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You let me know that all the worlde are knaves,
That lordes and cits are robbers in disguise;
I and my men, the Cockneies of the waves,
Will profitte by youre lessons and bee wise;
Make you give back the harvest of youre lies;
From deep fraught barques I'le take the mysers
Make all the wealthe of every my prize, [soul,
And cheating Londons pryde to dygner Bristowe
rolle.

SONGE OF SEYNCTE BALDYWYNNE. [From Dean Milles's edition. According to Chatterton, this and the following poem were sung when the bridge at Bristol was completed in 1247.]

WHANN Norrurs and hys menne of myghte,
Uponne thys brydge darde all to fyghte,
Forslagenn manie warriours laie,

And Dacyanns well nie wonne the daie.
Whanne doughty Baldwinus arose,
And scatterd deathe amonge hys foes,
Fromme out the brydge the purlinge bloode
Embolled hie the runnynge floude.
Dethe dydd uponne hys anlace hange,
And all hys arms were gutte de sangue 2.
His doughtinesse wrought thilk dismaye,
The foreign warriors ranne awaie,
Erle Baldwynus regardedd well,
How manie menn forslaggen fell;
To Heaven lyft oppe hys holic eye,
And thanked Godd for victorye;
Thenne threw bys anlace ynn the tyde,
Lyvdd ynn a cell, and hermytte died.

SONGE OF SEYNCTE WARBURGHE.

[From Dean Milles's edition.]
WHANNE kynge Kynghill 3 ynn hys honde
Helde the sceptre of thys londe,
Sheenynge starre of Chrystes lyghte,
The merkie mysts of pagann nyghte

Gan to scatter farr and wyde:
Thanne Seynete Warburghe hee arose,
Doffed hys honnores and fyne clothes;
Preechynge hys Lorde Jesus name,
Toe the lande of West Sexx came,

Whare blacke Severn rolls hys tyde.
Stronge ynn faithfullness, he trodde,
Overr the waterrs lyke a godde,
Till he gaynde the distaunt hecke,
Yan whose bankes hys staffe dydd steck,
Witnesse to the myrracle;
Thenne he preechedd nyghte and daie,
And set mance ynn ryghte waie.
Thys goode staffe great wonders wroughte
Moe than gueste bie mortalle thoughte,
Orr thann mortall tonge can tell.
Thenn the foulke a brydge dydd make
Overr the streme untoe the hecke,

The word one, or man, must be here supplied, in order to complete the sense and the verse. Gutte de sangue, drops of blood; an heraldic allusion, suitable to the genius of that age. 3 King Kynghill, king Coenwolf.

All of wode eke longe and wyde,
Pryde and glorie of thee tyde;

Whych ynn tyme dydd falle awaie: Then erle Leof he bespedde

Thys grete ry verr fromme hys bedde,
Round hys castle for to runne,
'T was in trothe ann ancyante onne,

But warre and tyme wyll all decaie.

Now agayne, wy the bremic force,
Severn ynn hys aynciant course
Rolls hys rappyd streeme alonge,
With a sable swifte and stronge,

Moreying 4 manie ann okie wood: Wee the menne of Brystowe towne Have yreerd thys brydge of stone, Wyshyng echone that ytt maie laste Till the date of daies be past,

Standynge where the other stoode.

SANCTE WARBUR.

1769.]

[From the Supplement to Chatterton's Miscel-
Janies. It is there entitled Imitation of our
Old Poets. On oure Ladyes Chirch.
IN auntient dayes, when Kenewalchyn king
Of all the borders of the sea did reigne,
Whos cutting celes 5, as the bardyes synge,
Cut strakyng furrowes in the foamie mayne,
Saucte Warbur cast aside his earles estate,
As great as good, and eke as good as great.
Tho blest with what us men accounts as store,
Saw something further, and saw something more.
Where smokyng Wasker scours the claiey bank,
And gilded fishes wanton in the sunne,
Emyttynge to the feelds a dewie dank,
As in the twyning path-waye he doth runne;
Here stood a house, that in the ryver smile
Since valorous Ursa first wonne Bryttayn isle;
The stones in one as firm as rock unite,
And it defyde the greatest warriours myghte.
Around about the lofty elemens hie

