Good Christian people, pray attend To what I do in sorrow sing, My bleeding heart is like to rend, At the sad tydings which I bring; Of a young couple, whom cruel fate Designed to be unfortunate.[143] Let Carthage Queen be now no more The subject of your mournful song; Nor such odd tales which heretofore, Did so amuse the teeming throng; Since the sad story which I'll tell, All other tragedys excel. Yorkshire, the ancient town of Bowes,[144] Of late did Roger Wrightson dwell, He courted Martha Railton, who[145] In virtuous works did most excel; Yet Roger's friends would not agree, That he to her should married be. Their love continued one whole year, Full sore against their parents' will; But when he found them so severe, His royal heart began to chill; And last Shrove Tuesday took his bed, With grief and woe encompassed. Thus he continued twelve days space, In anguish and in grief of mind; And no sweet rest in any case, This ardent lover's heart could find; But languish'd in a train of grief, Which pierced his heart beyond relief. Martha, with anxious thoughts possest A private messuage to him sent, Acquainting him she could not rest,[146] Until she had seen her loving friend; His answer was, "Nay, nay, my dear, Our folks will angry be I fear." Full frought with grief, she took no rest, But spent her time in pain and fear, Until few days before his death, She sent an orange to her dear; But 's cruel mother, in disdain, Did send the orange back again. Three days before her lover dy'd, Poor Martha, with a bleeding heart, To see her dying lover hy'd, In hopes to ease him of his smart; Where she's conducted to the bed, In which this faithful young man laid. Where she with doleful cries beheld, Her fainting lover in despair; Which did her heart with sorrow fill,[147] Small was the comfort she had there; Tho' his mother show'd her great respect, His sister did her much reject. She staid two hours with her dear, In hopes for to declare her mind; But Hannah Wrightson stood so near, No time to do it she could find: So that being almost dead with grief, Away she went without relief. Tears from her eyes did flow amain, And she full oft wo'd sighing say, "My constant love, alas! is slain, And to pale death become a prey; Oh! Hannah, Hannah, thou art base; Thy pride will turn to foul disgrace." She spent her time in godly prayers, And quiet rest from her did fly, She to her friends full oft declares, She could not live if he did dye; Thus she continued till the bell, Began to sound his fatal knell. And when she heard the dismal sound, Her godly book she cast away, With bitter cries would pierce the ground, Her fainting heart began to decay; She to her pensive mother said, "I cannot live now he is dead."