One kisse more, and then farewell;
Oh no, no more,
I prithee give me o’er,—
Why cloudest thou thy beames?
I see by these extreames
A woman’s heaven or hell.
Pray the King may have his owne,
And the Queen
May be seen
With her babes on England’s throne.
Rally up your men,
One shall vanquish ten,
Victory, we
Come to try thee
Once agen.
THE LAST NEWS FROM FRANCE.
[From vol. iii. of the Roxburgh Ballads, in the British Museum.]
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.