The wofull lamentation of Edward Smith, a poore penitent
prisoner in the Jayle of Bedford, which he wrote a
short time before his death.
To the tune of, Daintie come thou to me.
|
I Am a Prisoner poore
|
Opprest with miserie:O Lord do thou restore,
|
that faith which wants in me.
|
In woe I waile and weep,
|
In griping grief I cry,
|
In dungeon darke and deep,
|
In fetters fast I lie
|
Sighing I sit and moane
|
My foule offences all,
|
My loathsome life is knowne,
|
which makes me live in thrall
|
Ned [S]mith I am, the wight
|
In prison that remaines,
|
Tormented day and night,
|
with bands and iron chaines.
|
My joyes are turnd to nought,
|
My hopes are worne away,
|
My wickednesse hath wrought
|
my downe-fall and decay.
|
Those gifts that God gave me,
|
My wants for to supply,
|
Abused much I have.
|
to please my fantasie.
|
My name I did deny,
|
In Baptisme given me,
|
That Sacrament whereby
|
regenerate I should be.
|
No wit nor strength may serve
|
The Law to satisfie:For death I do deserve,
|
in right and equity.
|
For I offended have
|
Nobles of hie degree,
|
What favour can I crave
|
for life or liberty.
|
But hope of life is past,
|
My acts so hainous be.
|
And liberty is lost,
|
till death doe set me free.
|
All men both old and young
|
Which are at liberty,
|
And heare my dolefull song.
|
example take by me.
|
Be true and trust in God,
|
Fly theft and vice eschew,
|
Lest Gods most heavie rod,
|
correct your deeds untrue.
|
Would I had nere bin borne
|
To do such wicked deeds,
|
Which makes me live in scorne
|
and shame that sore exceeds.
|
But that which passed is,
|
I cannot now recall:
|
My sinnes and my amisse,
|
O Lord forgive them all.
|
Woe worth ill company,
|
Fie on that filthy crue:Accurst the day may be
|
that ever I them knew.
|
If life and death were set
|
Before me for to chose,
|
Though I might pardon get,
|
my life first would I lose,
|
Then runne that wicked race,
|
And doe as I have done,
|
Sweet Jesus give me grace,
|
that life so lewd to shun.
|
Farewell my loving wife
|
Who sought to turn my minde,
|
And make me mend my life,
|
thy words full true I finde.
|
Farewell my children all,
|
My tender Babes adue:Let this your Fathers fall,
|
be warning good for you.
|
Deare wife and infants three,
|
Serve God remember this,
|
That you true subjects be,
|
though I have done amisse.
|
Farewell my musick sweet,
|
And Cittorn silver sound,
|
Mourning for me is meet
|
my sinnes do so abound.
|
O Lord on bended knees
|
And hands lift up on hie,
|
Cast on me gracious eies
|
with grace my wants supply
|
Lay not unto my charge,
|
The thinges that I have done,
|
Though I have runne at large.
|
and plaid the unthrift sonne.
|
Yet now I do repent,
|
And humbly come to thee
|
My sinnes I do lament,
|
sweet Jesus comfort me.
|
O Lord I do Lament,
|
And onely joy in thee,
|
To praise thee day and night,
|
for thou redeemedst me.
|
Lord save our royall King
|
Whose prisoner poore am I,
|
Prolong his daies on earth,
|
with fame and victory.
|
Against his Majestie,
|
I have offended sore,
|
Committing Felony,
|
and now I die therefore.
|
A dolefull death God knowes,
|
Which once I did defie:Thus must I end my woes
|
which I take patiently,
|
By thee O Saviour sweet,
|
In heaven I hope to rest,
|
In joy where I shal meet,
|
those soules whom thou hast blest
|
Where we shall sing thy praise,
|
O God, with voyce high,
|
When I shall end my dayes,
|
and live eternally.
|
|
|
|
|
|