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EBBA 21888

Magdalene College - Pepys
Ballad XSLT Template
London mourning in A[s]hes;
OR,
Lamentable Narrative lively expressing the Ruine of that Royal City by fire which
began in Pudding-lane on September the second, 1666, at one of the clock in the
morning being Sunday, and continuing until Thursday night following, being the
sixth day, with the great care the King, and the Duke of York took in their own
Persons, day and night to quench it.
The Tune, In sad and ashy weeds.

OF Fire, Fire, Fire I sing,
that have more cause to cry,
In the Great Chamber of the King,
(a City mounted High;)
Old London that,
Hath stood in State,
above six hundred years,
In six days space,
Woe and alas!
is burn'd and drown'd in tears.

The second of September in
the middle time of night,
In Pudding-lane it did begin,
to burn and blaze out right;
Where all that gaz'd,
Were so amaz'd,
at such a furious flame,
They knew not how,
Or what to do
that might expel the same.

It swallow'd Fishstreet hil, & straight
it lick'd up Lombard-street,
Down Canon-street in blazing State
it flew with flaming feet;
Down to the Thames
Whose shrinking streams.
began to ebb away,
As thinking that,
The power of Fate
had brought the latter day.

Eurus the God of Eastern Gales
was Vulcan's Bellows now,
And did so fill the flagrant sayls,
that High-built Churches bow;;
The Leads they bear,
Drop's many a Tear,
To see their Fabricks burn;
The sins of Men,
Made Churches then,
in Dust and Ashes mourn.

The second part to the same Tune.

WIth hand & feet, in every street,
they pack up Goods and fly,
Pitch, Tarr, and Oyl, increase the spoyl
old Fishstreet 'gins to frye;;
The Fire doth range,
Up to the Change,
and every King commands,
But in despight,
Of all its might,
the stout old Founder stands.

Out of the Shops the Goods are tane,
and hall'd from every shelf,
(As in a Shipwrack) every man
doth seek to save himself;
The Fire so hot,
A strength hath got,
No water can prevail;
An hundred Tun
Were it powr'd on.
would prove but like a Pail.

The Crackling flames do fume and roar,
as Billows do retyre,
The City, (though upon the shoar)
doth seem a sea of fire;
Where Steeple Spires,
Shew in the Fires
like Vessels sinking down.
The open fields,
More safety yields,
and thither fly the Town.

Up to the head of aged Pauls
the flame doth fluttering flye,
Above a hunred thousand souls
upon the ground do lye;
Sick souls and lame,
All flie the flame.
women with Child we know,
Are forc'd to run,
The fire to shun,
have not a day to goe.

Cradles were rock'd in every field,
and Food was all their cry,
Till the Kings bowels bread did yield
and sent them a supply;
A Father He,
Of his Countrey,
Himself did sweetly shew,
Both day and night,
With all His might,
he sought to ease our woe.

The King Himself in Person there,
was, and the Duke of York,
And likewise many a Noble Peer,
assisted in the Work;
To quell the ire,
Of this Wild fire,
whose Army was so high,
And did invade,
So that it made,
ten hundred thousand fly.

From Sunday morn, till Thursday at night,
it roar'd about the Town,
There was no way to quell its might
but to pull Houses down;
And so they did,
As they were bid
By Charles, His Great Command;
The Duke of York,
Some say did work,
with Bucket in his hand.

At Temple-Church and Holborn-bridge,
and Piecorner 'tis stench'd,
The Water did the Fire besiege,
at Aldersgate it quench'd;
At Criplegate
(Though very late)
And eke at Coleman-street,
At Basing-hall
The Fire did fall,
we all were joy'd to see't.

Bishopsgate-street to Cornhill end,
And Leaden-hall's secure,
It to the Postern did extend,
Fanchurch doth still endure
Clothworkers-Hall,
Did (ruin'd) fall,
yet stop'd the fires haste;
Mark-lane, Tower-dock,
Did stand the shock,
And all is quench'd at last.

Many of French and Dutch were stop'd
and also are confin'd,
'Tis said that they their Fire-balls drop'd
and this Plot was design'd,
By Them and Those
That are our Foes,
yet some think nothing so;
But that our God,
With his flaming Rod,
for Sin sends all this woe.

Although the Fire be fully quench'd
yet if our sins remain,
And that in them we stil are drench'd,
the Fire will rage again;
Or what is worse,
A heavier Curse,
in Famine will appear;
Where shall we tread,
When want of Bread,

and Hunger draweth near.
If this do not reform out lives,
A worse thing will succeed,
Our kindred, children, and our wives,
will dye for want of Bread;
When Famine comes,
'Tis not our Drums,
Our Ships our Horse or Foot,
That can defend,
But if we mend,
we never shall come to't.


London, Printed by E. Crowch, for F. Coles, T. Vere, and J. Wright.

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