Chapter 11
PART XI. The Preston Prisoners to the Ladies About Court and Town, by way of comfort, from C. W. to W. T. The following song, apparently a production of one of the Jacobite prisoners in Preston jail, after the defeat of the rebels in 1715, is here inserted from a broadside originally printed for J. Roberts in Warwick Lane, 1716,
Price-Tuppance. A copy of this broadside is preserved in the collection of proclamation ballads, etc., in 32 volumes, presented by Mr. J. O. Halliwell, F.R.S., etc., to the Chetham Library. You fair ones all at liberty, we captive lovers greet, Nor slight our tears and sighs, Cos we can't lay them at your feet. The fault's not ours, and you may guess,
We can desire no greater bliss, With a fal-la-la, etc. What though packed up in prison's base, With bolts and bars restrained? Think not our bodies love you less, Or souls are more confined, Which was to its utmost power your slave, Nor freedom took but what you gave. Thus doubly captive in this cause your prior title pleads,
This jail's high treason against your laws, And property invades. Wherefore since prisons are our due, Tis just we be locked up by you. From hence to those most blissful bowers, Lest we should miss our way, Those beauties that displayed their powers The last triumphant day, As most expert in Cupid's wars Shall guide us on like grenadiers.
Thus will to the innocence and fair That shone in decent sights, From perches chouts and noisome air, To whispers and delights, Then all our pain shall pleasures prove, And pinion arms to be wings of love. But if our stubborn keepers still should chain us in our dens, In disobedience to your will and sovereign influence,
Spite of their shackles, bolts and doors, Our hearts are free and they are yours. Meanwhile within these walls, imbued, Think not our spirits lost, The vilest ale our jails afford Is nectar with a toast, And if some wine creep in by stealth, It has its relish from your health. Our tedious nights and loathsome days, With your remembrance blessed,
At length may some compassion raise Within your tender breasts. No matter what our juries find, We're happy still if you prove kind. Nay, should we victims be designed By those that rule the state, Should mercy no admittance find To hearts that should be great, What dread can jails or gibbets show To men who've died so oft for you?
If fate must fix the unworthy doom, We'll leave you fresh supplies, And from our ashes in our room Some phoenixes shall rise, Whose vows will more successful prove In happier days to win your love.
