This text comes from Rump Songs, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
England once Europes joy,
Now her scorn;
Ambitious to be forlorn,
Self, by self torn;
Stand amaz’d?
Thy woes are blaz’d,
By silence best,
And wanting words, even wonder out the rest.
Help Gracious King,
The source and spring
Of all our bliss,
Alas the fault’s not his;
Good Prince how is he griev’d,
That he’s mistook?
Or what’s a Curse,
Far worse, he is not believ’d.
Help long-wisht for Parliament,
If so good by your intent;
And will,
And skill,
Why ill is your successe?
Alas Malignant humors lurk,
And cause the Physick not to work,
To give our woes redresse.
Help in the Law, ye Learned Sages,
Studied well in former ages:
But our Rents
Are above all Presidents;
In fight, what’s might,
Thafs right:
For Statutes are by Lawyers awed,
And Common-law by Canon-law out-lawed.
Help ye Divines our souls to plaister,
Settle the Legacy which your Master
Bequeath’d to his own at his decease,
Even Peace:
Alas alas in Gilead,
Where is no balm for to be had;
O Cruell,
They that should holy water bring, bring fiery fuell.
No help, no help,
Why then ’tis vain
For to complain;
And why men sin with all their heart,
Sorrow only but in part;
And still they cry
That all is ill,
And love to make’t and keep’t so still.
Since then our wounds
Are grown so wide,
And all means try’d,
And all deny’d;
Good God help us at last,
Before all help be past,
For this is sure, (cure.
Men made the wounds, but God alone can help the