A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THF devil's Arse a Peake, Or Satan's Beastly place, Or, In plain Terms OF the POSTERIORS and FAG-END of A Long PARLIAMENT.  
To be said or Sung very Comfortably To the Tune of Cook laurel.  

O Foolish Brittanicks, where are your hearts fled?  
What fiend doth the Nation bewitch;  
That since you like Rogues Cut off your own Head,  
Your Noses Close in with the Britch?   

The Britch! such a bit, Nolls paunch could never brook,  
For it put him still to his dumps;  
And though full meals of Hell-broth he oft took,  
Yet always he spewed out the Rumps.   

Till Lambert the Knave and Fleetwood the fool  
(Though Di●k persuaded them from it)  
Did overturn the devil's Close-stool,  
And like Dogs return to their Vomit.   

No sooner the Council Table was spread  
With many a vomited gull;  
But the Army grew sqeezee and turned their Head,  
For they soon had their belly full.   

The Red-coats could never this Rumpling digest,  
Till advised by Old Nick and his train,  
(Who good unwittingly oft may suggest)  
They spewed up their vomit again.   

Their sir-reverence was for a while out of sight  
Till Whettam began to deplore 'em,  
And Arthur the Knight of the Spur a bold wight,  
The Rump of a Rump did restore 'um.   

Then a pox light on the pitiful Rump  
That a third time above board vapers  
Which Old Nick blew out; but now turns up Trump  
As Joan farted in and out tapers.   

The House by this Legion was long time possessed,  
But at last they were Cast out of door;  
Yet finding it swept, returned a new guest  
Seven-times more a fiend then before.   

Away than ye pitiful Citizen slaves  
Who let such enormities pass,  
Were you but true men or not errant knaves,  
Fools durst not you ride like an Ass.   

Then dare to be Honest, and beat up your Drum,  
For when the Rogues here of your power,  
you'll smell what a scent proceeds from the Bum,  
From Whitehall, at least to the Tower.   

S' foot! what if these Arse-worms with gifts of our gold  
Great George to defend them should move,  
Our goods and our Liberties, then would be sold,  
And the devil a Monk would he prove.   

Then pluck up your Spirits, and draw out your Swords  
'Tis force that must only prevail,  
We have long enough stood out in bare Words,  
Let's now make a Rod for their Tail.   

Then Vive le Roy let's merrily Sing,  
Can any Man well in his wits,  
Think worser of Charles our Noble good KING,  
Then those who do Govern by Fits?   

Search round the great City what ill you can see,  
Which the Rascally Rump hath not done,  
And then you will wish with the Nation and me,  
That Charles had his Heritage won.   

For Swearing, sacrilege, murder, and Lies,  
KING-Killing, Hyprocrisy, Cheats,  
They make no more of these Sins, than of Flies,  
HELL is almost outdamed by their Feats.   

Then fight ye like Men for the good of the Nation,  
As ye hope to be Civilly Drunk,  
On free cost at blessed CHARLES Coronation,  
Pray hard for the trueness of Monk.   

Heaven bless our good sovereign, the best of all Men,  
Let the KING of our Hearts be Trump,  
That Peace and Prosperity may come again,  
Squire Dun and Old Nick take the Rump.   

Then let the Knaves Shuffle 3 Kingdoms a while  
Till each cur at his fellow snarls,  
Ere long they will Cut, and after the broil  
The dealing must fall to KING Charles,   

This Flap with a fox-tail shall have the same Lot,  
That unhorsed his tumble-down highness,  
For since the rest of the Members are not,  
The Rump must shortly have FINIS.    

LONDON, Printed for Thomas James.