The Dominion Of The Sword

The Power of the Sword

Melody - From the Loyal Garland, 1686. To the tune of "Love lies a bleeding"

Cavalier Ballad from Rump Songs, 1662

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.

2. 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.

3. 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.

4. 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.

5. 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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