The true manner of the life and Death of Sir Thomas Wentworth, late Lord lieutenant Deputy of Ireland, Lord general of his majesty's Army, Knight of the Noble order of the Garter, who was beheaded the 12. day of this present month of May, 1641,  
The tune is Welladay Welladae.  

 
 

COuntry men list to me  
patiently patiently,  
And you shall hear and see,  
As time gives leisure,  
The object of mishap.  
Caught fast in his own trap,  
Cast out of fortune's lap,  
Through his own folly.   

Sir Thomas Wentworth he,  
At the first at the first  
Rose to great dignity,  
And was beloved,  
Charles our most gracious King  
Graced him in many a thing,  
And did much honour bring,  
On his proceed.   

Fames Trumpèt blasoned forth  
His great name, his great name  
Lord president of the North,  
So was he called,  
And as I understand,  
He had in Ireland,  
A place of great command,  
To raise his fortunes.   

Mo●e honour did befall,  
Unto him unto him,  
He was Lord general,  
Of the King's army,  
These titles given had he  
By the King's majesty,  
And made assuredly  
Knight of the Garter.   

But here's the spoil of all,  
Woe is me, woe is me,  
Ambition caused his fall,  
Against all reason,  
He did our laws abuse,  
And many men misuse,  
For which they him accuse,  
Quite through the kingdom.   

New laws he sought to make,  
In Ireland in Ireland,  
If he the word did speak,  
None durst with stand him,  
He ruled with tyranny,  
And dealt most cruelly,  
To men in misery,  
The like was near heard of.    

The Second part,  
To the same tune.  
 

HE hath done thousands wrong  
As 'tis knowao as tis knowae  
And cast in prison strong,  
Our King's liege people,  
Such cruelty possessed  
His black polluted breast,  
He thought himself well blessed,  
In acting mischief.   

But those that climb highest of all  
Oftentimes oftentimes,  
Do catch the greatest fall,  
As here appeareth,  
By this unhappy wight,  
Who wronged his country's right,  
And over came by might,  
Our good King's subjects.   

To London Tower at last,  
He was brought, he was brought,  
For his Offences past,  
And just deservings,  
And after certainly,  
He was condemned to die,  
For his false treachery,  
'Gainst King and Country.   

It being the twelth day  
In this month of May,  
As true reports do say,  
He came to his trial,  
The Nobles of our land,  
By justice just command,  
Past sentence out of hand,  
That he should suffer.   

When the appointed time,  
Was come that he should die,  
For his committed crime,  
The axe being Ready,  
Up to the scaffold he,  
Was brought immediately,  
Where thousands came to see,  
Him take his death.   

After some Prayers said,  
And certain speeches made,  
O' th' block his head he laid,  
Taking his farewell.  
The headsman bloodily,  
Divided presently,  
His head from his body,  
With he's keen weapon.   

Heaven grant, by his downfall  
That others may take heed,  
Lord send amongst us all,  
True peace of conscience,  
And may our King and Queen,  
Amongst us long be seen,  
With all their branches green,  
To all our comfort.    
L.P.   

London, printed for Richard Burton, and are to be sold at the horse shoe at the hospital gate in Smithfield.