The Oxfordshire Tragedy; or The Virgin's Advice

by Anonymous

THE

Oxfordshire Tragedy;

OR

The Virgin's Advice.

IN TWO PARTS.

 

Part I. How fair Rosanna of the city of Oxford was betrayed by a young Gentleman of her Virginity.

Part II. His cruelty in murdering her, and how a Rose Bush sprung upon the grave, which blossomed all the year through, and how the murder came to be found out by his cropping the Roses.

 

 

Edinburgh: Printed by J. Morren Cowgate.

The OXFORDSHIRE TRAGEDY

YOUNG virgins fair of beauty bright,
⁠and you that are of Cupids fold,
Unto my tragedy draw near,
⁠for it is true as e'er was told.
In Oxford liv'd a lady fair,
⁠the daughter of a worty Knight,
A gentleman that lived near,
⁠was enamour'd with her beauty bright.

Rosanna was this maiden's name,
⁠the flower of fair Oxfordshire;
This gentleman a courting came,
⁠begging her to be his dear.
Her youthful heart to love inclin'd,
⁠young Cupid bent his golden bow,
And left his fatal dart behind,
⁠that prov'd Rosanna's overthrow.

Within the pleasant groves they'd walk,
⁠and vallies where the lambs do play
Sweet pleasant tales of love they talk,
⁠for to pass away the summer day.
My charming lovely rose said he,
⁠see how the pleasant flowers spring.
The pretty birds on every tree,
⁠with melody the groves do ring.

I nothing want for to delight,
⁠my soul, but those sweet charms of thine,
Our hearts are fix'd therefore my dear,
⁠like the turtel-dove let us combine.
Let me embrace my hearts deligh't,
⁠within this pleasant bower here,
This bank of voilets for our bed,
⁠shaded with these sweet roses fair.

She said what can you mean I pray,
⁠I am a noble lady born.
What signifies my beauty bright,
⁠that's a trifle when my honour's gone,
My parents they will me disdain,
⁠young virgin’s they will me deride;
Oh! do not prove my overthrow,
⁠if you love me stay till I am your bride.

Sweet angel bright, I here do vow,
⁠by all the powers that are divine,
I'll ne,er forsake my dearest dear,
⁠you’re the girl that does my soul confine,
And if you will me still deny,
⁠this sword shall quickly end my woe;
Then from her arms he straightway,
⁠in fury then his sword he drew,

Her hands as white as lillies fair,
⁠most dreadfully she there did wring,
She said my death’s approaching near,
⁠would I pity take and comfort him.
It only brings my fatal fall,
⁠’tis I that most receive the wound:
The crimson dye forsook her cheeks,
⁠at his feet she dropp'd upon the ground

This innocence he did betray,
⁠full sore against her chaste desire,
True love is a celestial charm,
⁠bat the flame of lust a raging fire,
But when her senses did revive
⁠he many vows and oaths did make,
That he’d for ever true remain,
⁠and her company would not forsake.

PART. II.

NOW virgins, in the second part,
⁠observe this lady’s fatal end,
When once your virtue is betrayed,
⁠you’ve nothing young men will commend.
After the traitor had his will,
⁠he never did come near her more.
And from her eyes both day and night,
⁠for his sake the crystal tears did pour,

Into the mourning valley she,
⁠would often wander all alone,
And for the jewel she had lost,
⁠in the bower thus would often mourn.
Oh! that I was some pretty bird,
⁠that I might fly to hide my shame;
Oh! silly maid for to believe,
⁠all the fair delusions of man.

The harmless lamb sports and plays,
⁠the turtle constant to his mate;
Nothing so wretched is as I,
⁠to love a man that does me hate,
I will to him a letter send,
⁠remembering him of the oathes be made,
Within that shedow bower where
⁠my tender heart he first betray’d.

Her trembling hand a letter wrote,
⁠my dearest dear what must I do?
Alas! what have I done, that I
⁠am forsaken and forgot by you?
I could have many a Lord of fame,
⁠who little knows my misery:
I did forsake a worthy Knight,
⁠and it is all for love of thee.

And now my little infant dear
⁠will quickly spread abroad my shame,
One line of comfort to me send,
⁠e’er I am by your cruelty slain.
This answer he to her did send,
⁠your insolence amazes me,
To think that I should marry one,
⁠with whom before-hand I’ve been free.

Indeed I’ll not a father be,
⁠unto a bastard you shall bear.
So take no farther thought of me,
⁠no more from you pray let me hear.
When she this letter did receive,
⁠she wrung her hands and wept full sore;
And every day she still would range
⁠to lament within that pleasant bower.

The faithless wretch began to think,
⁠how noble was her parents dear;
He said, I sure shall punish’d be,
⁠soon as the story they come to hear.
So then the devil did begin,
⁠to enter in his wretched mind;
Her precious life he then must have,
⁠thus he to act the thing did find.

He many tines did watch her out,
⁠into the pleasant valley, where
One day he privately did go,
⁠when he knew the lady was not there.
And privately he dug a grave
⁠underneath an oaken tree;
Then in the branches he did hide,
⁠for to act this piece of cruelty.

Poor harmless soul she nothing knew,
⁠as usual she went there alone,
And on a bank of violets she,
⁠in a mournful manner sat her down,
Of his unkindness did complain,
⁠at length the grave she did espy,
She rose indeed to view the same,
⁠little thinking that he was so nigh.

You gentle gods so kind said she,
⁠did you this grave for me prepare?
He then descended from the tree,
⁠saying, strumpet now thy death is near.
O welcome, welcome, she reply’d,
⁠as long as by your hand I die,
This is a pleasant marriage-bed,
⁠I’m ready, use your cruelty.

But may the heavens bring to light,
⁠thy crime and thus let it appear,
Winter and summer on this grave,
⁠may the damask rose in bloom spring here,
Never to wither though ’tis cropp’d,
⁠but when thy hand doth touch the same,
Then may the bloom that minute blast,
⁠to bring to light my bitter shame.

More she’d have said but with his sword,
⁠he pierc’d he tender body through,
Then threw her in her silent grave,
⁠saying, now there’s an end of you,
He fill’d the grave up close again,
⁠with weeds the same did overspread;
Then unconcern’d he straight went home,
⁠immediately went to his bed.

Her parent’s dear did grieve full sore,
⁠the loss of their young daughter fair
Thinking that she was stole away,
⁠unto all their riches she was heir.
Twelve months ago this thing was done,
⁠there’s thousands for a truth to know;
According as she did desire,
⁠on her grave a damask rose did grow.

And many wonder’d at the same,
⁠for in the winter it did spring,
If any one would crop the rose,
⁠in a moment it would grow again.
The thing blaz’d the country round,
⁠and thousands went the same to see,
This miracle from heaven shew,
⁠he among’st the rest must curious be,

To go to see if this was true,
⁠and when into the plant he came,
The beauteous rose he saw in bloom,
⁠and eagerly he crept the same,
The leaves did fall from off the bulb,
⁠the rose within his hands did die
He cry'd ’tis fair Rosanna’s blood,
⁠that did spring up from her fair body.

Many people that were there
⁠took notice of what he did say:
They told him he'd some murder done,
⁠he the truth confes’d without delay,
They dug and found the body there,
⁠The first of April it was known,
Before a Magistrate he went,
⁠and now in prison lies forlorn.

Till he his punishment receives,
⁠no doubt but he will have his due;
Young men by this a warning take,
⁠perform your vows whate’er you do,
God does find out man’s ways
⁠such heinous things to bring to light,
For murder is a crying sin.
⁠and hatful in his blessed sight.

FINIS.