God save our queen, and keep our peace, That our good shooting may increase, And praying to God let us not cease, As well at Yorke as at London. That all our countree round about May have archers good to hit the cloute, Which England cannot be without, No more than Yorke or London. Yorke, Yorke, &c. God graunt that (once) her majestie Would come, her cittie of Yorke to see, For the comfort great of that countree, As well as she doth at London. Nothing shall be thought too deare, To see her highness' person there, With such obedient loue and feare, As ever she had in London. Yorke, Yorke, &c. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 133: From a broadside (black letter) in the Roxburgh collection in the British Museum. It is a favourite chap-book history.] [Footnote 134: Christopher Maltby, draper, Lord Mayor in 1583.] [Footnote 135: Thomas Appleyard, Lord Mayor in 1584.] THE SISTERS OF BEVERLEY.[136] The tapers are blazing, the mass is sung, In the chapel of Beverley, And merrily too the bells have rung; 'Tis the eve of our Lord's nativity; And the holy maids are kneeling round, While the moon shines bright on the hallow'd ground. Yes, the sky is clear, and the stars are bright, And the air is hush'd and mild; Befitting well the holy night, When o'er Judah's mountains wild, The mystic star blazed bright and free, And sweet rang the heavenly minstrelsy. The nuns have risen through the cloister dim, Each seeks her lonely cell; To pray alone till the joyful hymn On the midnight breeze shall swell; And all are gone save two sisters fair Who stand in the moonlight silent there. Now hand in hand, through the shadowy aisle, Like airy things they've past, With noiseless step, and with gentle smile, And meek eyes heavenward cast; Like things too pure upon earth to stay, They have fled like a vision of light away. And again the merry bells have rung, So sweet through the starry sky; For the midnight mass hath this night been sung, And the chalice is lifted high, And the nuns are kneeling in holiest pray'r, Yes, all, save these meek-eyed sisters fair. Then up rose the abbess, she sought around, But in vain, for these gentle maids; They were ever the first at the mass bell's sound, Have they fled these holy shades? Or can they be numbered among the dead? Oh! whither can these fair maids be fled? The snows have melted, the fields are green, The cuckoo singeth aloud, The flowers are budding, the sunny sheen Beams bright through the parted cloud, And maidens are gathering the sweet breath'd May, But these gentle sisters, oh, where are they?