NEW-ENGLAND.

To all you 've said, sad mother, I assent.
Your fearful sins great cause there is to lament.
My guilty hands in part hold up with you,
A sharer in your punishment 's my due.
But all you say amounts to this effect,

Not what you feel, but what you do expect.
Pray, in plain terms, what is your present grief?
Then let's join heads and hearts for your relief.

OLD ENGLAND.

Well, to the matter, then.

There's grown of late

'Twixt king and peers a questiön of state:

Which is the chief- the law, or else the king?
One said, it's he; the other, no such thing.
'T is said my better part in Parliament

To ease my groaning land showed their intent,
To crush the proud, and right to each man deal,
To help the church, and stay the commonweal.
So many obstacles came in their way

As puts me to a stand what I should say.

Old customs new prerogatives stood on;

Had they not held law fast, all had been gone,

Which by their prudence stood them in such stead They took high Strafford lower by the head,

And to their Laud be it spoke they held in the tower All England's metropolitan that hour.

This done, an act they would have passéd fain
No prelate should his bishopric retain;

Here tugged they hard indeed, for all men saw
This must be done by gospel, not by law.
Next the militia they urged sore;

This was denied, I need not say wherefore.
The king, displeased, at York himself absents.
They humbly beg his return, show their intents;
The writing, printing, posting to and fro,
Show all was done; I'll therefore let it go.
But now I come to speak of my disaster.
Contention grown 'twixt subjects and their master,
They worded it so long they fell to blows,

That thousands lay on heaps. Here bleed my woes.

I that no wars so many years have known

Am now destroyed and slaughtered by my own.

But could the field alone this strife decide,

One battle, two, or three I might abide.
But these may be beginnings of more woe
Who knows but this may be my overthrow!
Oh, pity me in this sad perturbation,
My plundered towns, my houses' devastation,
My weeping virgins, and my young men slain,
My wealthy trading fallen, my dearth of grain.
The seed-times come, but plowman hath no hope.
Because he knows not who shall in his crop.

The poor they want their pay, their children bread,
Their woeful mothers' tears unpitiéd.

If any pity in thy heart remain,

Or any child-like love thou dost retain, relief do what there lies in thee,

For my

And recompense that good I've done to thee.

NEW ENGLAND.

Dear mother, cease complaints, and wipe your eyes,
Shake off your dust, cheer up, and now arise.
You are my mother nurse, and I, your flesh,
Your sunken bowels gladly would refresh.
Your griefs I pity, but soon hope to see
Out of your troubles much good fruit to be;
To see those latter days of hoped-for good,
Though now beclouded all with tears and blood.
After dark popery the day did clear;

But now the sun in his brightness shall appear.
Blest be the nobles of thy noble land

With ventured lives for truth's defense that stand.
Blest be thy Commons, who for common good
And thy infringéd laws have boldly stood.
Blest be thy counties, who did aid thee still
With hearts and states to testify their will.

Blest be thy preachers, who do cheer thee on;
Oh, cry the sword of God and Gideon!

And shall I not on them wish Meroz' curse

That help thee not with prayers, with alms, and purse? And for myself let miseries abound

If mindless of thy state I e'er be found.