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Now Whitehall's in the grave, And our head is our slave, The bright pearl in his close shell of oyster; Now the miter is lost, The proud prelates, too, crossed And all Rome's confined to a cloister; He that Tarquin was styled, Our white land's exiled, Yea undefiled, Not a court ape's left to confute us; Then let your voices rise high, As your colors did fly, And flourishing cry, "Long live the brave Oliver-Brutus." Now the sun is unarmed, And the moon by us charmed, All the stars dissolved to a jelly; Now the thighs of the crown And the arms are lopped down, And the body is all but a belly; Let the Commons go on, The town is our own, We'll rule alone; For the knights have yielded their spent gorge; And an order is ta'en With honi soit profane, Shout forth amain, For our dragon hath vanquished the St. George. 1659 |
Created by Anniina Jokinen on January 16, 1997.