The Ballad of Walsingham

Bitter, bitter oh to behoulde

The grass to growe

Where the walles of Walsingham

So stately did shewe.

Such were the worth of Walsingham

While she did stand,

Such are the wrackes as now do shewe

Of that (so) holy lande.

Levell, levell with the ground

The Towres do lye

Which with their golden, glitt'ring tops

Pearsed oute to the skye.

Where the weare gates noe gates are nowe,

The waies unknown,

Where the presse of freares did passe

While her fame was far blowen.

Oules do scrike where the sweetest himnes

Lately were songe,

Toads and serpents hold thie dennes

Where the palmers did throng.

Weep, weep, O Walsingham,

Whose days are nightes,

Blessings turned to blasphemies,

Holy deedes to dispites.

Sinne is where Our Lady sate,

Heaven turned is to helle;

Sathan sitte where Our Lord did swaye,

Walsingham, oh, farewell!