think my Fact so great,
But thou may'st put into thy own Will.

The Quest of Jury-Men was call'd,
The best that was in _Garland_ Town;
Eleven of them spoke all in a-breast,
Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_ thou'st ne'er gang down.

Then other Questry-men was call'd,
The best that was in _Rumary_;
Twelve of them spoke all in a-breast,
Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_ thou'st now Guilty.

Then came down my good Lord _Boles_,
Falling down upon his Knee;
Five hundred Pieces of Gold will I give,
To grant Sir _Hugh_ in the _Grime_ to me.

Peace, peace, my good Lord _Boles_,
And of your Speeches set them by;
If there be Eleven _Grimes_ all of a Name,
Then by my own Honour they all should dye.

Then came down my good Lady _Ward_,
Falling low upon her Knee;
Five hundred Measures of Gold I'll give,
And grant Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_ to me.

Peace, peace, my good Lady _Ward_,
None of your proffers shall him buy,
For if there be Twelve _Grimes_ all of a Name,
By my own Honour all should dye.

Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime's_ condemn'd to dye,
And of his Friends he had no lack;
Fourteen Foot he leapt in his Ward,
His Hands bound fast upon his Back.

Then he look'd over his left Shoulder,
To see whom he could see or 'spye;
There was he aware of his Father dear,
Came tearing his Hair most pitifully.

Peace, peace, my Father dear,
And of your Speeches set them by;
Tho' they have bereav'd me of my Life,
They cannot bereave me of Heaven so high.

He look'd over his right Shoulder,
To see whom he could see or 'spye;
There was he aware of his Mother dear,
Came tearing her Hair most pitifully.

Pray have me remember'd to _Peggy_ my Wife,
As she and I walk'd over the Moor;
She was the cause of the loss of my Life,
And with the old Bishop she play'd the Whore.

Here _Johnny Armstrong_, take thou my Sword;
That is made of the metal so fine;
And when thou com'st to the Border side,
Remember the Death of Sir _Hugh_ of the _Grime_.

_The disappointed_ TAYLOR: _Or good Work done for Nothing._

[Music]

A Taylor good Lord, in the Time of Vacation,
When Cabbage was scarce and when Pocket was low,
For the Sale of good Liquor pretended a Passion,
To one that sold Ale in a Cuckoldy Row:
Now a Louse made him Itch,
Here a Scratch, there a Stitch,
And sing Cucu