Classic Poem

W H at Creature's this with his short hairs,
  His little band and huge long ears,
 That this new faith hath founded,
The Puritans were never such,
The Saints themselves, had ne'er so much,
 Oh, such a knave's a Roundhead.

What's he that doth the Bishops hate.
And count their Calling reprobate,
 Cause by the Pope propounded,
And saies a zealous Cobler's better,
Then he that studieth every letter,
 Oh, such a knave's a Roundhead.

What's he that doth high Treason say,
As often as his yea and nay,
 And wish the King confounded,
And dare maintain that Master Pym ,
Is fitter for the Crown then him,
 Oh, such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that if he chance to hear,
A piece of London's Common-Prayer,
 Doth think his Conscience wounded.
And goes five miles to preach and pray,
And lyes with's Sister by the way,
 Oh, such a rogue's a Roundhead.

What's he that met a holy Sister,
And in an Hay-cock gently kist her,
 Oh! then his zeal abounded,
Close underneath a shady willow,
Her Bible serv'd her for her pillow,
 And there they got a Roundhead.