And now manie fathers and mothers be theare, Are put to their trialles with terrible feare, Not all the gaye crosses nor goddes they adore Will make them as merrie as they have ben before; _Well a daye, etc._ The widowes be woful whose husbandes be taken, The childerne lament them that are so forsaken, The church men thei chaunted the morowe masse bell, Their pardons be graunted, they hang verie wel. _Well a daye, etc._ It is knowne they bee fled that were the beginers, It is time they were ded, poore sorofull sinners: For all their great haste they are hedged at a staye, With weeping and waylinge to sing well a daye. _Well a daye, etc._ Yet some hold opynion, all is well with the highest; They are in good saftie wher freedome is nieste; Northumberland need not be doubtefull, some saye, And Westmorelande is not yet brought to the bay; _Well a daye, etc._ No more is not Norton, nor a nomber beside, But all in good season they may hap to be spide; It is well they be wandred whether no man can say, But it will be remembered, they crie well a daie; _Well a daye, etc._ Where be the fyne fellowes that caried the crosses? Where be the devisers of idoles and asses? Wher be the gaie banners were wont to be borne? Where is the devocion of gentyll John Shorne?[35] _Well a daye, etc._ * * * * * Leave of your lyinge, and fall to trewe reason Leave of your fonde spieng, and marke every season; Against God and your countrie to taulke of rebelling, Not Syr Thomas Plomtrie can bide by the telling. _Well a daye, etc_. And such as seduce the people with blyndnes, And byd them to trust the Pope and his kyndnes, Make worke for the tynker, as prouerbes doth saie; By such popishe patching still comes well a daye. _Well a daye, etc._ And she that is rightfull your Queene to subdue ye, Althoughe you be spitefull, hath gyven no cause to ye; But if ye will vexe her, to trie her hole force, Let him that comes next her take heed of her horse. _Well a daye, etc._ She is the lieftennante of him that is stowtest, She is the defender of all the devowtest; It is not the Pope, nor all the Pope may, Can make her astonyed, or singe well a daie, _Well a daye, etc._ God prosper her highnes, and send her his peace, To governe good people with grace and increase; And send the deservers, that seeke the wronge way, At Tyborne some carvers, to singe well a daie, _Well a daye, well a daye, well a daye, woe is me, Sir Thomas Plomtrie is hanged on a tree._ FINIS. W. E. Imprinted at London in Fleetstrete beneath the Conduit, at the signe of S. John Evangelist, by Thomas Colwell.