Cromwell, our cheif of men, who through a cloud
Not of warr onely, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith & matchless Fortitude,
To peace & truth thy glorious way hast plough'd,
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
Hast reard Gods Trophies & his work pursu'd,
While Darwen stream with blood of Scotts imbru'd,
And Dunbarr feild, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcesters laureat wreath; yet much remaines
To conquer still; peace hath her victories
No less renownd then warr, new foes arise
Threatning to bind our souls with secular chaines:
Helpe us to save free Conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves whose Gospell is their maw.