In the wrackes of Walsingam

Whom should I chuse

But the Queene of Walsingam

To be guide to my muse?

Then, thou Prince of Walsingam

Graunt me to frame

Bitter plaintes to rewe thy wronge

Bitter wo for thy name.

Bitter was it, oh to see

The sely sheepe

Murdred by the raveninge wolves

While the sheepharde did sleep.

Bitter was it, oh, to viewe

The sacred vyne

Whiles the gardiners plaied all close

Rooted up by the swine.

Bitter, bitter oh to behoulde

The grasse to growe

Where the walles of Walsingam

So stately did shewe.

Such were the worth of Walsingam

While she did stand

Such are the wrackes as now do shewe

Of that (so) holy lande.

Levell, levell with the ground

The Towres doe lye

Which with their golden, glitt'ring tops

Pearsed oute to the skye.

Where weare gates noe gates are nowe,

The waies unknowen,

Where the presse of freares did passe

While her fame far was blowen.

Oules do scrike where the sweetest himnes

Lately wear songe,

Toades and serpents hold their dennes

Where the palmers did throng.

Weep, weep O Walsingam,

Whose dayes are nightes,

Blessings turned to blasphemies,

Holy deedes to dispites.

Sinne is where our Ladye sate,

Heaven turned is to helle;

Sathan sitte where our Lord did swaye,

Walsingam, oh, farewell!

versions of the ballad texts are widely available on the Internet, and in many printed

books : this one comes from Appendix II of H M Gillett, Walsingham (1946) : the

manuscript is in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, in the Arundel collection, although this

may not have been written by the Earl of Arundel

The Arundel Ballad