  A lamentable Ditty made upon the death of a worthy gentleman, named George Stoole, dwelling sometime on Gate-side Moor, and sometime at Newcastle, in Northumberland: with his penitent end. [c. 1610.] To a delicate Scottish Tune. Come you lusty Northerne lads, That are so blith and bonny, Prepare your hearts to be full sad, To heare the end of Georgy. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my honny; Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my owne deare love, And God be with my Georgie. When Georgie to his triall came, A thousand hearts were sorry, A thousand lasses wept full sore, And all for love of Georgie. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love, Heigh-ho, &c. Some did say he would escape, Some at his fall did glory: But these were clownes and fickle friends, And none that loved Georgy. Heigh-ho, &c. Might friends have satisfied the law, Then Georgie would find many: Yet bravely did he plead for life, If mercy might be any. Heigh-ho, &c. But when this doughty carle was cast, He was full sad and sorry: Yet boldly did he take his death, So patiently dyde Georgie. Heigh-ho, &c. As Georgie went up to the gate, He tooke his leave of many: He tooke his leave of his laird’s wife, Whom he lov’d best of any. Heigh-ho, &c. With thousand sighs and heavy looks, Away from thence he parted, Where he so often blithe had beene, Though now so heavy hearted. Heigh-ho, &c. He writ a letter with his owne hand, He thought he writ it bravely: He sent it to New-castle towne, To his beloved lady. Heigh-ho, &c. Wherein he did at large bewaile, The occasion of his folly: Bequeathing life unto the law, His soule to heaven holy. Heigh-ho, &c. Why, lady, leave to weepe for me, Let not my ending grieve ye: Prove constant to the man you love, For I cannot relieve yee. Heigh-ho, &c. Out upon thee, Withrington, And fie upon thee, Phoenix: Thou hast put downe the doughty one, That stole the sheepe from Anix. Heigh-ho, &c. And fie on all such cruell carles, Whose crueltie’s so fickle, To cast away a gentleman In hatred for so little. Heigh-ho, &c. I would I were on yonder hill, Where I have beene full merry: My sword and buckeler by my side To fight till I be weary. Heigh-ho, &c. They well should know that tooke me first, Though whoops be now forsaken: Had I but freedome, armes, and health, I’de dye ere I’de be taken. Heigh-ho, &c. But law condemns me to my grave, They have me in their power; There’s none but Christ that can me save, At this my dying houre. Heigh-ho, &c. He call’d his dearest love to him, When as his heart was sorry: And speaking thus with manly heart, Deare sweeting, pray for Georgie. Heigh-ho, &c. He gave to her a piece of gold, And bade her give’t her bairns: And oft he kist her rosie lips, And laid him into her armes. Heigh-ho, &c. And coming to the place of death, He never changed colour, The more he thought he would look pale, The more his veines were fuller. Heigh-ho, &c. And with a cheereful countenance, (Being at that time entreated For to confesse his former life) These words he straight repeated. Heigh-ho, &c. I never stole an ox or cow, Nor ever murdered any: But fifty horse I did receive Of a merchant’s man of Gory. Heigh-ho, &c. For which I am condemn’d to dye Though guiltlesse I stand dying: Deare gracious God, my soule receive, For now my life is flying, Heigh-ho, &c. The man of death a part did act, Which grieves me tell the story; God comfort all are comfortlesse, And did so well as Georgie. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, my bonny love, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny; Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, mine own true love, Sweet Christ receive my Georgie. |
|