Proud as their planter reerde their greenie crest,
Bent out their heads, whene'er the windes came
In amorous dalliance the flete cloudes-kest. [bie.
Attendynge squires dreste in trickynge brighte,
To each tenth squier an attendynge knyghte,
The hallic hung with pendaunts to the flore,
A coat of nobil armes upon the doore;

Horses and dogges to hunt the fallowe deere,
Of pastures many, wide extent of wode,
Faulkonnes in mewes, and, little birds to teir,
The sparrow hawke, and manie hawkies gode,
Just in the prime of life, whan others court
Some swottie nymph, to gain their tender band,
Greet with the kynge and trerdie greet with the
And as aforesed mickle much of land, [court

4 Moreying, rooting up, so explained in the glossary to Robert Gloucester.-Mored, i. e. digged, grubbed. The roots of trees are still called mores in Devonshire.

5 Celes, most probably from the ancient word ceolis; which, in the Saxon, is slips. From whence ceole, we find in Brompton, are used for large ships.

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Heraulds eche side the clarions wound,
The horses started at the sound;

The knyghtes echeone did poynt the launce,
And to the combattes did advance;
From Hyberne, Scotland, eke from Fraunce;
Thyre prancyng horses tare the ground;
All strove to reche the place of fyghte,
The first to exercise their myghte→
O'Rocke upon his courser fleet,
Swift as lightning were his feet,
First gain'd the lists and gatte him fame;
From west Hybernee isle he came,
His myghte depictur'd in his name.

All dreded such an one to meet;
Bold as a mountain wolf he stood,
Upon his swerde sat grim dethe and bloude,
But when he threwe downe his asenglave,
Next came in syr Botelier bold and brave,
The dethe of manie a Saraceen;
Theie thought him a devil from Hells black den,

1 Probably alluding to the word rock.

Ne thinking that anie of mortalle menne
Could send so manie to the grave.

For his life to John Rumsee he render'd his thanks,
Descended from Godred the king of the Manks.

Within his sure rest he settled his speare,
And ran at O'Rocke in full career;
Their launces with the furious stroke

Into a thousand shivers broke,

Even as the thunder tears the oak,

And scatters splinters here and there;

So great the shock, their senses did depart,
The bloude all ran to strengthen up the harte.

Syr Botelier Rumsie first came from his traunce,
And from the marshall toke the launce;
O'Rocke eke chose another speere,
And ran at syr Botelier full career;
His prancynge stede the ground did tare;
In haste he made a false advance;
Syr Botelier seeing, with myghte amain
Felide him down upon the playne.

Syr Pigotte Novlin at the clarions sound,

On a milk-white stede with gold trappings around,
He couchde in his rest his silver-poynt speere,
And ferslie ranne up in full career;

But for his appearance he payed full deare,
In the first course laid on the ground;
Besmeer'd in the dust with his silver and gold,
No longer a glorious sight to behold.

Syr Botelier then having conquer'd his twayne,
Rode conqueror off the tourneying playne,
Receivying a garland from Alice's hand,
The fayrest ladye in the lande.

Syr Pigotte this viewed, and furious did stand,
Tormented in mind and bodily peyne,
Syr Botelier crown'd, most galantlie stode,
As some tall oak within the thick wode.

Awhile the shrill clarions sounded the word;
Next rode in syr John, of Adderleigh lord,
Who over his back his thick shield did bryng,
In checkee of redde and silver sheeninge,
With steede and gold trappings beseeming a king,
A guilded fine adder twyned round hie swerde.
De Bretville advanced, a man of great myghte
And couched his launce in his rest for the fyghte.

Ferse as the falling waters of the lough,
That tumble headlonge from the mountains browe,
Ev'n so they met in drierie sound,
De Bretville fell upon the ground,
The bloude from inward bruised wound,
Did out his stained helmet flowe;
As some tall bark upon the foamie main,
So laie De Bretville on the plain.

Syr John of the Dale or Compton hight,
Advanced next in lists of fyght,

He knew the tricks of tourneyinge full well,
In running race ne manne culd him excell,
Or how to wielde a sworde better tel,
And eke he was a manne of might:
On a black stede with silver trappynges dyght
He darde the dangers of the tourneyd fighte

Within their rests their speeres they set,
So furiously ech other met,

That Compton's well intended spcere

Syr John his shield in pieces tare,

And wound his hand in furious geir;
Syr Johns stele assenglave was wette:
Syr John then toe the marshal turn'd,
His breast with meekle furie burn'd.
The tenders of the feelde came in,
And bade the champyons not begyn;
Eche tourney but one hour should last,
And then one hour was gone and past.

