness, mercy, majesty
And glories of my King;

When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

THE FUGITIVE KING (AUGUST 7, 1645)

BY FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE

COLD gray cloud on the hill-tops,
Cold buffets of hill-side rain :-

As a bird that they hunt on the mountains,
The king, he turns from Rhôs lane :
A writing of doom on his forehead,
His eyes wan-wistful and dim ;
For his comrades seeking a shelter :
But earth has no shelter for him!

Gray silvery gleam of armour,
White ghost of a wandering king!
No sound but the iron-shod footfall
And the bridle-chains as they ring:
Save where the tears of heaven,
Shed thick o'er the loyal hills,

Rush down in a hoarse-tongued torrent
A roar of approaching ills.

But now with a sweeping curtain,
In a solid wall comes the rain,

And the troop draw bridle and hide them
In the Bush by the stream-side plain.
King Charles smiled sadly and gently;
""Tis the Beggar's Bush," said he;
"For I of England am beggar'd,
And her beggars may pity me.'

O safe in the fadeless fir-tree
The squirrel may nestle and hide;
And in God's own dwelling the sparrow
Safe with her nestlings abide :-

But he goes homeless and friendless,
And manlike abides his doom;
For he knows a king has no refuge
Betwixt the throne and the tomb.

T