A council then they streight did call Of pick-thanks made to please Whitehall, And there they were adjudg’d to dye; But no man knows wherefore, nor why. What times are these! Was’t ever known ’Twas death for men to ask their own? Yet some seem’d milder than the rest, And told them that, their fault confest, And pardon askt and humbly crav’d, Their lives perhaps might then be sav’d; But they their cause scorn’d to betray Or own’t a crime to ask their pay. Thus they the seamen’s martyrs dyed, And would not yield to unjust pride; Their lives they rather would lay down Than yield it sin to ask their own. Thus they for justice spent their blood To do all future seamen good. Wherefore let seamen all and some Keep the days of their martyrdom, And bear in mind these dismal times, When true men suffer for false crimes; England ne’er knew the like till now, Nor e’er again the like will know. But now suppose they had done ill, In asking pay too roughly, still When ’twas their due and need so prest, They might have pardon found at least; The King and Queen some mercifull call, But seamen find it not at all. To robbers, thieves, and felons they Freely grant pardons ev’ry day; Only poor seamen, who alone Do keep them on their father’s throne, Must have at all no mercy shown: Nay, tho’ there wants fault, they’l find one. Where is the subjects’ liberty? And eke where is their property? We’re forc’d to fight for nought, like slaves, And though we do we’re hang’d like knaves. This is not like Old England’s ways: ‘New lords, new laws,’ the proverb says. Besides the seamen’s pay, that’s spent, The King for stores, ships, and what’s lent, Does owe seven millions at the least, And ev’ry year his debt’s encreast; So that we may despair that we One quarter of our pay shall see. Foreigners and confederates Get poor men’s pay, rich men’s estates; Brave England does to ruine run, And Englishmen must be undone. If this trade last but one half-year Our wealth and strength is spent, I fear. God bless our noble Parliament, And give them the whole government, That they may see we’re worse than ever, And us from lawless rule deliver; For England’s sinking, unless they Do take the helm, and better sway. _ADVICE TO YOUNG MAIDENS IN CHUSING OF HUSBANDS._ To the Tune of _In the merry month of June_. You pretty maids of Greenwich, of high and low degree, Pray never fix your fancys on men that go to sea; The seamen’s wives lead careful lives when at the very best, For, in my mind, in stormy wind they can take but little rest.