Of trees, that in one yeere will twice beare fruit.
But if a man note Tyburne, ‘will appeare,
That that’s a tree that beares twelue times a yeere.
I muse it should so fruitfull be, for why
I vnderstand the root of it is dry,
It beares no leafe, no blossome, or no bud,
The raine that makes it fructifie is bloud.
I further note, the fruit which it produces,
Doth seldome serue for profitable vses:
Except the skillfull Surgions industry
Doe make Desection or Anatomy.
It blossomes, buds, and beares, all three together,
And in one houre, doth liue, and die, and wither.
Like Sodom Apples, they are in conceit,
For touch’d, they turne to dust and ashes streight.
Besides I find this tree hath neuer bin
Like other fruit trees, wall’d or hedged in,
But in the high-way standing many a yeere,
It neuer yet was rob’d, as I could heare.
The reason is apparent to our eyes,
That what it beares, are dead commodities:
And yet sometimes (such grace to it is giuen)
The dying fruit is well prepar’d for heauen,
And many times a man may gather thence
Remorse, deuotion, and true penitence.
And from that tree, I thinke more soules ascend
To that Coelestiall ioy, which ne’r shall end :
I say, more soules from thence to heau’n doe come,
Than from all Church-Yards throughout Christendome.
The reason is, the bodies are all dead,
And all the soules to ioy or woe are fled.
Perhaps a weeke, a day, or two, or three,
Before they in the Church-yards buried bee.
But at this Tree, in twinkling of an eye,
The soule and body part immediatly,
There death the fatall parting blow doth strike,
And in Church-yards is seldome seene the like.
Besides, they are assisted with the almes
Of peoples charitable prayers, and Psalmes,
Which are the wings that lift the hou’ring spirit,
By faith, through grace, true glory to inherit.
Concerning this dead fruit, I noted it,
In stead of paste it’s put into a pit,
And laid vp carefully in any place,
Yet worme-eaten it growes in little space.
My vnderstanding can by no meanes frame,
To giue this Tyburnefruit a fitter name,
Than Medlers, for I find that great and small,
(To my capacity) are Medlers all.
Some say they are Choak’d peares, and some againe
Doe call them Hartie Choakes, but ‘tis most plain,
It is a kinde of Medler it doth beare,
Or else I thinke it neuer would come there.
Moreouer where it growes, I find it true,
It often turnes the Harke of grace to Rue.
Amongst all Pot-herbes growing on the ground,
Time is the least respected, I haue found,
And most abus’d, and therefore one shall see
No branch or bud of it grow neere this Tree:
For ‘tis occasion of mans greatest crime,
To turne the vse, into abuse, of Time.
When passions are let loose without a bridle,
The precious Time is turnd to Loue and idle:
And that’s the chiefest reason I can show,
Why fruit so often doth on Tyburne grow.
There are inferiour Gallowses which beare
(According to the season) twice a yeare:
And there’s a kinde of watrish Tree at Wapping,
Wheras Sea-theeues or Pirats are catch’d napping:
But Tyburne doth deserue before them all
The title and addition capitall,
Of Arch or great Grand Gallowse of our Land,
Whilst all the rest like ragged Laqueyes stand ;
It hath (like Luna) full, and change, and quarters,
It (like a Merchant) monthly trucks and barters ;
But all the other Gallowses are fit,
Like Chapmen, or poore Pedlers vnto it. (Taylor 134-35)
-- Transcribed by Tara Drouillard, 2000
