THE RUMP docked  

TIll it be understood  
What is under Monck's Hood,  
The City dare not show his horns:  
Till ten days be out,  
The Speaker's sick of the Gout,  
And the Rump doth sit upon thorns.   

If Monck be turned Scot  
The Rump goes to pot,  
And the Good Old Cause will miscarry;  
Like coals out of embers,  
Revive the Old Members:  
Off goes the Rump, like Dick and Harry.   

Then In come the Lords,  
Who drew parliament swords,  
With Robes lined through with ermine;  
But Peers without Kings  
Are very useless things,  
And their Lordships counted but Vermin   

Now Morley and Fag  
May be put in a bag,  
And that doughty man Sir Arthur;  
In despair for his Foil,  
With Alderman Hoyle,  
Will become a Knight of the Garter.   

That Knave in Grain  
Sir Harry Vane  
His case then most men's is sadder;  
There is little hope  
He can scape the rope,  
For the Rump turned him o'er the Ladder.   

That precious Saint Scott  
Shall not be forgot,  
According to his own desires;  
Instead of Neck-verse  
Shall have it writ on his Horse,  
Here hangs one of the King's Triers.   

Those nine sons of Mars  
That whipped the Rumps Arse,  
I mean the Commanders warlike;  
If the Rump smell strong  
With hanging too long,  
Shall serve to stuff it with garlic.   

That parcel of man  
In length but a span,  
Whose wife's Eggs always are addle;  
Must quit the lifeguard,  
As he did when skared  
By Lambert out of the saddle.   

Lambert now may turn Florist,  
Being come off the poorest  
That ever did man of the Sword:  
The Rump let a fart  
Which took away his heart,  
And made him a Squire of a Lord.   

His Cheshire glory  
Is a pitiful story,  
There the Saints triumphed without battle;  
But now Monck and his friars  
Have driven him into the Briers,  
As he did Booth and his Cattle.   

For the rest of the Rump,  
Together in a lump,  
'Tis too late to cry▪ Peccavi:  
Ye have sinned all or most  
Against the Holy Ghost,  
And therefore the devil must have ye.   

But now valiant City,  
Whether must thy Ditty  
Be sung in very, or in Prose;  
For till the Rump●●unk  
For fear of Monck,  
Thy Militia durst not show Its Nose.   

Base Cowards and Knaves,  
That first made us slaves,  
Very Rascals from the beginning;  
Only unto monks Sword  
The Nation must afford  
The honour of bringing the King in.    

Printed in the year, 1660.