Colonel John Okie's LAMENTATION, OR A RUMPER CASHIERED.  
To the tune of, And a Begging we will go.  

OF a Famous Brewer my purpose is to tell,  
Now mighty Roaring Oliver and Pride are gone to Hell,  
The Noble Stoker Okey that doth the rest Excel,  
And give him more Ale and Grains:   

The Rumps great Champion, the defender of the State,  
The Commonwealths Sir Guy o'ercome by cunning Fate,  
Packing out of England, with the devil's Excise Rate,  
And give, &c.   

And I (quoth this John) must now bring up the Rear,  
And Tally the Account of our State Stinking Beer,  
I wish I had my complices again to help me here,  
And give, &c.   

My Trade hath had the Honour, the State to overturn,  
How often times did I, and Pride the House Adjourn?  
I know I must be hanged for I'm too wet to Burn,  
And give, &c.   

Yet when I think how slighly, my partners me forsook,  
And never put the total sum to Bible nor to Book,  
I wish the Div'l for comp'ny had Okey also took,  
And give, &c.   

Then had I spared my angry Corking Knife,  
Which I drew at th' Exchange against a Hawkers Wife,  
For crying against the Rump end, our gainful strife,  
And give, &c.   

They say I am indicted, for Secluding of the Members,  
One thousand six hundred forty eight in December,  
Would the indictment was raked in my Stoake hole Embers,  
And give him, &c.   

My strong Irons beaten into broad Swords and Spears,  
My thick Smoke did vanish into Jealousies and Fears,  
But now all my wash is limbeckt into Tears,  
And give him, &c.   

A Fat Tub-woman was my goddess great of War,  
My hostess by Bellona that lived at the star,  
No matter if to Tyburn, I ride in Dray or Carr,  
And give him, &c.   

But my Dray is transformed to An Ammunition Wagon,  
My Horses swopt for light Nags, for service of the Dragoon,  
With which I overtook the Welsh, when they came from St. Fagon,  
And give him, &c.   

My brazen impudence, now leaves me at my Copper,  
And that will go ere long, then I'll be bottle stopper,  
And then sepulchers Bell, O how I fear that Clapper,  
And give him, &c.   

Adieu then all my veils, my Tilts, my Dregs and yeast,  
A Rump, and a Free State, shield me from an Inquest,  
I am not bound for Portsmouth but Tyburn in the West.  
And give him, &c.   

I'll now betake myself again unto the old Mash Tun,  
And with my Brewing oars, I'll Row to Wimbleton,  
I Murdered Charles the Father, I Mayn't endure the Son,  
And give him, &c.   

My old guile will be best, now I am stricken out o'th' Role,  
I'll Cunningly retreat again into my warm Stoke Hole,  
Sir Arthur is to find me store of Newcastle Cole.  
And give him more Ale and Grains.    

LONDON, Printed in the year. 1660.