XIV. THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.
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This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the
Pepys collection, collated with another in the British
Museum, H. 263. folio. It is there intitled, “The Lady
Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's Cruelty: being
a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed
on the body of the lady Isabella, the only daughter of a
noble duke, &c. To the tune of the Lady's Fall.”
To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas,
intitled, “The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation.”
There was a lord of worthy fame,
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble traine
Of gentrye by his side.
And while he did in chase remaine,
To see both sport and playe;
His ladye went, as she did feigne,
Unto the church to praye.
This lord he had a daughter deare,
Whose beauty shone so bright,
She was belov'd, both far and neare,
Of many a lord and knight.
Fair Isabella was she call'd,
A creature faire was shee;
She was her fathers only joye;
As you shall after see.
Therefore her cruel step-mothèr
Did envye her so much;
That daye by daye she sought her life,
Her malice it was such.
She bargain'd with the master-cook,
To take her life awaye:
And taking of her daughters book,
She thus to her did saye.
Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye,
Go hasten presentlìe;
And tell unto the master-cook
These wordes that I tell thee.
And bid him dresse to dinner streight
That faire and milk-white doe,
That in the parke doth shine so bright,
There's none so faire to showe.
This ladye fearing of no harme,
Obey'd her mothers will;
And presentlye she hasted home,
Her pleasure to fulfill.
She streight into the kitchen went,
Her message for to tell;
And there she spied the master-cook,
Who did with malice swell.
Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,
Do that which I thee tell:
You needes must dresse the milk-white doe,
Which you do knowe full well.
Then streight his cruell bloodye hands,
He on the ladye layd;
Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he sayd:
Thou art the doe, that I must dresse;
See here, behold my knife;
For it is pointed presently
To ridd thee of thy life.
O then, cried out the scullion-boye,
As loud as loud might bee:
O save her life, good master-cook,
And make your pyes of mee!
For pityes sake do not destroye
My ladye with your knife;
You know shee is her father's joye,
For Christes sake save her life.
I will not save her life, he sayd,
Nor make my pyes of thee;
Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,
Thy butcher I will bee.
Now when this lord he did come home
For to fit downe and eat;
He called for his daughter deare,
To come and carve his meat.
Now sit you downe, his ladye sayd,
O sit you downe to meat:
Into some nunnery she is gone;
Your daughter deare forget.
Then solemnlye he made a vowe,
Before the companìe:
That he would neither eat nor drinke,
Until he did her see.
O then bespake the scullion-boye,
With a loud voice so hye:
If now you will your daughter see,
My lord, cut up that pye:
Wherein her fleshe is minced small,
And parched with the fire;
All caused by her step-mothèr,
Who did her death desire.
And cursed bee the master-cook,
O cursed may he bee!
I proffered him my own hearts blood,
From death to set her free.
Then all in blacke this lord did mourne;
And for his daughters sake,
He judged her cruell step-mothèr
To be burnt at a stake.
Likewise he judg'd the master-cook
In boiling lead to stand;
And made the simple scullion-boye
The heire of all his land.
