







 
   
     
       
         The Geneva ballad. To the tune of 48.
         Butler, Samuel, 1612-1680.
      
       
         
           1674
        
      
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         B01875
         Wing B6291A
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.2[339]
         99886992
         ocm99886992
         181660
         
           
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             The Geneva ballad. To the tune of 48.
             Butler, Samuel, 1612-1680.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             s.n.,
             [London :
             1674]
          
           
             Attributed to Samuel Butler.
             Verse: "Of all the factions in the town ..."
             Imprint from Wing.
             This edition has a dark-colored-leafed floreated initial and a double floreated decoration separating the two columns.
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Ballads, English -- 17th century.
           Great Britain -- Religion -- 17th century -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           The
           GENEVA
           BALLAD
           .
        
         
           To
           the
           Tune
           of
           48.
           
        
         
           
             OF
             all
             the
             Factions
             in
             the
             Town
             ,
          
           
             Mov'd
             by
             
               French
               Springs
            
             or
             
               Flemish
               Wheels
            
             ,
          
           
             None
             treads
             Religion
             upside
             down
             ,
          
           
             Or
             tears
             Pretences
             out
             at
             heels
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Splay-mouth
             with
             his
             brace
             of
             Caps
          
           
             Whose
             Conscience
             might
             be
             scan'd
             perhaps
          
           
             By
             the
             Dimensions
             of
             his
             Chaps
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             whom
             the
             Sisters
             so
             adore
             ,
          
           
             Counting
             his
             Actions
             all
             Divine
             ,
          
           
             Who
             when
             the
             Spirit
             hints
             ,
             can
             roar
             ,
          
           
             And
             if
             occasion
             serves
             can
             whine
             ;
          
           
             Nay
             he
             can
             bellow
             ,
             bray
             or
             bark
             .
          
           
             Was
             ever
             
               sike
               a
               Beuk-larn'd
               Clerk
            
             ,
          
           
             That
             speaks
             all
             
             Lingua's
             of
             the
             Ark.
             
          
        
         
           
             To
             draw
             in
             Proselytes
             like
             Bees
             ,
          
           
             With
             
               pleasing
               Twang
            
             he
             tones
             his
             Prose
             ,
          
           
             He
             gives
             his
             Hand-kerchief
             a
             squeez
             ,
          
           
             And
             draws
             
               John
               Calvin
            
             through
             his
             Nose
             .
          
           
             Motive
             on
             Motive
             he
             obtrudes
             ,
          
           
             With
             
               Slip-stocking
               Similitudes
            
             ,
          
           
             Eight
             Uses
             more
             ,
             and
             so
             concludes
             .
          
        
         
           
             When
             Monarchy
             began
             to
             bleed
             ,
          
           
             And
             Treason
             had
             a
             fine
             new
             name
             ;
          
           
             When
             Thames
             was
             balderdash'd
             with
             Tweed
             ,
          
           
             And
             Pulpits
             did
             like
             Beacons
             flame
             ;
          
           
             When
             
             Jeroboam's
             Calves
             were
             rear'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             Laud
             was
             neither
             lov'd
             nor
             fear'd
             ,
          
           
             This
             Gospel-Comet
             first
             appear'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Soon
             his
             unhallowed
             Fingers
             strip'd
          
           
             His
             Sov'reign
             Liege
             of
             Power
             and
             Land
             ,
          
           
             And
             having
             smote
             his
             Master
             ,
             slip'd
          
           
             His
             Sword
             into
             his
             Fellows
             hand
             .
          
           
             But
             he
             that
             wears
             his
             Eyes
             may
             note
             ,
          
           
             Oftimes
             the
             Butcher
             binds
             a
             Goat
             ,
          
           
             And
             leaves
             his
             Boy
             to
             cut
             her
             Throat
             .
          
        
         
           
             Poor
             England
             felt
             his
             Fury
             then
          
           
             Out-weigh'd
             Queen
             
             Mary's
             many
             grains
             ;
          
           
             His
             very
             Preaching
             slew
             more
             men
             ,
          
           
             Than
             
             Bonner's
             Faggots
             ,
             Stakes
             and
             Chains
             .
          
           
             With
             
               Dog-star
               Zeal
            
             and
             Lungs
             like
             Boreas
             ,
          
           
             He
             fought
             and
             taught
             ;
             and
             what
             's
             notorious
             ,
          
           
             
               Destroy'd
               his
               Lord
            
             to
             make
             him
             Glorious
             .
          
        
         
           
             Yet
             drew
             for
             King
             and
             Parlement
             .
          
