The Mournful Ladys Garland.
In Three Parts.
|
TRUE Lovers all, both far and near,
|
Behold the[s]e lines which I have pend,
|
Id have you take a special care,
|
To swear no more than you intend.
|
Be ruld by them that wish you well,
|
Honour your parents both day and night,
|
And pray often when you have time,
|
And place this pattern in your sight.
|
A noble Knight near London livd,
|
Who had a daughter very fair,
|
A young rich Squire courted her,
|
She loved him exceeding dear.
|
By his false deluding tongue,
|
He stole her yielding heart away,
|
Let every youth that hears this song,
|
Observe these words which I shall say.
|
But sixteen years of age was she,
|
Poor soul! when she began to love,
|
Let every one her woes condole,
|
For it did soon her ruin prove;
|
He did so far her favour win,
|
That she did yield with him to lie;
|
But now good people, pray do mind,
|
You soon shall hear her destiny.
|
At last poor heart! she provd with child,
|
But when at last she found it so,
|
He came to her upon a night,
|
Saying I must to London go;
|
Next morning he his journey took,
|
With protestations oer and oer,
|
That in a week he would return,
|
But oh! he neer came near her more.
|
No letters she from him receivd,
|
Which made her oft in tears complain,
|
And oftentimes to herself would cry,
|
Where shall I go to hide my shame.
|
At last poor soul, her time drew nigh,
|
Therefore upon a certain night,
|
Her cloaths and linen she took up,
|
And from her father took her flight.
|
Long time she wanderd up and down,
|
And could not find a resting place,
|
From country to city, and town to town,
|
Until her money it grew scant.
|
At last upon a lonesome heath,
|
She being by herself alone,
|
Was there deliverd of a son.
|
Two miles from either house or home.
|
Being so weakened with pains,
|
Poor soul! she could not stand upright,
|
But with her infant in her arms,
|
Upon the ground she lay all night;
|
A shepherd having lost a lamb,
|
That from him by chance did stray,
|
Seeking al out to find it out,
|
By providence did come that way,
|
Finding the Lady on the ground,
|
He came to her without delay,
|
Poor soul! she fell into a swoon,
|
As soon as she the shepherd saw;
|
But comin[g] to herself again,
|
To him she made her sorrow known,
|
He b[e]ing of [tend]er heart!
|
Did then conduct her to his home.
|
PART. II.
|
THere she much kindness did receive,
|
A[n]d for a month did there remain;
|
Then wi[t]h her child tyd to her back,
|
Poor soul she wanderd forth again,
|
Two years she wanderd up and down,
|
At last by chance as you shall hear,
|
She came to famous Dartmouth town,
|
Where the Squire lived as we hear.
|
And wandering the streets all oer,
|
At last poor soul she did espy,
|
The squire standing at the door,
|
And by his side his lady gay,
|
Wiping the tears from her eyes,
|
Up to the door she strait did hie,
|
And on her bended trembling knees,
|
She begd of him his charity.
|
Said he, theres such a dirty crew,
|
Thats daily begging in the street,
|
To such like dirty sluts as you,
|
I will give neither bread nor meat!
|
For thats some bastard at your back,
|
And you, I warrant some common whore,
|
With that he calld his coachman strait,
|
To whip this creature from his door.
|
With hungry soul, and feeble limb,
|
In the street she wanderd up and down,
|
At last kind fortune so did hit,
|
She got a lodging in the town;
|
A letter she presently writ,
|
And sealed it with her own hand,
|
These were the words inclosd in it,
|
Which to the Squire she did send.
|
O cursed wretch! thy wicked tongue,
|
That was the first ruin of me,
|
You was the first that betrayed me,
|
When I was in my innocency:
|
I slighted all my friends for thee,
|
Cursd be the hour I saw thy face,
|
It was you and only you,
|
That brought my body to disgrace.
|
When he had read the letter thro,
|
And ponderd well within his mind,
|
He straitway made no more ado,
|
But to the Lady came we find,
|
Pretending for to pity her,
|
Forcing a smile to hide a. frown,
|
He said, Ill meet you to morrow night,
|
In such a grove, hard by the town.
