« FöregåendeFortsätt »
And nowe the daye drewe on a pace,
When our good queene muft dye;
When she found no helpe was nye.
All woe-begone was that faire damselle,
And the salt teares fell from her eye : When lo! as she rode by a rivers fide,
She met with a tinye boye.
A tinye boye she mette, God wot,
All clad in mantle of golde;
Then a child of four yeere olde.
Why grieve you, damfelle faire, he fayd,
And what doth cause you moane ? The damfell scant wolde deigne a looke
But faft she pricked on.
Yet turn againe, thou faïre damselle,
And greete thy queene from mee: When bale is att hyeft, boote is nyest,
Now helpe enoughe may bee.
Bid her remember what she dreamt
In her bedd, wheras fhee laye;
Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,
Even then there came the litle gray hawke,
And saved her from his clawes : Then bidd the queene be merry at hart,
For heaven will fende her cause.
Back then rode that faire damselle,
And her hart it lept for glee:
A gladd woman was fhee.
But when the appointed day was come,
No helpe appeared nye:
And the teares stood in her eye.
And nowe a fyer was built of wood;
And a ftake was made of tree;
A forrowful fight to fee.
Three times the herault he waved his hand,
And three times fpake on hye:
Come forth, or thee muft dye.
No knight stood forth, no knight there camo,
No helpe appeared nye:
Queen Elinore the must dye.
And now the fyer was lighted up,
As hot as hot might bee;
The tinye boye they see.
« Away with that stake, away with those brands, 165
And loose our comelye queene:
And prove him a traitor keene."
Forthe then stood fir Aldingar,
But when he saw the chylde,
And weened he had been beguylde.
Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar,
And eyther fighte or flee ;
Thoughe I am so small to see.
The boye pulld forth a well good sworde
So gilt it dazzled the ee;
Smote off his leggs by the knee.
thou false traitère,
Of height wee shal be meete.
A priest, a priest, fayes Aldingar,
While I am a man alive.
Me for to houzle and shrive.
I wolde have layne by our comlye queene
Bot shee wolde never consent;
In a fyer to have her brent.
There came a lazar to the kings gates,
A lazar both blinde and lame : I tooke the lazar upon my backe,
And on her bedd him layné.
Then ranne I to our comlye king,
These tidings fore to tell.
Falfing never doth well.
Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame,
The short time I must live.
As freely I forgive.
Here take thy queene, our king Harry'e,
And love her as thy life,
A truer and fairer wife,
King Henrye ran to clafpe his queene,
And loosed her full sone :
--The boye was vanisht and gone.
But first he had touchd the lazar man,
And stroakt him with his hand :
All whole and founde did stand.
The lazar under the gallowes tree
Was comelye, straight and tall;
To wayte withinn his hall.
ON THOMAS LORD CROMWELL,
It is ever the fate of a disgraced minister to be forsaken by his friends, and insulted by his enemies, always reckoning among the latter the giddy inconftant multitude. We have here a Spurn at fallen greatness from fome angry partisan of declining popery, who could never forgive the downfall of their Diano, and loss of their craft. The ballad seems to have been composed between the time of Cronwell's commitment to the tower Jun. 11. 1549, and that of his being beheaded July 28, following: A foort interval! but Henry's palion for Catharine Howard would