The Cities Feast to the Lord Protector

And what was the day do you think, without jesting,

Of all the year it was Ash-wednesday,

This pious Reformer set apart for his Feasting,

When all good Christians should Fast and Pray.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

The Souldiers in clusters throng’d for place,

To see this Monster of their own making,

And said it was a Protectors grace,

But that it wanted not much of A King.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

The Bucks of the City in herds were met,

And were paled in with a very good sence,

But what their Does did, I cannot tell yet,

Of that ye may hear three quarters hence.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

With that the Recorder marcht up to the Hall

With a dish of Divinity drest for his pallate,

And laid before him a shoulder of Saul,

With a savory simily by for a salate.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

His Highnesse commanded to lay it by,

’Twas fit for his people he’d make it known,

And they should have it, good reason why,

For they wanted more shoulders than their own.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

A dish of Delinquents heads in a Charger

Was sent as a present from Goldsmiths Hall,

He wisht his stomack ten times larger,

Yet made a long neck and poach’d them all.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

A Prelate was next, and to him he buckles,

With a Bishoprick truss’d before and behinde,

His Highness was in with him up to the knuckles,

And to his own kitchin the skuers assign’d.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

His Highness then call’d for a boule of Canary,

And drank so deep that it made him reel,

He toss’d it to Lambert, and Lambert to Harry,

And Harry to the Mayor, and the Mayor to Steel.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

When Dinner was ended, away to the banquet,

Where snatching of Sugar-plums one from another,

Hal fill’d up his pockets, and said God be thanked,

And carried them home to his Lady Mother.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

Then his Highness commanded the Mayor to kneel,

The Beast of the City was soon on his knees,

He made him a Knight with iron and steel,

And bid him rise up, and pay him his fees.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

Up rose my Lords worship and made him a leg,

With that the Knight-maker did give him the Sword;

His Highnesse did spice him without a nutmeg,

When he made a bad Knight of a pittifull Lord.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.

When he left the City he broke a jest,

His words were pithy, and I’le repeat them,

Farewell (quoth his Highness) thou spur-gall’d Beast,

Fools make the Feasts, and wise men eat them.

With a ran tan the Devil is dead.