THE
Chamberlain's Tragedy:
OR,
The Cook-Maid's Cruelty;
Being a true Account how she in the heat of Passion,
murder'd her Fellow-servant (the Chamberlain) at an Inn, in the
Town of Andever. Tune, Bleeding Heart. Licens'd according to Order.
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You that have melting hearts to grieve,
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This mournful Ditty pray receive,
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'Tis of a bloody Tragedy,
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Unheard of Matchless cruelty.
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The which I shall in brief unfold,
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Therefore dear People, pray behold,
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The manner of this wicked deed,
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It needs must make your hearts to bleed.
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Two Servants in one house did dwell,
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At Andever, 'tis known full well;
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A Cook-maid and a Chamberlin,
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Now the relation I'll begin:
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The one of them was most moross,
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The other was exceeding cross,
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So that with heat or passion they,
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Were still at parlance Day by Day.
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They acted both, like Tygers wild,
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They never wou'd be reconcil'd
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By any admonition, no,
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Till passion prov'd their overthrow.
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Behold it happen'd on a day
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The Chamberlin, he took his way
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Unto the fire-side, where she
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Was busie at her Cookery.
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To make a Toast was his intent,
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But she his purpose wou'd prevent,
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With Knife in Hand, but still he cry'd,
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He valu'd not her haughty Pride.
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This rais'd her passion more and more,
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So that at length she vow'd and swore,
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That she wou'd stick him to the Heart,
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If he did not the Room depart:
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Quoth he, Are you so resolute,
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Is Blood the heat of your dispute?
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Yes, that it is, you Slave, quoth she,
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Be gone or I shall hang for thee.
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The Chamberlin reply'd again,
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Your swelling words are all in vain;
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I do not fear you in the least
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And thus their passion still increas'd.
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Quoth she, I'll not disputing stand,
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To him she ran with Knife in Hand
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And wounded him in woful case,
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Across his Head and down his Face.
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The wreaking Blood began to run,
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But still the Cook-maid had not done;
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Till through his Ribs, she thrust the Knife,
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And so bereav'd him of his Life.
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When she beheld him on the floor,
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In woful streams of wreaking gore;
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She then bemoan'd her dismal state,
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But this repentance come too late.
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Thus having his destruction wrought,
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Before a Justice, she was brought,
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Who soon committed her to Goal,
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Where she the Murder does bewail.
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Often with Tears she does reply
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Why did my passion rise so high,
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As for to take his Life away,
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Alas! this is a dismal Day?
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How shall I answer for my crime,
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Who gave him not a Minutes time;
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To beg a Pardon for his Soul,
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In sorrow I his Death condole:
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I can expect no favour here,
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Who was so cruel and severe,
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That for a trifle I should be,
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The auther of his Tragedy.
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I needs must suffer for the same,
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And leave this wretched World in shame;
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But woe is me, that is not all,
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His Blood does for just vengance call.
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The time I have to live, I'll spend,
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In making God my special friend,
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That when this painful life I leave,
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He may in love my Soul receive.
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You Serants all both far anear,
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That does my sad relation hear;
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Labour to live in Love I pray,
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Least passion should your Lives decay.
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