The Power of the Sword
The text of this ballad appears in the collection
Rump Songs published in 1662.
The Power of the Sword
To the Tune of, Law Lyes a-Bleeding
Lay by your Pleading, Law lyes a-bleeding
Burn all of your Studies down, and throw
away your Reading;
Small power the Word has, and can afford
us
Not half so many Priviledges as the Sword
has:
It fosters your Masters, it plasters Disasters,
And maks your Servants, quickly greater than
their Masters;
It venters, it enters, it circles, it centers,
And makes a Prentice free in spight of his
Indentures.
This takes off tall things, and sets small
things,
This masters Money, though Money masters
all things;
'Tis not in season, to talk of Reason,
Or call it Legal, when the Sword will have
it Treason;
It conquers the Crown too, the Furres and
the Gown too,
This set up a Presbyter, and this pull'd
him down too;
This subtil Deceiver, turn'd Bonnet to Beaver,
Down drops a Bishop, and up starts a Weaver.
This fits a Lay-man to preach and pray man,
'Tis this can make a Lord of him that was
a Drayman;
Forth from the dull pit, of Follies full
pit,
This brought an Hebrew Iron-monger to the
Pulpit;
Such pittifull things be, more happier than
Kings be,
This got the Herauldry of Thimblebee
and Slingsbee;
No Gospel can guide it, no Law can decide
it,
In Church or State, untill the Sword hath
sanctify'd it.
Down goes the Law-tricks, for from the Matrix
Sprung holy Hewson's power, and tumbled
down St. Patricks;
The Sword prevails so highly in Wales
too,
Shinkin ap Powel cryes, swears Cuts-plutteranails
too;
In Scotland this Waster, did make
such disaster,
They sent their Money back for which they
sold their Master;
It batter'd so their Dunkirke, and
did so the Don firke,
That he is fled, and swears, the Devil is
in the Dunkirke.
He that can tower o'er him that is lower,
Would be but thought a Fool to put away his
Power;
Take Books and rent 'um, who would invent
'um,
When as the Sword replyes, Negatur argumentum?
Your grand Colledge Butlers, must stoop to
your Sutlers,
There's not a Library living like the Cutlers;
The bloud that is spilt, Sir, hath gain'd
all the gilt, Sir,
Thus have you seen me run the Sword up to
the hilt, Sir.
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