Classic Poem

A SONG .

To the Tune of Oh Women, Monstrous Women .

Y O u Sep'ratists that Sequister
Your selves from Laws are good,
Your Courses so irregular
Shall now be understood;
Your fond Expounding corrupts the Bibble,
Yet you'l maintain it with your Twibble.
Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,
What do you mean to do?

He that does swear, though to a Truth,
You count him far worse than a Lyer,
Yet you will firk your Sister Ruth ,
So it may edify her;
You, like the Devil, abhor a Crosse,
But I'le have as good Reason from Pyms Stone-horse.
Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,
What do you mean to do?

Our Churches Hierarchy you hold
Within a foul Suspition;
And say the Prelates Sleeves are old
Reliques of Superstition;
The very Ragges of Rome they are
Such as the Whores of Babilon wear.
Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,
What do you mean to do?

Therefore in Zeal and Piety,
You'l dy their Lawn in blood,
And root out their Society,
A work you think is good;
The Malice is, some of your Eares
Were cropt far shorter than your hairs.
Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,
What do you mean to do?

When you the Miter have pull'd down,
You'l be hang'd before contented,
Your next Pluck must be at the Crown,
A Plot long since invented;
But Grigge swears Tyburn shall have her due,
Hee'l behang'd himself, if he hang not you.
Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,
What do you mean to do?

The Coblers were astonished,
The Porters eke, also;
To hear the Noyse that ecchoed
From your vast Tubb below:
But let him be hang'd will never mend,
The Cobler thinks upon his end.
Oh Roundheads, Roundheads, damnable Roundheads,
What do you mean to do?