A Looking glasse for Corne-hoorders,
By the example of John Russell a Farmer dwelling at St Peters
Chassant in Buckingham shire, whose Horses sunke into the
ground the 4 of March 1631. To the tune of Welladay.
|
O F wonders strange that was
|
ever heard, ever heard,
|
The like ne'r came to passe
|
of this that followes.
|
Let no man this truth doubt,
|
but rather search it out:
|
For tis spred farre about
|
in every place.
|
This woefull chance befell
|
welladay, welladay,
|
Which I with griefe doe tell,
|
Lord, have thou pitty,
|
Since mens hearts are so hard,
|
that poore from bread are bard,
|
And divers almost starv'd
|
in this our Land.
|
In Buckingham Shire this
|
Accident, Accident,
|
Fell out at a place nam'd
|
Saint Peters Chassant .
|
This thing though strange, ti's true,
|
I doe assure all you
|
That doe wrong, wrack and scrue
|
the needy poore.
|
The poore being abus'd
|
by the rich, by the rich,
|
And by them cruelly us'd
|
in every Towne:
|
But God that heares their moane,
|
for their sakes hath this showne,
|
That's already noysd and blowne
|
over the Land.
|
A Farmer there did dwell,
|
rich he was, rich he was,
|
Who had much Corne to sell,
|
and store of graine:
|
John Russell was he nam'd,
|
whose base fact hath him sham'd,
|
Because it is proclaim'd
|
to his disgrace.
|
A poore man wanting graine,
|
came to him, came to him,
|
Requesting to obtaine
|
some of his store,
|
The Farmer yeeldes thereto,
|
seeming willing to doe
|
This for the poore man, so
|
he might be payd.
|
The Farmer toke his price
|
of his Corne, of his Corne,
|
The poore man was not nice
|
but yeelded to it:
|
He bid him repaire home,
|
and bring with him that summe
|
That they concluded on,
|
and he should have't.
|
The poore man came and brought
|
to the house, to the house,
|
Of the Farmer, and sought
|
him, to fulfill
|
His former promise made,
|
When he these words had said,
|
His mony downe he paid
|
unto the Farmer.
|
|
|
|
|
The second part. To the same tune.
|
T He poore man left his Sack
|
with his quoine, with his quoine,
|
Thinking to returne back
|
to him againe,
|
And for to fetch from thence
|
that Corne, which he long since
|
Had given recompence
|
unto the full.
|
But afterwards he came
|
to demand, to demand,
|
That Corne, yea that very same
|
that he had bought,
|
The Farmers humor was such
|
that he did grumble much.
|
Nor would he at all keepe touch
|
with this poore man.
|
But told him, Corne did rise
|
every day, every day,
|
And therefore a higher price
|
must he give him:
|
Otherwise he should not have
|
one Corne, though's life't might save,
|
At which his speeches brave
|
the poore man griev'd,
|
The poore man he went farre
|
to his friend, to his friend,
|
To get some mony more,
|
to buy that Corne.
|
Which when he had procur'd,
|
though he was much injur'd
|
He quietly indured,
|
and gave it him:
|
Who found him labouring
|
in the field, in the field,
|
And hard a harrowing
|
with his servants,
|
But God will sure requite
|
all those, that doe delight
|
To affront and affright
|
those that are poore.
|
The ground strait opened wide,
|
into which, into which
|
Did two of his horses slide:
|
tis strange to heare.
|
They did sinke downe so lowe,
|
that no man yet can know
|
Whither they fell, they did so
|
strangely vanish:
|
The rest o'th' Teame did sinke
|
presently, presently,
|
But twas good helpe, I thinke,
|
that them releas'd.
|
They were rays'd up againe,
|
suffring but little paine.
|
This is a blot and staine
|
to all our Mi'zers.
|
Let them take heed how they
|
doe oppresse, doe oppresse
|
The poore that God obey,
|
and are beloved.
|
God will not let these long
|
alone, that doe his wrong,
|
Though ne'r so rich and strong
|
that are oppressors.
|
|
|
|
|