The last news from France, being a true relation of the escape of the King of Scots from Worcester to London and from London to France,—who was conveyed away by a young gentleman in woman’s apparel; the King of Scots attending on this supposed gentlewoman in manner of a serving-man. Tune, “When the King enjoys his own again.” ALL you that do desire to know What is become of the King o’ Scots, I unto you will truly show After the fight of Northern Rats. ’Twas I did convey His Highness away, And from all dangers set him free;— In woman attire, As reason did require, And the King himself did wait on me. He of me a service did crave, And oftentimes to me stood bare; In woman’s apparel he was most brave, And on his chin he had no hare; Wherever I came My speeches did frame So well my waiting-man to free, The like was never known I think by any I one, For the King himself did wait on me. My waiting-man a jewel had, Which I for want of money sold; Because my fortune was so bad We turn’d our jewel into gold. A good shift indeed, In time of our need, Then glad was I and glad was he; Our cause it did advance Until we came to France, And the King himself did wait on me. We walked through Westminster Hall, Where law and justice doth take place Our grief was great, our comfort small, We lookt grim death all in the face. I lookt round about, And made no other doubt But I and my man should taken be; The people little knew, As I may tell to you, The King himself did wait on me. From thence we went to the fatal place Where his father lost his life; And then my man did weep apace, And sorrow with him then was rife. I bid him peace, Let sorrow cease, For fear that we should taken be. The gallants in Whitehall Did little know at all That the King himself did wait on me. The King he was my serving-man, And thus the plot we did contrive: I went by the name of Mistress Anne When we took water at Queenhythe. A boat there we took, And London forsook, And now in France arrived are we. We got away by stealth, And the King is in good health, And he shall no longer wait on me. The King of Denmark’s dead, they say, Then Charles is like to rule the land; In France he will no longer stay, As I do rightly understand. That land is his due, If they be but true, And he with them do well agree: I heard a bird sing If he once be their king, My man will then my master be.