A Mock-Song

Now Whitehall's in the grave,
And our head is our slave,
The bright pearl in his close shell of oyster;
Now the miter is lost,
The proud prelates, too, crossed
And all Rome's confined to a cloister;
He that Tarquin was styled,
Our white land's exiled,
Yea undefiled,
Not a court ape's left to confute us;
Then let your voices rise high,
As your colors did fly,
And flourishing cry,
"Long live the brave Oliver-Brutus."

Now the sun is unarmed,
And the moon by us charmed,
All the stars dissolved to a jelly;
Now the thighs of the crown
And the arms are lopped down,
And the body is all but a belly;
Let the Commons go on,
The town is our own,
We'll rule alone;
For the knights have yielded their spent gorge;
And an order is ta'en
With honi soit profane,
Shout forth amain,
For our dragon hath vanquished the St. George.