A Ballad of the Rising in the North

The widows be woeful whose husbands be taken,
The children lament them that are so forsaken,
The Churchmen they chanted the morrow mass bell,
Their pardons be granted, they hang very well.
Well-a-day, well-a-day, well-a-day, woe is me,
Sir Thomas Plumtre is hanged on a tree.

It is known they be fled that were the beginners,
It is time they were dead, poor sorrowful sinners;
For all their great haste, they are hedged at a stay
With weeping and wailing to sing well-a-day.

Yet some hold opinion, all is well with the highest,
They are in good safety where freedom is nighest;
Northumberland need not be doubtful, some say,
And Westmoreland is not yet brought to the bay;

Where be the fine fellows that carried the crosses?
Where be the devisers of idols and asses?
Where be the gay banners were wont to be borne?
Where is the devotion of gentle John Shorne?

You shall have more news ere Candlemas come;
There be matters diffuse, yet looked for of some:
Look on and look still, as you long to hear news,
I think Tower Hill will make you all muse.

God prosper Her Highness and send her His Peace
To govern good people with grace and increase;
And send the deservers that seek the wrong way
At Tyburn some carvers to sing well-a-day.
Well-a-day, well-a-day, well-a-day, woe is me,
Sir Thomas Plumtre is hanged on a tree.
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