ENGLAND's Black Tribunal,

Or, King Charles's Martyrdom.

TRUE Churchmen all, I pray behold & fee,
Great Charles once England's king in mifery
His suffering now I mean to tell,
How Butons did againſt their king rebel,

A court they made which they did justice call,
And there thole traitors moſt tyrannical,
Of crueltie impeach'd the beſt of kings,
Of murder, treafon and ſuch heinous things.

Bafely they us'd the royal prisoner there,
He not being ſuffer'd truth for to declare,
It's ſtrange ſays Charles a moſt ſurprizing thing,
You can't make laws now for to try your king.

Our court is juſt the preſident reply'd,
And by theſe laws, fir, now you muſt be try'd,
For againſt the lords and commons of this land,
It's not for prisoners to dispute and ſland.

Then ſaid the king I think my cafe is hard,
Worie than the maleſtors I am ſerv'd,
For they have liberty to plead their cauſe;
Why don't you grant me the true Britiſh laws.

Confider first I'm your appointed king,
Take heed, left judgment on this land you bring,
For if the Lord's appointed you do ſlay,
Take care you don't repent the bloody day.

In vain did ſpeak this Prince of Royal Blood,
His words indeed they did but little good,
For by theſe bloody tyrants he was caſt,
Charles Stuart, you muſt loofe your-head at laſt.

As he paſ'd down flairs, the ſoldiers bafe,
Did imoke tobacco in his royal ſace,
Spitting upon him as he did paſ's by,
Forgive them, Chriſt, forgive them he did cry.

It is no more than what my favour dear,
Did ſuffer for poor ſinful mortals here,
If thus the king of heaven they did kill,
What is my blood to bis, which they did spil.

My earthly crown I freely down do lay,
Although they thus do take my life away,
I hope a crown of glory to obſan,
For ever with the bleſt above, to reign.

I now do ſuffer for a cauſe that's good,†
For the proteſtant laws I always ſood,
But when my head they from my body take,
Chriſt keep the church for thy dear mercies ſake.

Then he did beg his children for to fee,
It being granted then that liberty,
Thofe that in England being prefent there,
To fee their dying father did repair.

When the lady Elizabeth did her father fee,
She trembling fell before him on her knee,
Having the Duke of Glouceſter in her hand,
Riſe, ſays the king, before your father stand.

Behold dear child, the king to her did ſay,
Great Charles who once did England's ſeepier ſway
Is try'd and caſt, upon the block to dye,
Not knowing of the cauſe or reaton why.

O royal father ſaid the Priſeſs then,
What will become of us when you are gone,
If they've the heart to ſlay our father dear,
I fear your deaths are drawing very near.

If I could die upon the block for thee,
Death would be but a little unto me;
But I muſt live to fee my father bleed,
O cruel tyrants you who do the deed.

O child! when I am gone, the king reply'd,†
You have a God for to fland on your ſide,
I hope he will preferve the Stewart's race,
So heaven bleſs and mark you all with grace.

Then taking of the duke of Glouceſter young,
Upon his knee which was the youngeſt for,
Said he dear child, I give this charge to thee,
That to your brother you obſedient be.

It is your brother Charles that I do mean,
You muſt call him your toſvereign lord and king,†
For they will cut off thy dear father's head,
The babe then wept for to hear what he ſaid.

Then who muſt be my father ſaid the child,
The lord of heaven ſaid the king and ſmil'd,
With that the child upon his neck did fly,
Saying father let us both together die.

This kind expreſſion of a child ſo young,
It caus'd the tears like fountains for to run,
A thouſand times he kifs'd his children dear,
And on his knees with them fell down to prayers.

And bleſſing of them took his laſt farewell,
Saying with your father things will ſoon do well;
Next to the block this Martyr was convey'd,
At his own Palace gate to loſe his head.

How can the preſbyterians bear to hear,
How patiently he did his ſuffering hear;
How freely he his earthly crown did leave,
In hopes a crown of glory to receive.

In Windſor Chapel there his corps was laid,
When the Lord Bifhop of London was deny'd,
At the funeral to read the common prayer,
A thing his royal maſter lov'd ſo dear.

Thus ſell the church as likewife ſell the king,†
O cruel preſbyterians I am ſure this thing,
Can never be ſorgot, the bloody day,
On which your royal maſter, ye did ſlay,

We never more will put it in your power,
The Church of England up for to devour;
Heaven prieſerve the church likewife the ſtate,
And keept from the preſbyterians cruel hate.

London; Printed and Sold in Stonecutters Street, Fleet-market.