CHATTERTON—A. D. 1752-70. Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out, Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge, "I'm come," quod hee, " unto your grace "Thenne," quod the kynge, "Youre tale speke out, You have been much oure friende; Whatever youre request may bee, Wee wylle to ytte attende." "My nobile leige! alle my request Ys for a noblie knyghte, Who, though may hap hee has donne wronge, "He has a spouse and children twaine; Alle rewyn'd are for aie, Yff that you are resolv'd to lett Charles Bawdin die to-daie." "Speke not of such a traytour vile," The kynge ynn furie sayde; "Before the evening starre doth sheene, Bawdin shall loose hys hedde: "Justice does loudlie for hym calle, And hee shalle have hys meede: Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else Att present doe you neede ?" "My nobile leige!" goode Canynge sayde, "Leave justice to our Godde, And lay the yronne rule asyde; Be thyne the olyve rodde. "Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines, The best were synners grete; Christ's vicarr only knowes ne synne, Ynne all thys mortall state. "Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, Alle sov'reigns shall endure: "But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou Beginne thy infante reigne, Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes brows Wylle never long remayne." Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, And after them a multitude Of citizenns dydd thronge; And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat The kynge ynne myckle state, To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge To hys most welcom fate. Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, "Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Expos'd to infamie; Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne! I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee. "Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, Thou wearest nowe a crowne; And hast appoynted mee to die, By power nott thyne owne. "Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie; I have beene dede till nowe, And soone shall lyve to wear a crowne For aie uponne my browe: "Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few ycares, Shalt rule thys fickle lande, To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule "Twixt kynge and tyrant hande: "Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave! Shall falle onne thye owne hedde"Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge Departed thenne the sledde. Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face, Hee turn'd his hedde awaie, And to hys broder Gloucester Hee thus dydd speke and saie: "To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe Ne ghastlie terrors brynge, Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe, Hee's greater thanne a kynge!" "Soe lett hym die!" Duke Richarde sayde; "And maye echone oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe, And nowe the horses gentlie drewe Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle; The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne, His pretious bloude to spylle. Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe, As uppe a gilded carre Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre : And to the people hee dyd saie: "Beholde you see mee dye, For servynge loyally mye kynge, Mye kynge most ryghtfullie. "As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, "You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge, Whenne ynne adversitye; Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke, Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees, A pray'r to Godde dyd make, Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe Hys partynge soule to take. Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, And teares, enow to washe't awaie, Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne. The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, The crowen dydd devoure: The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, A dreery spectacle; Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile. Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate: Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Ynne Heav'n Godde's mercie synge! MYNSTRELles songe. O! SYNGE untoe mie roundelaie, Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tongue as the throstle's note, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre ys mie true love's shroude; Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllow tree. Heere uponne mie true love's grave, Wythe my hondes I'll dente the brieres Gon to hys death-bedde, Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Gon to hys death-bedde, Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. |