She bargain'd with the Master-Cook, To take her Life away; And taking of her Daughter's Book, She thus to her did say. Go home, sweet Daughter, I thee pray. Go hasten presently; And tell unto the Master-Cook, These Words which I tell thee. And bid him dress to Dinner straight, That fair and milk-white Doe; That in the Park doth shine so bright, There's none so fair to show. This Lady fearing of no harm, Obey'd her Mother's Will; And presently she hasted home, Her Mind for to fulfil. She straight into the Kitchin went, Her Message for to tell, And there the Master-Cook she spy'd, Who did with Malice swell. Now Master-Cook it must be so, Do that which I thee tell; You needs must dress the milk-white Doe, Which you do know full well. Then straight his cruel bloody Hands, He on the Lady laid; Who quivering and shaking stands, While thus to her he said: Thou art the Doe that I must dress, See here, behold my Knife; For it is Pointed presently, To rid thee of thy Life. O then cry'd out the Scullion Boy, As loud as loud might be; O save her Life, good Master-Cook, And make your Pies of me? For pity sake do not destroy My Lady with your Knife; You know she is her Father's Joy, For Christ's sake save her Life. I will not save her Life he said, Nor make my Pies of thee; Yet if thou dost this Deed betray, Thy Butcher I will be; Now when this Lord he did come home, For to sit down to Meat; He called for his Daughter dear, To come and carve his Meat. Now sit you down, his Lady said, O sit you down to Meat; Into some Nunnery she's gone, Your Daughter dear forget. Then solemnly he made a Vow, Before the Company; That he would neither eat nor drink, Until he did her see. O then bespoke the Scullion Boy, With a loud Voice so high; If that you will your Daughter see My Lord cut up the Pye. Wherein her Flesh is minced small, And parched with the Fire; All caused by her Step-Mother, Who did her Death desire. And cursed be the Master-Cook, O cursed may he be! I proffer'd him my own Heart's Blood, From Death to set her free. Then all in Black this Lord did Mourn, And for his Daughter's sake; He judged for her Step-Mother, To be burnt at a Stake. Likewise he judg'd the Master-Cook, In boyling Lead to stand; He made the simple Scullion Boy, The Heir to all his Land. _A_ BALLAD _In Praise of a certain Commander in the City._ [Music] A Heroe of no small Renown, But noted for a Man of Mettle; Thro' all the Parts of _London_ Town, No Gentleman, nor yet a Clown, No grave wise man, nor stupid Beetle. By many Deeds of Prowess done, He's gain'd a matchless Reputation; Perform'd by neither Sword nor Gun, But by what means you'll know anon, And how he work'd his Preservation. Well mounted on a noble Steed, With Sword and Pistol charg'd before him; Altho' we must confess indeed, Of either Arms there was no need, His Conduct did alone secure him.