Our woe regard, and ne'er forget That ye subsist upon the toil Of weary labourers,--and yet Their scanty goods ye daily spoil. Yea, thus ye act, of what degree, Estate, or rank soe'er ye be. Be then advised, and bear in mind That perished are our little gains, Whilst no protecting master kind Vouchsafes to pay us for our pains. But if we longer thus are shent, Believe us, lords! ye will repent. Repent ye will, or late or soon, If from our plaints ye turn away: For your tall towers will tumble down, Your gorgeous palaces decay: Sith true it is, ye lordly great, We are the pillars of your state. 'The pillars of your state do crack: Your deep foundations turn to dust: Nor have ye prop or stay, alack! In which to put your stedfast trust. But down ye sink without delay, Which make us cry, 'Ah, welladay!' Ah, welladay! ye bishops grave, Lords of the faith of Christian folk, Naked and bare, your help we crave, The wretched outcasts of your flock. For love of God, in charity Remonstrate with the rich and proud, That tho' they raise their heads so high, They are maintained by the crowd, Whose bread perforce they take away, And make us cry, 'Ah! welladay!' Ah, welladay! our gracious king, The noblest prince in Christian land, What mischiefs do their counsels bring, Who bade thee lay thy heavy hand On thy poor liege men!--but be wise. God gave thee power our rights to guard: Then listen to our doleful cries, And deal th' oppressor's just reward; 'So shall the poor no longer say, In grief of heart, 'Ah, welladay!' Ah, welladay! great king of France, Remember our unhappy lot: Long have we borne our sad mischance, And patient are we still, God wot! But if you do not soon apply Choice remedies to our distress, Eftsoons our tens of thousands fly, In foreign lands to seek redress. And when from hence we haste away, 'Tis you will cry, 'Ah, welladay!' Ah, welladay! good prince, beware; For thoughtless kings, in days of yore, Who for their subjects did not care, By loss of lands were punished sore. Are you not sworn to work our weal? Bid, then, our sore vexations cease: Humble the proud with prudent zeal, And grant us safety, grant us peace: So shall we no more need to say, In grief of heart, 'Ah, welladay!' 'Ah, welladay! when thrice a-year, Your surly sergeants came perforce, And, levying tallage on our gear, Drive from our field both cow and horse. But yet in JESUS' name, we trow, That scant proportion of the same Doth to the royal coffers flow. Then our complaints no longer blame, Nor marvel if our piteous lay Is burthened still with 'Welladay!'