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In good King Charles's golden days,

When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high churchman I was,

And so I got preferment:
To teach my flock I never miss'd,

Kings are by God appointed,
And damn'd are those that do resist,
Or touch the Lord's anointed.
And this is law I will maintain

Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,

I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James obtain’d the crown,

And Popery came in fashion,
The penal laws I hooted down,

And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit

Full well my constitution;
And had become a Jesuit
But for the Revolution.

And this is law, &c.

When William was our king declared,

To ease the nation's grievance, With this new wind about I steer'd,

And swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke,

Set conscience at a distance;
Passive obedience was a joke,
A jest was non-resistance.

And this is law, &c.

When gracious Anne became our Queen,

The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen,

And I became a tory: Occasional conformists base,

I damn'd their moderation, Although the Church in danger was By such prevarication.

And this is law, &c.

When George in pudding-time came o'er,

And moderate men look'd big, sir,
I turn'd a cat-in-pan once more,

And so became a whig, sir;
And thus preferment I procured,

From our new faith's defender;
And almost every day abjured
The Pope and the Pretender.

And this is law, &e,

Th' illustrious House of Hanover,

And Protestant Succession ;
To these I do allegiance swear-

While they can keep possession :
For in my faith and loyalty;

I never more will falter,
And George my lawful king shall be-
Until the times do alter.

And this is law, &c.

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“ The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire,” says D'Israeli, in his “Curiosities of Literature," was a Papist, under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When this scandal to the gown was reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed for being a turn-coat, and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: Not neither;

for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray." “Pendleton, the celebrated Vicar of Bray,” says another statement, which has recently gone the round of the newspapers, “ subsequently became rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook. It is related that in the reign of Edward VI., Lawrence Sanders, the martyr, an honest but mild and timorous man, stated to Pendleton his fears that he had not strength of mind to endure the persecution of the times, and was answered by Pendleton that "he would see every drop of his fat and the last morsel of his fesh consumed to ashes, ere he would swerve from the faith then established.” He, however, changed with the times, saved his fat and his flesh, and became rector of St. Stephen's, whilst the mild and diffident Sanders was burnt in Smithfield.”

In a note in Nichols' Select Poems, 1782, vol. viii., p. 234, it is stated that The song of the Vicar of Bray “is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller's regiment, in the reign of King George the First. It is founded on an historical fact; and though it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humourously expressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns from Charles the Second to George the First.” Extract of a Letter from Mr. Brome, to Mr. Rawlins, dated June 14, 1735:

I have had a long chase after the Vicar of Bray on whom the proverb. Mr. Hearne though born in that neighbourhood, and should have mentioned it, (Leland, Itinerary, vol. v. p. 114), knew not who he was, but in his last lelter desired me if I found him out to let him know it. Dr. Fuller in his Worthies, and Mr. Ray from him, takes no notice of him in his Proverbs. I suppose neither knew his name.

But I am informed it is SIMON Alleyn or Allen, wbo was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and died 1588, so was Vicar of Bray near50 years. You now partake of the sport that has cost me some pains to take “—Letters from the Bodleian, vol. ii. part 1, p. 100.

(6 *


JOHN CUNNINGHAM, born A.D. 1728.'

Since wedlock 's in vogue, and stale virgins despis’d,
To all bachelors, greeting, these lines are premis’d.
I'm a maid that would marry, but where shall I find
(I wish not for fortune) a man to my mind ?

Not the fair-weather for, fond of fashion and lace;
Not the squire, that can wake to no joys but the chase ;
Not the free-thinking rake, whom no morals can bind;
Neither this-that-nor t’ other's the man to my mind.

Not the ruby-fac'd sot, that topes world without end;
Not the drone, who can't relish his bottle and friend;
Not the fool that 's too fond, nor the churl that 's unkind;
Neither this—that—nor t'other's the man to my mind.

Not the wretch with full bags, without breeding or merit;
Not the flash, that's all fury without any spirit;
Not the fine master fribble, the scorn of mankind;
Neither this-that-nor t’ other's the man to my mind.

But the youth in whom merit and sense may conspire,
Whom the brave must esteem, and the fair should admire;
In whose heart love and truth are with honour combin'd;
Tbis-this-and no other 's the man to my mind.

This Author's Poems were printed in 1771, and dedicated to David Garrick. He was the Manager of the Newcastle Theatre, and an actor of some repute. The exact year of his death is unknown, but it was prior to 1780.


Harry Carey, died 1748.

From the court to the cottage convey me away,
For I'm weary of grandeur, and wbat they call gay;

When pride without measure,

And pomp without pleasure,
Make life in a circle of hurry decay.

Far remote and retired from the noise of the town,
I'll exchange my brocade for a plain russet gown;

My friends shall be few,

But well chosen and true,
And sweet recreation our evenings shall crown.
With a rural repast (a rich banquet for me),
On a mossy green turf, near some shady old tree,

The river's clear brink

Shall afford me my drink, And temperance my friendly physician shall be. Harry Carey was the Author of a great number of Songs; among others, of Sally in our Ailey"- "-one of the most popular ever written, but a composition of no merit; vulgar, and without a single sentiment to account for the favour with which it was received. Its popularity caused several imitations of it to be published, and Carey himself was among the first to set the example.

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I'll sing you a good old song,

Made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman,

Who had an old estate;
And who kept up his old mansion

At a bountiful old rate;
With a good old porter to relieve

The old poor at his gate.
Like a fine old English gentleman,

All of the olden time.

His hall, so old, was hung around

With pikes, and guns, and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers,

That had stood against old foes;
'Twas there “bis worship” held his state,

In doublet and trunk hose;
And quaff'd his cup of good old sack,
To warm his good old nose.

Like a fine, &c.
When Winter's cold brought frost and snow,

He open'd house to all;
And though threescore and ten his years,

He fleetly led the ball;

Nor was the houseless wanderer,

E'er driven from his hall;
For, while he feasted all the great,
He ne'er forgot the small,

Like a fine, &c.
But time, tho' sweet, is strong in flight,

And years roll swiftly by ;
And Autumn's falling leaves proclaim'd

The old man-he must die !
He laid him down right tranquilly,

Gave up life's latest sigh ;
And mournful stillness reign'd around.
And tears bedewed each eye,

For this good, &c.
Now surely this is better far

Than all the new parade
Of Theatres and Fancy Balls,

"At Home," and Masquerade :
And much more economical,

For all his bills were paid.
Then leave your new vagaries quite,
And take up the old trade

Of a fine old English gentleman, &c.

“The excellent song of the Old and Young Courtier," on which this is closely modelled, is, says Percy, in his Relics of Ancient English Poetry, “ from an ancient black etter copy in the Pepys Collection, compared with another printed among some miscellaneous poems


in a book entitled . The Prince d'Amour, 1660.'"


From “ The Convivial Songster," 1782.

Fair Rosalind in woeful wise,

Six hearts has bound in thrall,
As yet she undetermined lies

Which she her spouse shall call.
Wretched, and only wretched he

To whom that lot shall fall !
For if her heart aright I see,

She means to please them all!

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