'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; I have been dead till now, And soon shall live to wear a crown For aye upon my brow;
'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, Shalt rule this fickle land, To let them know how wide the rule 'Twixt king and tyrant hand.
'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! Shall fall on thy own head'-- From out of hearing of the king Departed then the sledde.
King Edward's soul rushed to his face, He turned his head away, And to his brother Gloucester He thus did speak and say:
'To him that so-much-dreaded death No ghastly terrors bring; Behold the man! he spake the truth; He's greater than a king!'
'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; 'And may each one our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe, And feed the carrion crows.'
And now the horses gently drew Sir Charles up the high hill; The axe did glister in the sun, His precious blood to spill.
Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, As up a gilded car Of victory, by valorous chiefs Gained in the bloody war.
And to the people he did say: 'Behold you see me die, For serving loyally my king, My king most rightfully.
'As long as Edward rules this land, No quiet you will know; Your sons and husbands shall be slain, And brooks with blood shall flow.
'You leave your good and lawful king When in adversity; Like me, unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die.'
Then he, with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to God did make, Beseeching Him unto Himself His parting soul to take.
Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke:
And out the blood began to flow, And round the scaffold twine; And tears, enough to wash't away, Did flow from each man's eyne.
The bloody axe his body fair Into four partis cut; And every part, and eke his head, Upon a pole was put.
One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour.
The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most noble.
Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: God prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven God's mercy sing!
Oh, sing unto my roundelay; Oh, drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.