THE ROMAUNTE OF THE CNYGHTE.
BY JOHN DE BERGHAM,

[From a MS. in Chatterton's hand-writing, in the
possession of Mr. Cottle.]

THE Sunne ento Vyrgyne was gotten,
The floureys al arounde onspryngede,
The woddie grasse blaunched the fenne
The quenis Ermyne arised fro bedde;
Syr knyghte dyd ymounte oponn a stede
Ne rouncie ne drybblette of make
Thanne asterte for dur'sie dede
Wythe Morglaie hys fooemenne to make blede
Eke swythyn as wynde. trees. theyre hartys to
Al doune in a delle a merke dernie delle [shake
Wheere coppys eke thighe trees there bee,
There dyd hee perchaunce I see
A damoselle askedde for ayde on her kne
An cnyghte uncourteous dydde bie her stonde
Hee hollyd herr faeste bie her honde,
Discorteous cnyghte, I doe praie nowe thou telle
Whirst doeste thou bee so to thee damselle.
The knyghte hymn assoled eftsoones,
Itte beethe ne mattere of thyne.

Begon for I wayte notte thye boones.

The knyghte sed I proove on thie gaberdyne,
Alyche boars enchafed to fyghte heie flies.
The discoorteous knyghte bee strynge botte
strynger the righte,
[fyghte
The dynne bee herde a'myle for fuire in the
Tyl thee false knyghte yfallethe and dyes.
Damoysel, quod the knyghte, now comme thou
wi me,

Y wotte welle quod shee I nede thee ne fere,
The knyghte yfallen badd wolde Ischulde bee,
Butte loe he ys dedde maie itte spede Heaven-

were.

THE ROMANCE OF THE KNIGHT.
MODERNISED BY THOMAS CHATTERTON.

[From a MS. of Chatterton's in the possession of
Mr. Cottle.]

THE pleasing sweets of spring and summer pest,
The falling leaf flies in the sultry blast,
The fields resign their spangling orbs of gold,
The wrinkled grass its silver joys unfold
Mantling the spreading moor in heavenly white,
Meeting from every hill the ravish'd sight.
The yellow flag uprears its spotted head,
Hanging regardant o'er its wat'ry bed:
The worthy knight ascends his foaming steed,
Of size uncommon, and no common breed.

His sword of giant make hangs from his belt,
Whose piercing edge his daring foes had felt.
To seek for glory and renown, he goes
To scatter death among his trembling foes;
Unnerv'd by fear they trembled at his stroke;
So cutting blasts shake the tall mountain oak.

Down in a dark and solitary vale
Where the curst screech-owl sings her fatal tale,
Where copse and brambles interwoven lie,
Where trees intwining arch the azure sky,
Thither the fate-mark'd champion bent his way,
By purling streams to lose the heat of day:
A sudden cry assaults his list'ning ear,
His soul's too noble to admit of fear.-
The cry re-echoes: with his bounding steed
He gropes the way from whence the cries proceed.
The arching trees above obscur'd the light,
Here 'twas all evening, there eternal night.

And now the rustling leaves and strengthened cry
Bespeaks the cause of the confusion nigh;
Thro' the thick brake the astonish'd champion
A weeping damsel bending on her knees; [sees
A ruffian knyght would force her to the ground,
But still some small resisting strength she found.
(Women and cats, if you compulsion use
The pleasure which they die for, will refuse,)
The champion thus: "Desist, discourteous knight,
Why dost thou shamefully misuse thy might."
With eye contemptuous thus the knight replies,
"Begone! whoever dares my fury dies."
Down to the ground the champion's gauntlet flew,
"I dare thy fury, and I'll prove it too."

Like two fierce mountain-boars enraged they fly,
The prancing steeds make echo rend the sky,
Like a fierce tempest is the bloody fight, [knight.
Dead from his lofty steed falls the proud ruffian
The victor, sadly pleas'd, accosts the dame,
"I will convey you hence to whence you came."
With look of gratitude the fair replied,
"Content: I in your virtue may confide.
But," said the fair, as mournful she survey'd
The breathless corse upon the meadow laid,
"May all thy sins from Heaven forgiveness find!
May not thy body's crimes affect thy mind!"

