A new ballad of the worthy service of late done by Master Strangwige in France, and of his death.  

ENgland hath lost a Soldier of late  
Who Strangwige was to name:  
Although he was of mean estate  
His deeds deserved fame.   

¶ For as the Ploughman ploughs the ground  
And toileth to till for corn:  
So Strangwige sought a deadly wound  
For Britain where he was borne.   

¶ In deed of birth he was borne base  
Although of worshipful kin:  
In youth he sought to run the race  
Where he might prows win.   

¶ In his young years he walked wide  
And wandered oft a stray:  
For why, blind Cupid did him guide  
To walk that wyldsome way.   

¶ Thus here & there I wots not where  
He sounded where to ride:  
But happy haven he found no where  
Nor harbour for to abide.   

¶ But when he had the course out run  
Where Pirates pricked the Card:  
Twice at the least, he thought undone  
And looked for his reward.   

¶ For by legal laws he was condemned  
Yet Mercy bore the mace  
And in respect he would amend  
He found a Prince's grace.   

¶ And in that state he bowed to GOD  
And to his righteous Queen:  
He would no more deserve such rod  
Nor at justice bar be seen.   

¶ He thus contented for a while  
And laughed Fortune to scorn:  
Till weeds did work by subtle guile  
To overgrow the corn.   

¶ And then occasion served just  
That Martial men must trudge:  
He vanced himself with valiant lust  
To go he did not grudge.   

¶ And to the sea he sought a charge  
Where he might take his chance:  
And therewith spread his sails at large  
To seek a port in France.   

¶ And passed by a warlike town  
Where munition lay a land  
He spoiled and cut their chains a down  
And passed by strong hand.   

¶ Where as he caught a deadly wound  
Yet his courage never quailed:  
But as he had been safe and sound  
On his way forth he sailed.   

¶ And passed through even to that port  
Where he vowed to arrive:  
And still he did his men comfort  
And courage did them give.   

¶ Then ATROPOS did him assail  
That all Adam's kind doth call:  
Against whose force may none prevail  
But subject to him all.   

¶ This life (ꝙ he) which was me lent  
From judgement seat in peril:  
I came with heart for that intent  
To spend in my Queen's quarrel.   

¶ Therefore this debt here will I pay  
This life which is not mine:  
O Lord receive my spirit to joy  
That by Christ's death is thine.   

☞ All Subjects now, look and foresee  
That to trade the wars pretend:  
Offenders eke (if any there be)  
Make ye no worse an end.   
¶ FINIS.  
W. Birch.   

¶ Imprinted at London by Alexander Lacie for William Owen, and are to be sold at the little shop at the north door of Paul's.