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“ Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n

“ Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,

Of parents of grete note; I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade

My fadre dydd a nobile armes Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

Emblazon onne hys cote: “ By Marie, and alle Seinctes yone Heav'n,

« I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone, Thys sunne shall be hys laste.”

Where soone I hope to goe; Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,

Where wee for ever shall bee blest, And from the presence paste.

From oute the reech of woe. Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,

“ Hee taughte mee justice and the laws Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,

Wyth pitie to unite; And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole,

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe And teares beganne to flowe.

The wronge cause from the ryghte: “ Wee all must die," quod brave Sir Charles; “ Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande “ Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;

To feede the hungrie poore, Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie Of all wee mortall menne.

The hungrie fromm my doore: “ Say why, my friende, thie honest soul

“ And none can saye but alle mye lyse Runns over att thyne eye;

I have hys wordyes kept; Is ytte for my most welcome doome

And summ'd the actyonns of the daie Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?"

Eche nyghte before I slept. Quod godlie Canynge,“ I doe weepe,

“ I have a spouse, goe aske of her Thatt thou so soone must dye,

Yff I defyl’d her bedde? And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;

I have a kynge, and none can laie 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.”

Black treason onne my hedde. 66 Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye

66 Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, From godlie fountaines sprynge;

Fromm tleshe I dydd refrayne ; Dethe I despise, and alle the power

Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.

To leave thys worlde of payne ? “ Whan through the tyrant's welcom means “ Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce I shall resigne my lyfe,

I shall ne see thye dethe; The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde

Most willynglie ynne thye just For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.

Doe I resign my brethe. “ Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,

“Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe! Thys was appointed mee;

Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe; Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge

Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, What Godde ordeynes to bee?

Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. “ Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,

“ Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, Whan thousands dy'd arounde;

And godlie Henrie's reigne, What smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Thatt you dydd choppe your easie dajes Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde:

For those of bloude and peyne? “ Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte,

“ Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne, Thatt cutte the airie waie,

And mangled by a hynde, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,

I doe defye the traytour's pow'r, And close myne eyes for aie?

Hee can ne harm my mynde; “ And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,

“ Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole, Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?

Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, Ne! fromm my herte fie childyshe feere;

And ne ryche monument of brasse Bee alle the manne display'd.

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; “ Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, “ Yett ynne the holie book above, And guarde thee and thye sonne,

Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, Yf'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,

There wythe the sarvants of the Lord Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

Mye name shall lyve for aie. “ My honest friende, my faulte has beene

“ Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne To serve Godde and mye prynce;

I leave thys mortall lyfe: And thatt I no tyme-server am,

Farewell vayne worlde, and all that's deare, My dethe wylle soone convynce.

Mye sonnes and lovyoge wyfe!


Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes

Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete; or woulde I even wyshe to lyve,

Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.”

Thanne anie ynne the strete. uod Canynge,“ 'Tys a goodlie thynge

Before hym went the council-menne, To bee prepar'd to die;

Ynne scarlett robes and golde, and from thys worlde of peyne and grefe

And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne, To Godde ynne Heav’n to flie.”

Muche glorious to beholde: and nowe the belle began to tolle,

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next And claryonnes to sound;

Appeared to the syghte, yr Charles hee herde the horses feete

Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes, A prauncyng onne the grounde:

Of godlie monkysh plyghte: ind just before the officers

Yone diffraunt partes a godlie psaume His lovynge wyfe came ynne,

Moste sweetlie theye dyd chaunt; Veepynge unseigned teers of woe,

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt. Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came; Yno quiet lett mee die;

Echone the bowe dydd bende, 'raie Godde that ev'ry Christian soule

From rescue of Kynge Henries friends. Maye looke onne dethe as I.

Syr Charles forr to defend. Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers ?

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, Theye washe my soule awaie,

Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde, und almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,

Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: 'Tys butt a journie I shalle


Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe Untoe the lande of blysse;

Of archers stronge and stoute, Powe, as a proofe of husbande's love,

Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande, Receive thys holie kysse.”

