A SAD SIGH, WITH SOME Heart-Cracking groans sent after the LORD governor and his whole host of MIRMIDONS.  
Printed in the year 1649.   

A sad Sigh, with some Heart-craking Groans sent after the LORD governor, and his whole host of Mirmidons.  

ANd art thou gon, great Sir, great Don, great Dagon?  
Wh'art able to out-face Bell and the Dragon;  
The burning rage of whose victorious snout  
A Hambletonian Army put to rout.  
O that our heads held Kilderkins of bear  
Strong as Prides Ale, to  shed, stead of each tear  
Should drown our words, and make our sad notes quaver  
Forth dribling roapes of spittle, snot, and slaver.  
Bring, bring me here Melpomine, thou Muse,  
The fabl●st dress thy buskin'd Poets use,  
That I may show how this dread Lamentation  
Hath cracked th' reformed Arse-strings of our Nation.  
O could we hear a kennel of the best  
mouthed Blood-hounds that ere smelled Thanksgiving-feast;  
Or could we hear of howleing woules a crew,  
fiercer 'mongst Lambs then Presbyter or jew,  
( Who take for Tithe both skin and flesh and wool,  
And yealp Sedition forth whole Pulpits full)  
Or could we hear but with what roaring throats,  
A Parliament of Fiends could belch forth Votes.  
Of Non-addresses to the throne of Grace,  
( Because they dare not view Majesties faces.)  
Or could ye hear their hideous screeching, growleing  
When Witches sand for them a catter whauling.  
Had we a heard of most impetuous town bulls  
To bellow( like hall Martin after's brown trulls.  
Or could we hear the baneful resonances  
Of Screech owls ( like the Commons Ordinances)  
That fright poor trembling innocents i'th' night;  
( As if their fatal cries were just and right)  
Were all the Whores at Shrove-tide put to rout,  
And could you hear them squeek, whilst the boyes shout.  
Were all these horrid noises put together  
To raise the fiends, or conjure up foul weather;  
Such such a sound, nor all these yealps and rorings,  
Could never equal our more sad deplorings:  
For we must loose, Oh! how it stops my breath.  
To think how Oliver must tug with death:  
That ene the grim-fac'd skeleton will dread  
To be by furious Oliver strooke dead,  
And butted in a nasty Irish bog,  
( As if he were oth' two the fiercer dog.)  
Nay we must loose( for absence still implies  
alas for th' present to our weeping eyes)  
The best part of that most Religious rabble  
That made Saint Paules a den of thieves and stable,  
Who had so fairly brought on Reformation,  
That horses seemed more holy then the Nation.  
Nay( thank our stars, or our Rebellion rather)  
'Tis Treason now to obey or King or father,  
To go to Church ere long( if they had stayed)  
The Puritans I ●ou●t would have been fraid:  
Had we not now both liberty and ease  
To pay large Taxes, and the Army please  
With full fre-quarter? did not th' Parliament  
By force of th' Army make us all content  
With liberty of Conscience to adore  
Our Calves-head Gods of England; least we should  
Revenge our late dread sovereigns guiltless blood?  
Nay more, pray would not this reforming rout  
Have compelled all to worship mighty snout?  
O what brave times should we have seen  
If these had stayed, the Churches would have been  
reformed to Brothels, and that deadly crime  
Of piety been taxed for Atheism, in short time.  
judge you Gentlemen, have we not cause  
To wail his loss, would have reformed our Laws?  
When th' very heat of Noses indignation,  
Meant to have fier'd all the Records ith' Nation;  
So that for future, nought but score and talley,  
By some ingenious Dray-man ranked in rally,  
Should have remained remembrancers of right;  
No rolls, save writ in blood had come in sight.  
But squint●eyd Lenthall, that triumphant jew  
opposed his wrath( to give the devil his due)  
For he is conscious were the Rolls pulled down  
H' has nere a house of 's one about the town.  
Nay that young start up, tricked up like a Player,  
His Six clerk son, 's iniquities blessed heir,  
That thrives so well in those good qualities,  
Of drink and drabbs, theres hopes heel loose his thighs  
By Amphutation or dismembering( either)  
If the pox consume not's pamperd corps together.  
He had lost his new office( which some know  
Is better then his patrimony I trow.)  
ifs Father nere, like a lame toad had lept  
Into the Speakers chair, he might have crept  
Into odd corners of good fellow hip  
To nip a bnuge, and so been choked with pip.  
Presbyter John now you may put on sackcloth  
A leave to preach in thread-bare cloaks of black-cloath;  
For put the case another King were brought  
To Holmby house a prisoner, to be taught  
To spell Religion backward by a Covenant,  
And renounce grace your rash desires to grant,  
And he with Christian magnanimity  
Should still defend his soul from perjury,  
And all your sophick machinations were  
Retorted on your your souls, till black despair,  
For e're usurping th' reverend Bishops chair,  
Seize on your souls, how would you plot revenge  
Wanting a Crumwell for to crouch and cringe,  
By cursed insinuation into's favour,  
To swear, forswear, dissemble, lie and slavour,  
Till's innocent credulity ensuar'd  
Prove him a job in sufferings when debarred  
Of Kingly liberty, by profane force  
To bring him to a martyrs death, nay worse,  
Could they have murdered soul and body too  
( As they endeavoured his glorious name to do)  
Their hell hatched hate would triumph were they sure  
His soul like theirs, hells torments should endure.  
Most mighty NOSE. O shield thee from the glaund●●s,  
Thou that containst the marrow of Commanders.  