|
Next morning to the grove she hyd,
|
With her sweet little infant dear,
|
There all the day it seems she staid,
|
But no Squire did appear,
|
All night upon the bare cold ground,
|
This creature did the infant lay,
|
But no comfort could be found,
|
So in the morn before twas day;
|
She having never a farthing left,
|
To buy her hungry baby food,
|
She could no longer then make shift,
|
She smote her breast, and thus she said,
|
My t[e]nder babe, alas! said she,
|
I nothing have to succour thee,
|
Kissing the child, my dear she said,
|
For want of bread we starvd shall be.
|
Five days within that lonesome wood,
|
She and her baby there did lie,
|
Expecting from his dad some food,
|
To help them in extremity,
|
At last pale death approaching nigh,
|
As at her breast the poor child lay,
|
Her life being spent just to a hair,
|
She to her pretty infant thus did say;
|
My pretty prattling soul,
|
I cannot bear to hear thee cry,
|
Let tender folks my woes condole,
|
See see thy mothers death is nigh:
|
Stroking the infant oer the face,
|
Which was besmeard with briny tears,
|
She said O Lord! what would I give,
|
That thy cruel father was but here.
|
The pretty prattling innocent
|
Hearing its mother for to cry,
|
With it's little hand did stroke her face,
|
Crying mamma, mamma do not cry,
|
With his little hand about her neck,
|
It raised up and kissd her lips;
|
That every moment her heart did break,
|
She turnd and to her baby spake.
|
Lord! if it be thy blessed will,
|
That my baby should alive remain,
|
Send it some help when I am gone,
|
To ease his hungry piercing pain!
|
But if it be thy blessed will, said she,
|
That we should die for want of bread,
|
Then welcome death replied she,
|
And staait she died immediately.
|
The child being clasped in her arms,
|
By no means from her could be freed;
|
Two nights and days it pining lay,
|
And ended then its misery,
|
Two months within this lonesome wood,
|
Unburied these two bodies lay,
|
But now good pe[o]ple pray but mind,
|
A word or two I have to say.
|
PART III.
|
THE 'Squire on a certain day,
|
With men and dogs a hunting went,
|
And having been long time at play,
|
The dogs by fortune lost their scent;
|
Then running thro this lonesome wood,
|
These howling hungry dogs of prey,
|
Came to the place, and there they stood,
|
Just where the breathless bodies lay.
|
But mounted on a stately steed,
|
And thro the woods they galloped;
|
The horse the bodies first espyd,
|
And very much was frightened;
|
At which he gave a sudden stride,
|
And threw the Squire on the ground,
|
A stump of bush stuck in his side,
|
Whereby he got a mortal wound.
|
His man he strove to help him up,
|
But turning to him he replyed;
|
Lend me your hand, I cannot stand,
|
Then lay me by that womans side.
|
She was my wife, before the Lord,
|
And thats my baby that lies dead,
|
Gods vengeance now hath followed me,
|
And now hath fallen on my head.
|
He kissd her lips, as cold as clay,
|
Likewise to the child he as many gave,
|
And to his man he thus did say,
|
Let us be buried in one grave?
|
For here I cannot long remain,
|
My cruel heart is split in twain,
|
Dear Christ forgive my soul he said,
|
So with a groan or two he died.
|
Lord! when this news was brought to town,
|
Of this unhappy accident,
|
His lady she distracted run,
|
But first poor soul! she gave consent.
|
A coffin was made large and wide,
|
And a grave was made to hold all three,
|
The Lady she lies by his side,
|
And thus I end my tragedy.
|
You tender souls, of Christian hearts,
|
Who hear these verses which I sing;
|
Remember that which I impart;
|
To love in vain is a cruel thing.
|
Oh! be dutiful unto your friends,
|
And never do as I have done,
|
Let them that read the same,
|
Think on us that are dead and gone.
|
|
|
|
|
|