90 '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. 91 'You leave your good and lawful king When in adversity; Like me unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die.' 92 Then he with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to God did make, Beseeching him unto himself His parting soul to take. 93 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke: 94 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. 95 The bloody axe his body fair Into four quarters cut; And every part, likewise his head, Upon a pole was put. 96 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour: 97 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most nobile. 98 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. 1 O! sing unto my roundelay, O! drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holy-day, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. 2 Black his cryne[1] as the winter night, White his rode[2] as the summer snow, Red 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. 3 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabour, cudgel stout; O! he lies by the willow-tree: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. 4 Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briared dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the night-mares as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. 5 See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. 6 Here upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren flowers be laid, Not one holy saint to save All the celness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. 7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars Round his holy corse to gree;[4] Ouphant[5] fairy, light your fires-- Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.