OXFORD in Mourning, For the Loss of the Parliament.  
OR, London's loud Laughter at her late flattering herself with Excessive Trading.  
A Pleasant New SONG.  

Now Tapsters, Vintners, Sales-men, Tailors, all  
Open their Throats, and for their losses bawl:  
The Parliament is gone, their hopes now fail,  
palled is the Wine, and Egar grow the Ale:   

Now Rooms late let for twenty Crowns a Week,  
Would let for twelvepences, but may Lodgers seek;  
London Rejoices who was sad before,  
And in like Coin does pay off Oxford's score.   
To the Tune of, Packington's Pound; Or, Digbies Farewell.  

London   
 
 

LOndon now smiles to see Oxford in Tears,  
Who lately decided and scoffed at her fears;  
Thinking their joys they would never be spent,  
But that always they'd last with the Parliament:  
But O she's mistaken, for now they are gone,  
And fairly have left her to grieve all alone.   

Now Vintners and Tapsters that hoped for such gain,  
By Cheating the people have cause to Complain;  
The Cooks that were stored with Provision, now grieve  
Whilst London to hear it does laugh in her sleeve:  
And now each fat Host who lives by the Sins  
Of those who brought many to whimper, begins,   

So Dolefully Tool now the Bells that of late,  
With loud sounds did a pleasure to hear them create;  
The Innkeepers late that so Prodigal were,  
Of Stand, have Horse-room enough, and to spare:  
Whilst London rejoices to think of the time,  
When Oxford Bells jangled, and scarcely could Chime   

Now Salesmen and Sempstresses homeward do pack,  
No more cries the Shoemaker, what do you lack;  
The Tailor by Thimble and Bodkin does Curse,  
And swears that his Trading could never be worse;  
Yet home again barefoot poor Pricklouse must trudge,  
Whilst Oxford he bans, and his Labour does grudge,   

The Chair-men who thought to return with a Load  
Of Silver to London, to store their abode;  
Now homeward do foot it, though 'tis with much pain,  
And creep in their Chairs to secure them from Rain:  
When night does approach, there their lodging thy make  
For a better to purchase, no moneys they take.   

The Coffee-men wish they at London had stayed,  
And not to have rambled in hopes of a Trade;  
Their Shops of Sedition did fail of their end,  
And back now their Puddle to London they send:  
While she does deride them, and flout them to scorn,  
To see their Ears hanging as if they were forlorn.   

Oh the Scholars now curse the gay Crack of the town,  
Who trooped it to Oxford to trade for a Crown;  
The youngsters put in and bid money for all,  
But the jades were so scittich they gave them a fall:  
And many in watering their Nags have been burned,  
The Bath were so hot ere the Stream could be turned.   

Whilst Surgeons of all the best trading will find,  
For the Cracks being fled, they have left work behind;  
That doubtless repentance unfeigned, will cause  
The Goldsmiths and Drapers now stand at a pause:  
How in their Journey the Padders to scape,  
Whilst London for joy at their follies does leap.   

She hears the sad sounding of Oxford great Bell,  
Which the towns heaviness plainly do tell;  
How their Laughter they lately against her did vent,  
For enjoying the Court and the Parliament:  
Is now turned to weeping, and each one sits sad,  
To think what a loss by dissolving he's had.   

Remember then Oxford how London you flout,  
For she'll be still even with you 'tis no doubt;  
England's chief City must still bear the Bell,  
For near it the most part the King he will dwell:  
And cheer her with favours, whilst Oxford sits sad,  
And many lament the bad trade they have had.   
FINIS.