When civil fury first grew high, And men fell out, they knew not why; When hard words, jealousies, and fears, Set folks together by the ears, And made them fight, like mad or drunk, For Dame Religion, as for punk; Whose honesty they all durst swear for, Though not a man of them knew wherefore: When Gospel-Trumpeter, surrounded With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded, And pulpit, drum ecclesiastick, Was beat with fist, instead of a stick; Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, And out he rode a colonelling.

And Spaniards and Dutchmen, and Frenchmen and such men,
As foemen did curse them, the bowmen of England!
No other land could nurse them
But their motherland, Old England!
And on her broad bosom did they ever thrive!

We looked o'er London, where men wither and choke,
Roofed in, poor souls, renouncing stars and skies,
And lore of woods and wild wind prophecies,
Yea, every voice that to their fathers spoke.

From this amphibious ill-born mob began
That vain, ill-natured thing, an Englishman.