The cryes of the Dead.
Or the late Murther in South-warke, committed by one
Richard Price Weaver, who most unhumaynly tormented to death
a boy of thirteene yeares old, with two others before, which he brought
to untimely ends, for which he lyeth now imprissoned in the White-
Lyon, till the time of his triall. To the tune of Ned Smith.
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MEe thinkes I heare a grone,
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of death and deadly dole,
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Assending from the grave
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of a poore silly soule:
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Of a poore silly soule,
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untimely made away,
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Come then and sing with me,
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sobbs of sad welladay,
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One Price, in South-warke dwelt
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a Weaver by his trayde,
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But a more graceles man
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I thinke was never made:
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All his life wicked was,
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and his minde bent to blood,
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Nothing but cruelty
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did his heart any good.
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Many poore Prentisses
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to himselfe did he bind,
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Sweete gentle children all
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of a most willing mind:
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Serving him carefully
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in this his weaving Art,
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Whome he requited still,
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with a most cruel heart.
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Lawfull corrections, he
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from his mind cast aside,
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Beating them cruelly
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for no cause, tel they syed:
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Spurning and kicking them,
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as if dogs they had beene,
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Careles in cruelty,
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was this wretch ever seene.
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Never went they without
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brused and broken eyes,
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Head and face blacke and blew,
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such was their miseries:
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What so came next his hand,
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tongs or forke from the fier
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Would he still lay on them,
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in his madd moody ire.
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Parents come bend your eares,
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listen what followed on,
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Masters come shed your teares,
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mothers come make your moane
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Servants with sad laments,
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rue the calamity,
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Those gentle children had,
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living in missery.
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The first a pretty boy,
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had with a suddaine spurne,
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One of his eares strocke off,
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woefully rent and torne:
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Where under surgeons hands,
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he lived long in woe,
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By this same grievous wound,
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this vilaine gave him so.
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Most heavy was his hand,
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and his heart full of strif,
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Ungodly all the dayes
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of this his passed life,
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Who so perswading him
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to patient Charity,
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Was still abusied much,
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by this wretch wilfully.
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Witness this harmles child,
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that he misused sore,
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Scourging him day by day,
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not knowing cause wherefore,
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Unlawfull government
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brings him unto his end,
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From such like cruelty
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all servants God defend.
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The second part. To the same tune.
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THis his deeds was not known
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which he kept secretly
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Nor to light, many a day
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came this vile villany
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Till that his heart did thirst,
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more humain blood to shed,
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Which in the same full sone
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crewell conditions bred.
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No sparke of genilenes,
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but flames of cruelty.
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Burned within his brest
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mischiefes blacke treasury,
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So that to further ills,
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and to more bloody deeds
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Wanting grace, wilfully
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to the same he proceeds.
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A poore mans child he had
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whome he beat backe and syde
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Conti[n]uing it day and hower
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till this poore prentis dyed,
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For which he was arraigned
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and by Law had beene cast,
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But mercy quitted him
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for those offences past.
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Yet those faire warnings here
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wrought in him little good,
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But rather drew him on
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For to shed further blood:
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And being blinded thus
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with a persewing ill,
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Another poore harmles child
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he did by beating kill.
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Harmelesse indeed was he,
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and a poore neighbours sonne
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Whom he did beat and bruze
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ere since this frost begun:
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Onely because that hee
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could not worke in the cold
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Nor performe such a taske
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as he by custome should.
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Wherefore this cruell wretch,
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whipt him from top to toe,
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With a coard full of knotts,
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of leather yet to show,
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Wherby his tender limbes,
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from his foote to the head,
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Are with wounds blacke & blew,
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covered ore all and spred.
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Oh cursed cruelties,
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this did not him suffice,
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But kept him lokt up closse,
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from sight of neighbors eyes,
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And from his parents deare,
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when they came him to see,
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Little misdouting this,
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their sonnes extremetye.
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Thus weary woefull dayes,
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did this poore child abide,
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Where he lay languishing,
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till the hower that he dyed,
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Where his poore mangled corpes,
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By neighbors there was found,
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bruzed and beaten sore,
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with many a deadly wound.
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His braines ny broaken forth,
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and his neck burst in twaine,
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On his Limbs over all,
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spotts of blood did remaine.
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And the rim of his wombe,
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spurned in peeces is,
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Never such Mar[ter]dome,
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of a poore child like this,
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(Oh Price,) heare is the price
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for this blood thou must pay,
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Life for life, bloud for bloud,
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on thy domes dying day,
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Pray thou for mercy there,
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to save thy sinfull soule,
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For me thinks I doe heare,
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thy pasing Bell doth toule.
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