Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)
On the Demolishing the Forts
IS this the end of all the toil, And labour of the Town? And did our Bulwarks rise so high, Thus low to tumble down? All things go by contraries now, We fight to still the Nation, Build Forts to pull down popery, Pull down for Edification. These Independents tenets, and Their waies so pleasing be, Our City won't be bound about, But stands for liberty. The Popish doctrine shall no more Prevail within our Nation; For now we see that by our works, There's no Justification. What an Almighty army's this, How worthy of our praising, That with one vote can blow down that; All we so long were raising! Yet let's not wonder at this change, For thus 'twill be withall: These works did lift themselves too high, And pride must have a fall. And when both Houses vote agen, The Cavies to be gone; Nor dare to come within the lines, Of Communication: They must reserve the sense, or else Refer't to the Divines, And they had need sit seven years more, Ere they can read those lines. They went to make a Gotham on't, For now they did begin To build these mighty banks about, To keep the Cuckoes in. Alas what need they take such pains! For why a Cucko here, Might find so many of his mates, Hee'l sing here all the year. Has Isaac our L. Mayor, L. Mayor, With Tradesmen and with wenches, Spent so much time, and cakes and beer, To edifie these trenches! All trades did shew their skill in this, Each wife an Engineer: The Mayoress took the tool in hand, The maids the stones did bear. These Bulwarks stood for Popery, And yet we never fear'd 'um. And now they worship and fall down, Before those calves that rear'd 'um. But though for superstition, The crosses have been down'd, Who'ld think these works would Popish turn, That ever have been round? This spoils our Palmistry; for when Wee'l read the Cities fate, We find nor lines nor crosses now, As it hath had of late. No wonder that the Aldermen, Will no more money lend, When they that in this seven years, Such learned works have penn'd. Now to debase their lofty lines, In which the wits delighted, 'Tis thought they'l ne'r turn Poets more, Because their works are slighted. These to a doleful tune are set, For they that in the town, Did every where cry Up go we, Now they must sing down down. But if that Tyburn do remain, When t' other slighted be, The City will thither flock and sing, Hay, hay, then up go we.
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