King Edward's soul rushed to his face, He turned his head away, And to his brother Gloucester He thus did speak and say: 'To him that so-much-dreaded death No ghastly terrors bring; Behold the man! he spake the truth; He's greater than a king!' 'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; 'And may each one our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe, And feed the carrion crows.' And now the horses gently drew Sir Charles up the high hill; The axe did glister in the sun, His precious blood to spill. Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, As up a gilded car Of victory, by valorous chiefs Gained in the bloody war. And to the people he did say: 'Behold you see me die, For serving loyally my king, My king most rightfully. 'As long as Edward rules this land, No quiet you will know; Your sons and husbands shall be slain, And brooks with blood shall flow. 'You leave your good and lawful king When in adversity; Like me, unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die.' Then he, with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to God did make, Beseeching Him unto Himself His parting soul to take. Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke: And out the blood began to flow, And round the scaffold twine; And tears, enough to wash't away, Did flow from each man's eyne. The bloody axe his body fair Into four partis cut; And every part, and eke his head, Upon a pole was put. One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour. The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most noble. Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: God prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven God's mercy sing! MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA Oh, sing unto my roundelay; Oh, drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh! he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.