21
Count him not like to Champion,
Those traiterous men of Babington,
Nor like the Earl of Westmoreland.
By whom a number were undone:
He never yet hurt mother’s son—
His quarrel still maintain’d the right,
The salt, salt tears my face run down,
When I think on his last good night.
The Portugals can witness be,
His dagger at Lisbon-gate he flung,
And, like a Knight of Chivalry,
His chain upon the gates he hung:
I would to God that he would come.
To fetch them back in order right,
Which thing was by his honour done,
Yet lately took his last good night.
The Frenchmen they can testify,
The town of Gournay he took in,
And march’d to Rome immediately,
Not caring for his foes a pin:
With bullets then he pierc’d their skin,
And made them fly before his sight;
He then that time did credit win,
And now hath ta’en his last good night.
Would God he ne’er had Ireland known,
Nor set one foot on Flanders ground,
Then might we well enjoy our own,
But oh, our jewel can not be found —
Which makes our trickling tears abound,
Washing our cheeks—a mournful sight;
Still, still his name in our ears doth sound,
But now he’s ta’en his last good night!
