A Lament for the Priory of Walsingham

In the wracks of Walsingham
Whom should I chuse,
But the Queen of Walsingham,
To be guide to my muse.

Then, thou Prince of Walsingham,
Graunt me to frame
Bitter plaints to rue thy wrong,
Bitter woe for thy name.

Bitter was it oh to see
The seely sheep
Murdered by the ravening wolves
While the shepherds did sleep.

Bitter was it oh to view
The sacred vine,
Whiles the gardeners played all close,
Rooted up by the swine.

Bitter, bitter oh to behold
The grass to grow,
Where the walls of Walsingham
So stately did show.

Such were the works of Walsingham
Whiles she did stand,
Such are the wracks as now do show
Of that holy land.

Level, level with the ground
The towers do lie,
Which with their golden glittering tops
Pierced once to the sky.

Where were gates no gates are now,
The ways unknowen
Where the press of peers did pass
While her fame far was blowen.

Owls do scrike where the sweetest hymns
Lately were song,
Toads and serpents hold their dens
Where the palmers did throng.

Weep, weep, O Walsingham,
Whose days are nights,

Blessing turned to blasphemies,
Holy deeds to despites.

Sin is where our Lady sat,
Heaven turned is to hell,
Sathan sits where our Lord did sway,
Walsingham, Oh farewell!
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