THE KING IS COMING TO LONDON.

(A Song of the Restoration.)

LET bonfires shine in every place
And redden many a laughing face,

O pray

that God may give His grace,

To Charles, who's coming to London.
And sing and ring the bells apace,
But let no Roundhead lean and base,
Dare of his crop ears show a trace,

At

When the King is coming to London.

every window hang a flag,

Though it be torn and rent to a rag,
And shout till tongue refuse to wag,

The King is coming to London.
Let not one trooper dare to lag
His old slashed coat to button and tag,
But sling on his horn and his bullet bag,

For the King is coming to London.

And in the face of scented lords,

And cry

Point to the notches upon your swords,
like the drunken gipsy hordes,
The King is coming to London.
Instead of a plume wear oaken boughs,
And open the door of every house,
Then make every passer-by carouse,

For the King is coming to London.

Jewel the hair of daughter and spouse,
Even the dying must carouse,

Crawl to the window and drink and bouse,
For the King is coming to London.
Pale madmen wake with cry and stare,
And run to taste the fresh blue air,
Then gibber to see the splendour there,
For the King is coming to London.

The beggar shall rouse from his fever lair,
The butcher leave the bleeding bear,
And even gaolers forget their care,

For the King is coming to London.
Tear up benches, and rip up boards,
To build up fires sell brooches, and gauds,
And when you sing remember the chords,
The King is coming to London.

Grim felons free from fetter and bond,
Whisper at golden chain and wand,

And

eye the gems with ogling fond,

When the King is coming to London. The scrivener leaves the half-forged bond, Forgets the wretched man he wronged, And hurries where his clients thronged, When the King is coming to London.

Debtors whose blood's grown cold and thin,
Warm with the laughter and the din,
That thaws the half froze heart within.
When the King is coming to London.
The poorest tinker with kith and kin,
Must now forget his solder and tin,
For labour to-day is a sort of a sin,
When the King is coming to London.

Old men rub their palsied palm, And sing with tremulous voice a psalm Of Simeon blest now tempests calm, For the King is coming to London. plague-smit man shall feel a balm, And his sickness pass, as if by a charm, When he waves for joy his bandaged arm. For the King is coming to London.

The

THE ENTRY INTO LONDON.

SWING it out from tower and steeple, now the dark crowds of the people

Press and throng as if deep gladness ruled them, as the moon the flood;

How they scream and sway about, sing and swear, and laugh and flout,

As if madness universal fevered the whole nation's blood.

Drowsy watchers on the tower start to hear the sudden hour

Shouted out from pier and jetty, o'er the river's mimic waves;

When the bells, with clash and clang, into life and motion sprang,

As to rouse the dead and buried, peaceful sleeping in their graves.

Flags from every turret hung, thousands to the chimneys clung,

Shining pennons, gay and veering, from the belfry chamber float;

Weary poets ceased to rhyme, and the student at

the chime

Closed his books and joined the rabble, and with shouting strained his throat;

Every cooper left his vat-there was sympathy in that;

All the shops of 'Cheap and Ludgate were fast barred upon that day;

The red wine, that bubbled up, left the toper in

his cup;

And his crutch and staff the cripple, in his gladness, threw away;

Then the bully left his dice, tailors leapt up in a

trice,

The smith's fire upon the forges died and smouldered slowly out;

The Protector, in his tomb, slumbering till the crack of doom,

Might have frowned, and slowly waken'd at the thunder of that shout;