THE
Bountiful Knight of Sommersetshire,
Who dayly relieved the Poor in those parts, and after his Death, will'd
His Son to do the like, and tho' he solemnly protested to his Father on his Death-bed that he would,
which he neglected the same, bringing himself to a miserable end,
Tune is, Packington's Pound. Licensed according to Order.
|
THere was an old Knight liv'd in Sommersetshire,
|
Whom God had indu'd with three thousand a year;
|
A person of Generous bounty was he,
|
Above many Nobles of higher degree:
|
The Widows in need, he did Cloath and feed,
|
And put out poor Fatherless Children to read,
|
He being thus loving and good to the poor,
|
A blessing from Heaven replenish'd his store.
|
Three days in a week he ordain'd to be drest,
|
For old men and women good Beef of the best,
|
And likewise at Christmas he gave Coats and Gowns,
|
To many that liv'd in the neighbouring Towns,
|
With Money and Meat, their Mirth to compleat,
|
That they might rejoyce, and have something to eat.
|
Thus was he continually good to the poor.
|
And blessings from Heaven replenish'd his store.
|
His Lady sometimes in a passion would say,
|
Methinks they encrease and come every day,
|
His answer was to her, my dear be not sad,
|
For where should they come, but where 'tis to be had,
|
Indeed I profess, the poor in distress,
|
I feed them, and find I have never the less;
|
For those that are loving and good to the poor,
|
A Blessing will always replenish their store.
|
He many long years there did flourish and live,
|
And freely he did to poor Travellers give,
|
Good Bread and small Liquors still every day,
|
There's none that came to him went empty away,
|
Poor Travellers still he'd nourish and fill,
|
And with a most generous heart and good will,
|
By which he did purchase the Prayers of the poor,
|
who dayly was nourish'd and fed at his Door.
|
His Lady at length with a Feaver she dy'd,
|
And left one Son, whom she had brought up in Pride,
|
And just as he was Two and Twenty Years Old,
|
His Father dy'd leaving much Silver and Gold,
|
With Houses and Land, all at his Command,
|
While dying he called to give him his hand,
|
And like a good Christian he laid my dear Son,
|
Endeavour to do as thy Father hath done
|
No Docter my Life now is able to save,
|
Behold I am just on the brink of the Grave,
|
And when I go hence and shall see thee no more,
|
For my sake see that you remember the poor;
|
And nourish them still, 'tis part of my will,
|
See that you be careful the same to fulfill,
|
On my dying blessing I charge thee my Son,
|
To do for the poor as they Father has done.
|
Dear Honoured Father, a vow here I make,
|
Before God and you which I never will break,
|
The poor shall be dayly relieved by me,
|
Or else I desire I never may see
|
No Joy or delight, by day or by night,
|
If ever the poor I endeavour to slight,
|
No, here is my hand, As I am your dear Son,
|
I[']ll constantly do as my Father has done.
|
But yet not with standing, the Promise he made,
|
Soon after his Father in Grave he was lay'd
|
The Son Rid to London in Court for to live,
|
And unto the Poor not a Tester wou'd give,
|
But follow'd all Dice, Wine, Harlots and Dice,
|
Forgetting the vow that he made in a trice;
|
To folly and ruin, he straightways did run,
|
And never would do as his Father had done.
|
Lew'd Harlots and Taverns were all his delight,
|
Nay, often by Gaming he'd lose in a night
|
A Hundred or two of bright Guinys of Gold,
|
And whould not by any dear Friend be controul'd,
|
He'd often reply, give me Liberty,
|
My Silver and Gold it was made for to fly,
|
Thus Prodigal like he to ruin did run,
|
And never would do as his Father had done.
|
The Land (which had many years been in the name)
|
He Mortgag'd and sold for to follow the Game,
|
Till his Patrimony was utterly spent,
|
O then did he find it too late to repent,
|
This wretch could not hide the downful of pride,
|
For Debt in the Counter of London he dy'd,
|
Thus Prodigal like he to ruin did run,
|
Neglecting to do as his Father had done.
|
A Hundred pound he'd consume in a day,
|
Till all that he had was quite squander'd away,
|
Then while in a prison he lay in distress,
|
All persons that knew him were quite pittiless,
|
In midst of his grief they told him in brief,
|
That they would not yield him the least of relief,
|
Because that he had been a Prodigal Son,
|
Neglecting to do as his Father had done,
|
|
|
|
|
|