A Ballad Intituled,

a Newe well a daye /

As playne maister Papist, as Donstable waye.
Well a daye well a daye, well a daye woe is mee
Syr Thomas Plomtrie is hanged on a tree.
AMonge maye newes
As touchinge the Rebelles
their wicked estate,
Yet Syr Thomas Plomtrie,
their preacher they saie,
Hath made the North countrie, to crie well a daye.
Well a daye, well a daye, well a daye, woe is me,
Syr Thomas Plomtrie is hanged on a tree.
And now manie fathers and mothers be theare,
are put to their trialles with terrible feare,
Not all the gaye Crosses nor goddes they adore,
will make them as merie, as they haue ben before,
Well a daye, well a daye, &c.
The widowes woful, whose husbandes be taken
the childerne lament them, are so for saken,
The church men yt chaunted the morowe masse bell
Their Pardons be graunted they hang verie wel.
Well a daye well a daye. &c.
It is knowne they bee fled, that were the beginers
it is time they were ded, poore sorofull sinners
For all there great haste, they are hedged at a staye
with weeping & waylinge to sing well a daye.
Well a daye, well a daye. &c.
Yet some hold opynon, all is well with the highest
they are in good saftie wher freedome is nieste
Northumberland need not, be doutefull some saye,
and Westmorlande is not, yet brought to the bay.
Well a daye, well a daye &c.
No more is not Norton, nor a nomber beside,
But all in good season, they maye hap to be spide,
It is well they be wandred, whether no man can say
But it will be remembered, they crie well a daie.
Well a daye, well a daye. &c.
Where be the fyne fellowes, that caried the crosses,
Where be the deuisers, of Idoles and Asses,
Wher be the gaie Banners, were wont to be borne
where is the deuocion of gentyll Iohn Shorne.
Well a daye, well a daye. &c.
Saint Pall, and Saint Peter, haue laid them a bord
and saie it is feetter to cleaue to Gods worde
Their Beades, & their bables, are best to be burnd
and Moises tables towardes them to be turnde.
Well a daye, well a daye. &c.
And well a daye, wandreth still to and froe,
be wailinge the wonders, of rumors that goe,
Yet saie the stiffe necked let be as be maye,
though some be sore checked, yet some skape awaie
Well a daye, well a daye. &c.
And such some be sowers of seedes of Sedicion,
and saie the popes pardō, shall giue them remission
That kepe them selues, secrete and preeuilie saie,
it is no greate matter for this well a daye.
Well a daye, well a daye. &c.
You shall haue more newes er Candelmas come
their be matters diffuse yet lookte for of some,
Looke on, and looke still, as ye longe to here newes
I thinke Tower hill, will make ye all muse.
Well a daye, well a daye. &c.
If they that leaue tumblynge begin to war climing
for all your momblinge and merie pastimeing.
Ye will then beleeue, I am sure as I saie,
that matter will meene, a newe well a daye.
Well a dayes, well a daye. &c.
But as ye be faithlesse, of God and his lawe,
so till ye see hedles, the Traitors in strawe,
You wilbe still whisperinge of this and of that,
well a daye, woe is me, you remember it not
Well a daie, well a daie. &c.
Leaue of your lying, and fall to trewe reason,
leaue of your fonde spieng, and marke euery season
Against God & your contrie to taulke of revelling
not Syr Thomas Plumtrie can bide by ye telling
Well a daye, well a daye. &c.
And such as seduce the people with blyndnes,
and byd them to trust the Pope and his kyndnes
Make worke for the tynker, as prouerbes doth saie,
by such popishe patching, still comes well a daye.
Well a daye, well a daie. &c.
And she that is rightfull your Queene to subdue ye,
althoughe you be spitfull hath gyuen no cause to ye
But if ye will vexe her, to trie her hole force,
let him that comes next her, take heed of her horse
Well a daie, well a daie. &c.
Shee is the Lieftennante of him that is stowtest,
shee is defender of all the deuowtest,
It is not the Pope nor all the Pope may,
can make her astonyed, or singe well a daie.
Well a daie, well a daie.
God prosper her highnes, and send her his peace,
to gouerne good people, with grace, & increase,
And send the deseruers, that seeke the wronge way
at Tyborne some Caruers, to singe well a daie.
well a daie, well a daie. &c.
W. E.
Finis.

¶ Imprinted London in Fleestrete beneath the Conduit, at the signe of S. Iohn Euan­gelist, by Thomas Colwell.

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