The Kentish MIRACLE;
OR,
A Strange and Miraculous Work of Gods Providence, shewed to a poor distressed
Widdow, and her Seven small Fatherless Children. Who lived by a burnt six-penny
Loaf of Bread, and a little Water, for above Seven Weeks, in the Wild of Kent, to the
Praise and Glory of Almighty God.
To the Tune of, A Rich Merchant-Man. Entred according to Order.
|
TAke comfort Christians all,
|
for never shall you see
|
The faithful forsaken quite,
|
and left in misery.
|
Who lives and loves to hear
|
the Truth in each degree,
|
The s[t]ory of a Widows plaint
|
let [t]hem give ear to me
|
Who by this Widow here,
|
sufficient have been tryd,
|
The which was left both poor and bare,
|
when as her Husband dyd.
|
And seven young Children small,
|
upon her hands likewise,
|
And knew not how to buy them bread,
|
their hunger to suffice.
|
She labours night and day,
|
she spins and takes great pain,
|
And many a thing to buy them bread
|
God knows she lays in pawn.
|
But when the appointed time,
|
as time consumeth all,
|
O then she knew not how to keep
|
her hungery Children small.
|
MOst merciful God, said she,
|
cast down a tender eye,
|
And suffer not thy servant here,
|
with a famishing death to dye.
|
Thou that the Ravens didst send,
|
Elias for to feed:
|
When that he was in Wilderness,
|
in extream want and need,
|
And Rained Bread from Heaven,
|
Old Israel to preserve:
|
And wouldst not in the lyons den
|
let Daniel pine and starve.
|
I know my Lord, she said,
|
thou didst five thousand feed:
|
With five small Barley Loaves,
|
as we in Scripture read.
|
And each one had enough,
|
their hunger to sustain;
|
And afterwards twelve baskets full
|
of scraps did still remain.
|
I know my Lord, she said,
|
thou art so mighty still:
|
And therefore every thing be done
|
according to thy will.
|
Her Prayers ended thus,
|
her Children cryd straight way;
|
O Mother dear give us some bread,
|
we have eat none to day.
|
Give me some bread, said one,
|
give me some bread, said another:
|
And thus the silly Infants flock,
|
about their careful Mother.
|
The good Soul hearing this,
|
perswades them to be still,
|
O soon at night my lambs said she,
|
you shall have bread your fill.
|
I will to Market go,
|
let Corn be cheap or dear,
|
Ile sell my Coat to buy some corn,
|
if youl be quiet here.
|
The Children smild at this,
|
content they did remain,
|
Good Mother every one could say,
|
come quickly home again.
|
Three Miles this woman went,
|
unto the Market Town,
|
And for five shillings she did sell,
|
her Coat and Russet Gown.
|
Who being glad in heart,
|
to Market straight she hies:
|
But there alas her purse was cut,
|
ere any Corn she buys.
|
She Cryeth out, God knows,
|
she weeps & makes great moan,
|
To every one that passeth by,
|
her grief she makes it known.
|
But yet behold and see,
|
here in her woeful case:
|
Her husbands brother he was one
|
that sold Corn in that place.
|
This woeful woman then,
|
did him desire and pray,
|
To trust her with one sack of corn,
|
till the next Market day.
|
But he denies her Flat,
|
and thus he tells her plain,
|
I shall not have to serve my turn,
|
till Corn do come again.
|
More heed you might have took,
|
unto your purse said he,
|
And not to loose your money here,
|
so fond and foolishly.
|
This dogged answer cut
|
this poor soul to the heart,
|
Especially when she did think,
|
upon her infants smart.
|
Who sits and strives at home,
|
poor souls, but all in vain;
|
Which of them should the biggest piece,
|
of bread and butter gain.
|
But far alass they were,
|
from butter, bread, or cheese,
|
Or any thing to comfort them
|
that their poor Mother sees.
|
But now behold Gods work,
|
as homeward she returnd,
|
A Bakers Boy gave her a Loaf,
|
which was in Baking burnd.
|
She gave God thanks for that,
|
and joyful in her hand,
|
She bears the bread home to her, babes,
|
which waiting for her stand.
|
She kisses them each one,
|
and with a chearful look:
|
And said we will to supper go,
|
when you have said your Book.
|
Mean time she makes a Fire,
|
and apples therein throws,
|
The Widdow, and her seven Children
|
to supper sweetly goes.
|
The Apples roasted well,
|
and she doth cut them bread,
|
On every piece most lovingly,
|
she doth the Apple spread.
|
Instead of Drink, she had,
|
a Cup of water clear,
|
And every Child rejoyced much,
|
and said here is good chear.
|
Behold when they had supt,
|
for God their food did bless,
|
When they had supd & were sufficd
|
their Loaf was never the less.
|
For seven weeks space together,
|
as storys plainly spread,
|
The widdow and her seven children
|
by this one Loaf was fed.
|
The Cut purse Man I say,
|
he broke his neck in Kent,
|
Ere he of this poor widows money
|
on single penny had spent.
|
And yet behold and see,
|
her husbands churlish brother,
|
That would not trust a peck of corn
|
her Children for to succour.
|
And straight-way after this,
|
his Corn was washt away,
|
All by a mighty flood that came,
|
before the break of day.
|
The Gentlemen, and such,
|
that did this wonder see,
|
Unto this widow gave such gifts,
|
that nere more wanted she.
|
And now good people all,
|
you here may plainly see,
|
God servants are not forsaken quite
|
Gods mercies is to them free.
|
|
|
|
|
|