EXECUTION OF KING CHARLES THE FIRST (1649)

On the 30th of January,
Charles met his Maker. A bitter, cold day,
He dressed that morning with the utmost care.
He asked for two shirts, all too well aware
That the crowd might think that he quaked for dread.
Yet the King feared nothing. To lose one’s head?
A trifle! Standing upon the scaffold,
Charles looked about him (he was not blindfold)
And addressed his subjects for one last time.
He’d caused no offence, committed no crime.
He was dying for justice and for liberty,
In defiance of arbitrary tyranny.

Few of the people, alas, heard his speech.
They were blocked by the guards and out of reach.
But Charles lost his stammer (there’s a strange thing) –
A patient, relaxed and submissive King.

He observed that the block was just too low.
He couldn’t kneel. Did this upset him? No.
He resolved, as he must, to lie quite flat,
His arms out sideways, as simple as that.
His hair he tucked tightly into his cap –
Charles, to the end, was a finicky chap.
He desired no obstruction. One swift blow,
One strike, was the way he wanted to go.

The axe fell. The crowd let out a groan.
The deed was done. England stood alone.

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