Song
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.