XIV. THE MURDER OF THE KING OF SCOTS.
[_]
The catastrophe of Henry Stewart, lord Daruley, the unfortunate
husband of Mary Q. of Scots, is the subject of this
ballad. It is here related in that partial imperfect manner,
in which such an event would naturally strike the subjects of
another kingdom; of which he was a native. Henry appears
to have been a vain capricious worthless young man,
of weak understanding, and dissolute morals. But the beauty
of his person, and the inexperience of his youth, would
dispose mankind to treat him with an indulgence, which the
cruelty of his murder would afterwards convert into the most
tender pity and regret: and then imagination would not fail
to adorn his memory with all those virtues, he ought to have
possessed. This will account for the extravagant elogium bestowed
upon him in the first stanza, &c.
Henry lord Darnley was eldest son of the earl of Lennox,
by the lady Margaret Douglas, niece of Henry VIII. and
daughter of Margaret queen of Scotland by the earl of Angus,
whom that princess married after the death of James
IV.—Darnley, who had been born and educated in England,
was but in his 21st year, when he was murdered, Feb. 9.
1567–8. This crime was perpetrated by the E. of Bothwell,
not out of respect to the memory of David Riccio, but in order
to pave the way for his own marriage with the queen.
This ballad (printed from the Editor's folio MS.) seems
to have been written soon after Mary's escape into England
in 1568, see v. 65.—It will be remembered at v. 5. that
this princess was Q. dowager of France, having been first
married to Francis II. who died Dec. 4. 1560.
Woe worth, woe worth thee, false Scotlànde!
For thou hast ever wrought by sleighte;
The worthyest prince that ever was borne,
You hanged under a cloud by night.
The queene of France a letter wrote,
And sealed it with harte and ringe;
And bade him come Scotland within,
And shee wold marry and crowne him kinge.
To be a king is a pleasant thing,
To be a prince unto a peere:
But you have heard, and soe have I,
A man may well buy gold too deare.
There was an Italyan in that place,
Was as well beloved as ever was hee,
And David Riccio was his name,
Chamberlaine to the queene was hee.
If the king had risen forth of his place,
Hee wold have sate him downe i'th' chaire,
Although it beseemed him not so well,
And though the kinge were present there.
Some lords in Scotlande waxed wroth,
And quarrelled with him for the nonce;
And I shall tell how it befell,
Twelve daggers were in him att once.
When the queene shee saw her chamberlaine slaine,
For him her faire cheeks she did weete,
And made a vowe for a yeare and a day
The king and shee wold not come in one sheete.
Then some of the lords they waxed wroth,
And made their vow all vehementlye;
That for the death of the chamberlaine,
How hee, the king himselfe, sholde dye.
With gun-powder they strewed his roome,
And layd greene rushes in his waye;
For the traitors thought that very night
This worthye king for to betraye.
To bedd the king he made him bowne;
To take his rest was his desire;
He was noe sooner cast on sleepe,
But his chamber was on a blasing fire.
Up he lope, and the window brake,
And hee had thirtye foote to fall;
Lord Bodwell kept a privy watch,
All underneath the castle wall.
Who have we here? lord Bodwell sayd:
Now answer me, that I may know.
“King Henry the eighth my uncle was;
For his sweete sake some pitty show.”
Who have we here? lord Bodwell sayd,
Now answer me when I doe speake.
“Ah, lord Bodwell, I know thee well;
Some pitty on me I pray thee take.”
Ile pitty thee as much, he sayd,
And as much favour show to thee,
As thou didst to the queenes chamberlaine,
That day thou deemedst him to die
Through halls and towers the king they ledd,
Through towers and castles that were nye,
Through an arbor into an orchàrd,
There on a peare-tree hanged him hye.
When the governor of Scotland heard,
How that the worthye king was slaine;
He persued the queen so bitterlye,
That in Scotland shee dare not remaine.
But she is fledd into merry England,
And here her residence hath tane;
And through the queene of Englands grace,
In England now shee doth remaine.
