THE Chamberlain's Tragedy:
- Ballad Title
- THE Chamberlain's Tragedy:
- Indicated Tune
- Bleeding Heart
- Ballad Location
- Magdalene College - Pepys Library, Pepys 2.178; EBBA 20795
- Background Information
- A chamberlain is stabbed by a cook's maid with whom he regularly quarrels. She bemoans her fate in prison.
- Event Date
- 1671-1702 ?
- Event Location
- Andever
- Printing Location
- LONDON: Printed for J. Deacon, at the Angel, in Guiltspur-street.
- Crime
- murder
- Gender of Accused
- Female
- Category
- Crime and Punishment Ballads
- Sub-Category
-
Execution Ballads
- Transcription
-
You that have melting hearts to grieve,
This mournful Ditty pray receive,
'Tis of a bloody Tragedy,
Unheard of Matchless cruelty.
The which I shall in brief unfold,
Therefore dear People, pray behold,
The manner of this wicked deed,
It needs must make your hearts to bleed.
Two Servants in one house did dwell,
At Andever, 'tis known full well;
A Cook-maid and a Chamberlin,
Now the relation I'll begin:
The one of them was most moross,
The other was exceeding cross,
So that with heat or passion they,
Were still at parlance Day by Day.
They acted both, like Tygers wild,
They never wou'd be reconcil'd
By any admonition, no,
Till passion prov'd their overthrow.
Behold it happen'd on a day
The Chamberlin, he took his way
Unto the fire-side, where she
Was busie at her Cookery.
To make a Toast was his intent,
But she his purpose wou'd prevent,
With Knife in Hand, but still he cry'd,
He valu'd not her haughty Pride.
This rais'd her passion more and more,
So that at length she vow'd and swore,
That she wou'd stick him to the Heart,
If he did not the Room depart:
Quoth he, Are you so resolute,
Is Blood the heat of your dispute?
Yes, that it is, you Slave, quoth she,
Be gone or I shall hang for thee.
The Chamberlin reply'd again,
Your swelling words are all in vain;
I do not fear you in the least
And thus their passion still increas'd.
Quoth she, I'll not disputing stand,
To him she ran with Knife in Hand
And wounded him in woful case,
Across his Head and down his Face.
The wreaking Blood began to run,
But still the Cook-maid had not done;
Till through his Ribs, she thrust the Knife,
And so bereav'd him of his Life.
When she beheld him on the floor,
In woful streams of wreaking gore;
She then bemoan'd her dismal state,
But this repentance come too late.
Thus having his destruction wrought,
Before a Justice, she was brought,
Who soon committed her to Goal,
Where she the Murder does bewail.
Often with Tears she does reply
Why did my passion rise so high,
As for to take his Life away,
Alas! this is a dismal Day?
How shall I answer for my crime,
Who gave him not a Minutes time;
To beg a Pardon for his Soul,
In sorrow I his Death condole:
I can expect no favour here,
Who was so cruel and severe,
That for a trifle I should be,
The auther of his Tragedy.
I needs must suffer for the same,
And leave this wretched World in shame;
But woe is me, that is not all,
His Blood does for just vengance call.
The time I have to live, I'll spend,
In making God my special friend,
That when this painful life I leave,
He may in love my Soul receive.
You Serants all both far anear,
That does my sad relation hear;
Labour to live in Love I pray,
Least passion should your Lives decay.
Part of THE Chamberlain's Tragedy: