EBBA 32099
Huntington Library - Britwell
Ballad XSLT Template
A Farewell cauld, Churcheyeards, rounde.
From the Courte to the Cuntry grownd.
|
IN Courte yf Largies be
|
why parte I thens so bare
|
yf Lords were franke & fre
|
Sum dradg wold Lordings spare
|
To hyme whose tonge and penn
|
Myght showe in every coste
|
The worthynes of men,
|
And who desarvythe moste.
|
Full lyttill maye be gott
|
Where hungry droppes do falle
|
Where all goes to the pott
|
The kitchine fese ar smalle
|
The Byrde can spare no plumes
|
That fethers gaye wolde have
|
The Courttyer all consumes
|
Who makes hymeselfe so brave
|
No no here lyes in dede
|
The padde within the strawe
|
For eche man pledithe neade
|
And he is held a dawe,
|
That gyves to suche as wante
|
And thynkes hyme selfe in lacke
|
This makes the world so skant
|
And tournythe all to wracke.
|
For fryndshype cowlde as Ise
|
I wayted longe and late
|
And gladde to playe the vice
|
To plesure eche estate
|
And ever dyd I hope
|
To hitt my wysshyd marke
|
yet lo I dyd but grope
|
For gnats within the darke
|
Parhappes the froste hathe nypt
|
Eache Noble lyberall hand
|
Or ellse a waye is skypte
|
In to sume other lannde
|
God send a thawe a gayne
|
And shyppes drawe home as fast
|
That pore men for ther payne
|
Maye fynde sume welthe at last
|
I saught the Prynce to sarve
|
As all oure dutyes is
|
And hope I dyd desarve
|
A greter sute then this,
|
But dayes and wekes are spente
|
And worne my cotes full thyne
|
And all my yearly rent
|
yet founde no grace therein.
|
No Monstoure sure I am
|
Nor fowlle deformyd thynge,
|
No shepe nor suckinge lame
|
More lycke to sarve a Kinge,
|
As shall bothe hand and harte
|
At lengthe my wytnes be,
|
When proffe in any parte
|
Shall be requyrde of me.
|
Had I but founde a wyght
|
In Courte when I was there,
|
The Lady Sydney hight
|
All changed had byn this gere,
|
What happ had I to shue
|
Where no suche helpe is founde,
|
O dames yt blushe not you
|
Thought she in grace a bound,
|
Nowe from the Courte to carte
|
My horse and I muste pase,
|
Who hathe the meryst harte
|
Who is in better case
|
My horse or I, God knowes,
|
The one muste beare his charge
|
The other where he goes
|
Must pourely lyve at large.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Finis. quod, T. Churcheyeard.
Imprinted at London in Fletestrte
at the Faucon, over againste S.
Dunstons Churche, by
Wylliam Gryffith.
|
View Raw XML