This was thy work, how had we done to bring  
To th' fatal block, so wise, so just a King,  
If Peeters had not unpolished strong thy heart  
In that rare doctrine, that King-killing art?  
And may we not well mourn to part with thee,  
Whose blood-shot eyes have out-star'd Majesty?  
And though thou Basilisk like, with poisonous spite  
Couldst not confounded him with thy hideous sight,  
Yet thou couldst force thy Imps the traitorous Commons  
To warn him rudely by an unjust summons,  
T' appear before a perjured Convocation  
Of Brewers, Tapsters, Tinkers, of good fashion;  
And hadst not thou been there to bribe the Slaves,  
To cry for iustice Iustice,( O heaven save's  
From murderers and tyrants) he had been  
Alive to reign as King( a heavy sin.)  
Those puny Sophisters, that sit and wrangle  
The kingdom out of all their wealth, and tangle  
The wretched people in traps, 'gins, and snares  
By open force( not when by unawares)  
These these without thy dictates nere durst make  
A knick knack yet that with or treason speak;  
How are we bound to thee whose bright Nose shines  
Like a read Sun, or best of claret of wines.  
Nay I must speak thy praises who for merit  
Though not in Heaven, in Hell art sure t● inherit.  
Of thy descent or breeding 'twere vain glory  
To trouble honest ears with a vain story.  
Because the Reverend Draymen all know well  
For bungeing, flinging, O thou borest the bell  
In thy young dayes; but where thy mother whelped,  
( Or who to case her of her burden helped,  
When thou camest forth to terrify the earth  
By thy prodigious ill portending birth)  
Wee'l nere examine, nor we need not dive  
To see how thou camest on, and now doth thrive  
Since thy first serving of thy now made slaves,  
Since thou wast sent from Lucifer to save's  
From turning to our old abomination  
Of serving God sans frantic profanation;  
These mighty works we know heaven hath permitted;  
And thee for th' fire brand of confusion fitted.  
Who still persisting zealous for the cause  
Of independent barbartime,( whose Laws  
Are capitally wrote in bloody lines  
As a fit rule for after heathenish times)  
Art now upon thy march, either to rue  
Thy cursed birth, a●d give the D vill his due,  
Or else to reinvolve poor Ireland in  
A loody mantle, if th' enchanted skin  
B●y t●mp●nitrable, but I hope  
Thoult hardly live to crack a well spun rope,  
Which ● thou dost this Epitaph shall be  
The just conserver of thy in amie,  
Here lies a devil incarnate, who nor death,  
Nor open danger could deprive of breath,  
Till sledge and rope, and Hangmans Axe did quarter  
This Traito●, who deserves worse then hells torture.  
Thus thus I have with brevity orerun  
Thy matchless deeds that will outlive the sun,  
Thy same deserves to be writ down on tables  
Of such rogues hearts turn Churches into stables.  
Nay th' Iuncto ought each one to cut's own throat  
( Without referring the matter to a Vote)  
And with their bloods to writ a Declaration  
Of thy brave feats to their Elect of th' Nation.  
O London, London, you most wretched sinners,  
Who made so many great thanksgiving dinners;  
Now y'had more need to make the Conduits weep  
Strong Sack and Claret for our sorrows deep;  
Your svit of Plate( rope stretch you for your kindness)  
Hath struck us all into a mournful blindness,  
That and the purse of Gold you consecrated  
To this great idle( may you still be hated  
For th' hundred fifty thousand pound you lent)  
These sums dread Oliver hath packing sent.  
Now put the case your boyes should cut your throats,  
How would ye do to hire in more Rod-coats  
To put them to the rour, and make you stand  
Like Rye-dow images with cap in hand?  
How how'le ye do now to be kept in awe  
By Rogues and ruffians, more then God or Law  
Now Crumwells gone? For his out-braving crew  
Made slaves oth' Parliament, Cuckolds of you.  
Why shreiv'd ye not yourselves of all the evil  
Vpon Saint NOSES day?( shields from the devil)  
On such a day not for to mourn and bellow  
In sad new catches like a boon good fellow,  
It argues hes a Publican at least,  
When th' independent weeps dare quaff and feast.  
How do ye think this land should ere be blessed  
With peace, or plenty, or at quiet rest  
So long as men refuse to congregate  
And pray for vengeance each on's neighbours pate?  
To pray these blades may wade to th'knees in blood,  
And make heaven seem to countenance it for good;  
To play the hypocrites in perfect shape,  
And make each zealot prove the Devills ape;  
To roar at Church in most blasphemous notes  
Of sorrow, cause we can't cut good mens throats:  
To force down power from heaven with yealps and cries  
To Massacre, oppress, and tyramnize;  
until wee make this land, and others too,  
valleys of tears, stages of grief and woe.  
until the Saints( who have tight to't by birth)  
Have made each place seem perfect hell on earth.  
He that can pray for these things, and forget  
Noses prosperity, when in's throne set  
If these rare gems to's prayers cannot win him,  
I'll say not much, but think the devill's in him.  
Now now farewell ye Oliverian bilbowes,  
To th' back as true as well-strung steel-bowes.  
May th' Parliament remember to befreind ye,  
And ropes and butter whole ships lading sand ye.  
And may brave Ormond that most loyal sinner  
Give you a breakfast, that you need no dinner,  
He he I consider all your toils and labours,  
And sand ye to fright Hell with trumps and tabors,  
Where Oliver may reign world without end,  
Great Lord lieutenant, Lucifer● best friend:  
But first I doubt me ye'l be fondly banged,  
So twice adieu, that's farewell and be hanged.   
FINIS.