Part 117 (1/2)

91 'You leave your good and lawful king When in adversity; Like me unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die.'

92 Then he with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to G.o.d did make, Beseeching him unto himself His parting soul to take.

93 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke:

94 And out the blood began to flow, And round the scaffold twine; And tears, enough to wash't away, Did flow from each man's eyne.

95 The b.l.o.o.d.y axe his body fair Into four quarters cut; And every part, likewise his head, Upon a pole was put.

96 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour:

97 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most n.o.bile.

98 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;-- G.o.d prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven G.o.d's mercy sing!

MINSTREL'S SONG.

1 O! sing unto my roundelay, O! drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holy-day, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

2 Black his cryne[1] as the winter night, White his rode[2] as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

3 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabour, cudgel stout; O! he lies by the willow-tree: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

4 Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briared dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the night-mares as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

5 See! the white moon s.h.i.+nes on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

6 Here upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren flowers be laid, Not one holy saint to save All the celness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars Round his holy corse to gree;[4]

Ouphant[5] fairy, light your fires-- Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my hearte's-blood away; Life and all its goods I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6]

Bear me to your lethal tide.

'I die! I come! my true love waits!'

Thus the damsel spake, and died.

[1] 'Cryne:' hair.

[2] 'Rode:' complexion.

[3] 'Dent:' fix.

[4] 'Gree:' grow.

[5] 'Ouphant:' elfish.

[6] 'Reytes:' water-flags.

THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE.