I oft have heard of Lidford Lawe, How in the morn they hang and draw, And sit in judgment after; At first I wondered at it much, But since I find the matter such, As it deserves noe laughter. They have a castle on a hill; I took it for some old windmill, The vanes blown off by weather; To lie therein, one night ’tis gast, ’Twere better to be stoned or pressed, Or hanged when you come thither. Ten men less room within this cave Than five mice in a lanthorn have; The Keepers they are sly ones; If any could devise by art To get it up into a cart, ’Twere fit to carry lions. When I beheld it! Lord thought I, What justice, truth, or equity, Hath Lidford Castle hall; Where every one that there doth stay, Must first be hanged out of the way, ’Fore he can have his trial. Prince Charles a hundred pounds hath sent, To mend the leads and planchins wrent, Within this living tomb, Some forty-five pounds more had paid The debts of all that shall be laid There till the day of doom. One lies there for a seam of malt, Another for two pecks of salt, Two sureties for a noble; If this be true or else false news, You may go ask of Master Crew’s, John Vaughan, or John Doble. Near to those men that lie in lurch, There’s a direful bridge and little church, Seven ashes and one oak; Two houses standing and ten down, They say the Rector hath a gown, But I saw ne’er a cloak. Whereby you may consider well, What plain simplicity doth dwell At Lidford without bravery; Since in that town both young and grave Do love the naked truth to have, No cloak to hide their knavery. This town’s inclosed with desert moors, Where tiger, wolf, and lion roars, And nought can live but hogs; All overturn’d with Noah’s flood; Of fourscore miles scarce one foot good; Where hills are wholly bogs. And near unto the Gubbins Cave, A people that no knowledge have Of laws of God or men, Where Cæsar never yet subdued, Have lawless lived, of manners rude, All naked in their den. By whom, if any pass that way, He dares not any time to stay, For presently the howl, Upon which signal they do muster Their naked forces in a cluster, Led forth by Roger Rowle. The people all within this clime, Are frozen in the Winter time, Deprest with cold and pain; But when the Summer is begun, They lie like silkworms in the sun, And gather strength again. ’Twas told me, in King Cæsar’s time The town was built with stone and lime, But sure the walls are clay, For they are all fallen for ought I see: And since the houses are got free The town is run away. O Cæsar, if thou there didst reign, Whilst one house stands come there again; (Come quickly whilst there is one) For if thou stay, but little fit, But five years more, they will commit The whole town to a prison.