Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out,
To telle the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr Charleses fate.

Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge,
And felle down onne hys knee;

"I'm come," quod hee, " unto your grace
To move your clemencye."

"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 thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte:

"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,
"Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;
From race to race thye familie

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,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke easterne princes trick't:

And after them a multitude

Of citizenns dydd thronge;
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,
As hee dydd passe alonge.

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr Charles dydd turne and saic,
"O thou thatt savest manne fromme synne,
Washe mye soule clean thys daie!"

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,
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,

The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare:

"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 feede the carryon crowes."

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,
Ne quiet you wylle knowe:
Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,
And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe.

"You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge, Whenne ynne adversitye;

Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
And for the true cause dye."

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
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke:

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;

And teares, enow to washe't awaie,

Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre
Ynnto foure partes cutte;

And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde,
Uponne a pole was putte.

One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate

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,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,

Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

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,
Quycke ynn daunce as thought canne bee,
Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,

O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered delle belowe;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

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,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllow tree.

Wythe my hondes I'll dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie bodie still schalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

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

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
Mie love ys dedde,

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

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.