           
             As
             if
             the
             Wind
             could
             stand
             North-South
             ;
          
           
             Broke
             
             Moses's
             Law
             with
             blest
             intent
             ,
          
           
             Murther'd
             and
             then
             he
             wip'd
             his
             mouth
             .
          
           
             Oblivion
             alters
             not
             his
             case
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Clemency
             nor
             Acts
             of
             Grace
          
           
             Can
             blanch
             an
             
             Aethiopian's
             Face
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ripe
             for
             Rebellion
             he
             begins
          
           
             To
             rally
             up
             the
             Saints
             in
             swarms
             ,
          
           
             He
             bauls
             aloud
             ,
             
               Sirs
               ,
               leave
               your
               Sins
            
             ,
          
           
             But
             whispers
             ,
             
               Boys
               ,
               stand
               to
               your
               Arms
               ,
            
          
           
             Thus
             he
             's
             grown
             insolently
             rude
             ,
          
           
             Thinking
             his
             Gods
             can't
             be
             subdu'd
             ,
          
           
             Money
             ,
             I
             mean
             ,
             and
             Multitude
             .
          
        
         
           
             Magistrates
             he
             regards
             no
             more
          
           
             Than
             St.
             George
             or
             the
             Kings
             of
             Colen
             ;
          
           
             Vowing
             he
             'l
             not
             conform
             before
          
           
             The
             Old-wives
             wind
             their
             Dead
             in
             Woollen
             .
          
           
             He
             calls
             the
             Bishop
             ,
             
               Grey-beard
               Goff
            
             ,
          
           
             And
             makes
             his
             Power
             as
             mere
             a
             Scoff
             ,
          
           
             As
             Dagon
             ,
             when
             his
             Hands
             were
             off
             .
          
        
         
           
             Hark!
             how
             he
             opens
             with
             full
             Cry
             !
          
           
             
               Halloo
               my
               Hearts
               ,
               beware
               of
            
             ROME
             .
          
           
             Cowards
             that
             are
             afraid
             to
             die
          
           
             Thus
             make
             domestick
             Broils
             at
             home
             .
          
           
             How
             quietly
             Great
             CHARLES
             might
             reign
             ,
          
           
             Would
             all
             these
             Hot-spurs
             cross
             the
             Main
             ,
          
           
             And
             preach
             down
             Popery
             in
             Spain
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             starry
             Rule
             of
             Heaven
             is
             fixt
             ,
          
           
             There
             's
             no
             Dissension
             in
             the
             Sky
             :
          
           
             And
             can
             there
             be
             a
             Mean
             betwixt
          
           
             Confusion
             and
             Conformity
             ?
          
           
             A
             Place
             divided
             never
             thrives
             :
          
           
             'T
             is
             bad
             where
             Hornets
             dwell
             in
             Hives
             ,
          
           
             But
             worse
             where
             Children
             play
             with
             Knives
             .
          
        
         
           
             I
             would
             as
             soon
             turn
             back
             to
             Mass
             ,
          
           
             Or
             change
             my
             Phrase
             to
             Thee
             and
             Thou
             ;
          
           
             Let
             the
             Pope
             ride
             me
             like
             an
             Ass
             ,
          
           
             And
             his
             Priests
             milk
             me
             like
             a
             Cow
             :
          
           
             As
             buckle
             to
             Smectymnuan
             Laws
             ,
          
           
             The
             bad
             effects
             o'
             th'
             Good
             Old
             Cause
             ,
          
           
             That
             have
             Dove's
             Plumes
             ,
             but
             Vultur's
             Clawes
             .
          
        
         
           
             For
             't
             was
             the
             
               Haly
               Kirk
            
             that
             nurs'd
          
           
             The
             Brownists
             and
             the
             Ranters
             Crew
             ;
          
           
             Foul
             Errors
             motly
             Vesture
             first
          
           
             Was
             Oaded
             in
             a
             Northern
             Blue
             .
          
           
             And
             what
             's
             th'
             Enthusiastick
             breed
             ,
          
           
             Or
             men
             of
             
             Knipperdoling's
             Creed
             ,
          
           
             But
             Cov'nanters
             run
             up
             to
             seed
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Yet
             they
             all
             cry
             ,
             they
             love
             the
             King
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             boast
             of
             their
             Innocence
             :
          
           
             There
             cannot
             be
             so
             vile
             a
             thing
             ,
          
           
             But
             may
             be
             colour'd
             with
             Pretence
             .
          
           
             Yet
             when
             all
             's
             said
             ,
             one
             thing
             I
             'll
             swear
             ,
          
           
             No
             Subject
             like
             th'
             old
             Cavalier
             ,
          
           
             No
             Traitor
             like
             Jack
             —
          
        
      
    
     
  