Marched ynne goodlie route: henne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next, Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,

Echone hys parte dydd chaunt; Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke:

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt: * Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?

Ynne clothie of scarlett deck't; The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,

And theyre attendyng mennc echone, Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.”

Lyke easterne princes trick't: Ind nowe the officers came yone

And after them a multitude To brynge Syr Charles awaie,

Of citizenns dydd thronge; Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe,

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes, And thus to her dydd saie:

As hee dydd passe alonge. • I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, Truste thou ynne Godde above,

Syr Charles dydd turne and saie, And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,

« O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne, And ynne theyre hertes hym love:

Washe mye soule clean thys daie!" Teache them to runne the nobile race

Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat Thatt I theyre fader runne;

The kynge ynne myckle state, Florence! shou'd dethe thee take-adieu !

To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge Yee officers leade onne."

To hys most welcom fate. Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde,

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, And dydd her tresses tere;

Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, :: Oh staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!"

The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe, Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.

And thus hys wordes declare: "Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,

“ Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Shee fellen opne the flore;

Expos’d to infamie; Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

Butt bee assur’d, disloyall manne! And march'd fromm oute the dore.

I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.


“ Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, Thou wearest nowe a crowne;

And rounde the scaffolde twyne; And hast appoynted mee to die,

And teares, enow to washe't awaie, By power nott thyne owne.

Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne. “ Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie;

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre I have beene dede till nowe,

Ynnto foure partes cutte; And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne

And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, For aie uponne my browe:

Uponne a pole was putte. “ Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares, One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-bylle, Shalt rule thys fickle lande,

One onne the mynster-tower, To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule

And one from off the castle-gate 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:

The crowen dydd devoure: “ Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave!

The other onde Seyncte Powle's goode gate, Shall falle onne thye owne hedde"

A dreery spectacle; Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge

Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, Departed thenne the sledde.

Ynne hyglie-streete most nobile. Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face,

Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate: Hee turn’d his ledde awaie,

Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And to hys broder Gloucester

And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Hee thus dydd speke and saie:

Ynne Hear'n Godde's mercie synge! “ To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,

MYNSTRELLES SONGE. Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe, Hee's greater thanne a kynge!"

O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,

0! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, “ Soe lett hym die!" Duke Richarde sayde;

Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, “ And maye ech one oure foes

Lycke a rennynge ryver bee;
Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,

Mie love ys dedde,
And feede the carryon crowes."

Gon to hys death-bedde,
And nowe the horses gentlie drewe

Al under the wyllowe tree. Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;

Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,

Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
His pretious bloude to spylle.

Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,

Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe; As uppe a gilded carre

Mie love ys dedde, Of victorye, bye val’rous chiefs

Gon to hys death-bedde, Gayn’d ynne the bloudie warre:

Al under the wyllowe tree. And to the people hee dyd saie :

Swote hys tongue as the throstles note, “ Beholde you see mee dye,

Quycke yon daunce as thought canne bee, For servynge loyally mye kynge,

Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,
Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.

O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: “ As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,

Mie love ys dedde,
Ne quiet you wylle knowe:

Goune to hys death-bedde,
Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,

In the briered delle belowe;
“ You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge,
Whenne ynne adversitye;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,

To the nyghte-mares as beie goe; And for the true cause dye."

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
A pray'r to Godde dyd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Hys partynge soule to take.

Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;

Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Most seemlie onne the blocke;

Mie love ys dedde, Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once

Gon to lıys death-bedde, The able heddes-manne stroke:

Al under the wyllow tree.

Heere uponne mie true love's grave,

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,

Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Nee on hallie seyncte to save

Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne,
Al the celness of a mayde.

Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
Mie love ys dedde,

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllow tree.

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Wythe my hondes I'll dente the brieres

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Rounde his hallie corse to gre,

Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Heere mie bodie still schalle bee.

Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

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Ah mourn, thou lov'd retreat! no more
Shall classic steps thy scenes explore!
When morn's pale rays but faintly peep
O'er yonder oak-crown'd airy steep,
Who now shall climb its brows to view
The length of landscape, ever new,
Where summer ilings, in careless pride,
Her varied vesture far and wide!
Who mark, beneathi, each village-charm,
Or grange, or elm-encircled farm:
The thinty dove-cote's crowded roof,
Watch'd by the kite that sails aloof:
The tufted pines, whose umbrage tall
Darkens the long-deserted hall:
The veteran beech, that on the plain
Collects at eve the playful train:
The cot that smokes with early fire,
The low-roof'd fane's embosom'd spire!

Who now shall indolently stray
Through the deep forest's tangled way;
Pleas'd at his custoin'd task to find
The well known boary-tressed hind,
That toils with feeble hands to glean
Of wither'd boughs his pittance mean!
Who mid thy nooks of hazel sit,
Lost in some melancholy fit,
And listening to the raven's croak,
The distant flail, the falling oak!
Who through the sunshine and the shower,
Descry the rainbow-painted tower?
Who, wandering at return of May,
Catch the first cuckoo's vernal lay?
Who, musing waste the summer hour,
Where high o'er-arching trees embow'r
The grassy lane, so rarely pac'd,
With azure flow'rets idly grac'd !
Unnotic'd now, at twilight's dawn
Returning reapers cross the lawn;
Nor fond attention loves to note
The wether's bell from folds remote:
While, own'd by no poetic eye,
Thy pensive evenings shade the sky!

For lo! the bard who rapture found In every rural sight or sound; Whose genius warm, and judgment chaste, No charm of genuine nature past ; Who felt the Muse's purest fires; Far from thy favour'd haunt retires : Who peopled all thy vocal bowers With shadowy shapes, and airy powers.

Behold, a dread repose resumes,

As erst, thy sad sequester'd glooms !
From the deep dell, where shaggy roots
Fringe the rough brink with wreathed shoots,
Th’ unwilling genius flies forlorn,
His primrose chaplet rudely torn.
With hollow shriek the nymphs forsake
The pathless copse, and hedge-row brake.
Where the delu'd mountain's headlong side
Its chalky entrails opens wide,
On the green summit, ambush'd high,
No longer echo loves to lie.
No pearl-crown'd maids, with wily look,
Rise beckoning from the reedy brook.
Around the glowworm's glimmering barık,
No fairies run in fiery rank;
Nor brush, half-seen, in airy tread,
The violet's unprinted head:
But fancy, from the thickets brown,
The glades that wear a conscious frown,
The forest-oaks, that pale and lone
Nod to the blast with hoarser tone,
Rough glens, and sullen waterfalls,
Her bright ideal offspring calls.

So by some sage inchanter's spell,
(As old Arabian fablers tell)
Amid the solitary wild,
Luxuriant gardens gaily smild:
From sapphire rocks the fountains stream'd,
With golden fruit the branches beam d;
Fair forms, in every wonderous wood,
Or lightly tripp'd, or solemn stood;
And oft, retreating from the view,
Betray'd, at distance, beauties new:
While gleaming o'er the crisped bowers
Rich spires arose, and sparkling towers.
If bound on service new to go,
The master of the magic show,
His transitory charm withdrew,
Away th' illusive landscape flew:
Dun clouds obscur’d the groves of gold,
Blue lightning smote the blooming mould;
In visionary glory rear'd,
The gorgeous castle disappear'd:
And a bare heath's unfruitful plain
Usurp'd the wizard's proud domain.


1. WRITTEN AT WINSLADE, IN HAMPSHIRE. Winslade, thy beech-capt hills, with waving grasa Mantled, thy chequer'd views of wood and lavt

, Whilom could charm, or when the gradual dawa Gan the gray mist with orient purple stain,

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