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Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)

The Prisoners

Written when O. C. attempted to be King.

COme a brimmer (my bullies) drink whole ones or nothing,
Now healths have been voted down,
'Tis Sack that can heat us, we care not for cloathing,
A gallon's as warm as a gown;
'Cause the Parliament sees,
Nor the former nor these,
Could engage us to drink their health,
They Vote that we shall
Drink no healths at all,
Nor to King, nor to Common-wealth,
So that now we must venture to drink 'um by stealth.


But we've found out a way that's beyond all their thinking;
To keep up Good-fellowship still;
We'l drink their destruction that would destroy drinking,
Let 'um Vote that a health if they will.
Those men that did fight,
And did pray day and night
For the Parliament and its attendant,
Did make all that bussle,
The King out to justle,
And bring in the Independent,
But now we all clearly see what was the end on't.


Now their Idol's thrown down with their sooterkin also,
About which they did make such a pother,
And though their contrivance made one K. to fall so
We have drunk our selves into another.
And now (my Lads) we
May still Caveliers be,
In spite of Committees frown:
We will drink, and we'l sing,
And each health to our King,
Shall be Royally drunk in the Crown,
Which shall be the Standard in every Town.


Those politick would-bees do but shew themselves asses,
That other mens calling invade,
We only converse with pots and with glasses;
Let the Rulers alone with their trade.
The Lyon of the Tower,
Their estates does devour,
Without shewing law for't or reason;
Into prison we get,
For the crime called debt,
Where our bodies and brains we do season,
And that is ne'r taken for murther or treason.


Where our ditties still be, give's more drink, give's more drink boyes,
Let those that are frugal take care;
Our Goalers and we will live by our chink boyes,
While our Creditors live by the air.
Here we lie at our ease,
And get crast and grease,
Till we've merrily spent all our store;
Then as drink brought us in,
'Twill redeem us agen;
We got in because we were poor,
And swear our selves out on the very same score.

Alexander Brome's other poems:
  1. The Cavalier
  2. The Prodigal
  3. The Reformation
  4. The Hard Heart
  5. The Libertine

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