TO JOHNE LADGATE. (SENT WITH THE FOLLOWING SONGE TO ÆLLA.) [This and the two following poems are printed from a copy in Mr. Catcott's hand-writing.]

SONGE TO ELLA,

LORDE OF THE CASTEL OF BRISTOWE
YNNE DAIES OF YORE.

OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee,
Ælla, the darlynge of futurity,
Lett thys mie songe bolde as thie courage be,
As everlastynge to posteritye.

WELL thanne, goode Johne, sythe ytt must needes be soe,

Thatt thou and I a bowtynge matche muste have, Lette ytt ne breakynge of oulde friendshyppe bee, Thys ys the onelie all-a-boone I crave.

Whanne Dacya's sonnes, whose hayres of bloude redde hue

Lyche kynge-cuppes brastynge wythe the morn
Arraung'd ynne dreare arraie, [ing due,
Upponne the lethale daie,

Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets shore;
Than dyddst thou furiouse stande,
And bie thie valyante hande
Beesprengedd all the mees wythe gore.

Rememberr Stowe, the Bryghtstowe Carmalyte, Who whanne John Clarkynge, one of myckle lore, Dydd throwe hys gauntlette-penne, wyth hym to fyghte, [nesse more. Hee showd smalle wytte, and showd hys weakThys ys mie formance, whyche 1 nowe have wrytte,

The best performance of mie lyttel wytte.

Drawne bie thyne anlace felle,
Downe to the depthe of Helle
Thousandes of Dacyanns went;
Brystowannes, menne of myghte,
Ydar'd the bloudie fyghte,
And actedd deeds full quent.

Oh thou whereer (thie bones att reste) Thye spryte to haunte delyghteth best, Whetherr upponne the bloude-embrewedd pleyne, Orr whare thou kennst fromm farre The dysmall crye of warre,

[sleyne; Orr seest somme mountayne made of corse of Orr seest the hatchedd stede, Ypraunceynge o'er the mede,

And neighe to be amenged the poynctedd spceres; Orr ynne blacke armoure staulke arounde Embattel'd Brystowe, once thie grounde, And glowe ardurous onn the castle steeres;

Orr fierye round the mynsterr glare; Lette Brystowe stylle be made thie care; Guarde ytt fromme foemenne and consumynge

fyre;

Lyche Avones streme ensyrke ytt rounde, Ne lette a flame enharme the grounde, Tylle ynne one flame all the whole worlde expyre.

THE UNDERWRITTEN LINES WERE COMPOSED BY JOHN LADGATE, A PRIEST IN LONDON,

And sent to Rowlie, as an answer to the preceding
Songe of Ælla.
HAVYNGE Wythe mouche attentyon redde
Whatt you dydd too mee sende,
Admyre the varses mouche I dyd,
And thus an answer lende.

Amongs the Greeces Homer was A poett mouche renownde, Amongs the Latyns Vyrgilius Was beste of poets founde.

The Brytish Merlyn oftenne hanne
The gyfte of inspyration,
And Afled to the Sexonne menne
Dydd synge wythe elocation.

Ynne Norman tymes, Turgotus and Goode Chaucer dydd excelle,

Thenn Stowe, the Bryghtstowe Carmelyte, Dydd bare awaie the belle.

Nowe Rowlie ynne these mokie dayes Lendes owte hys sheenynge lyghtes, And Turgotus and Chaucer lyves

Ynne ev'ry lyne he wrytes.

Mr. Tyrwhitt compared the copy of this and the two preceding poems, supplied by Mr. Catcott, with one made by Mr. Barrett, from the piece of vellum which Chatterton gave to him as the original MS. These are the variations of importance, exclusive of many in the spelling.

Verses to Ladgate.

In the title, for Ladgate, r. Lydgate.
ver. 2. r. That! I and thee.

3. for bee, r. goe.

7. for fyghte, r. wryte. Songe to Ella.

The title in the vellum MS. was simply Songe toe Ella, with a small mark of reference to a note below, containing the following words-Lord of the castelle of Brystowe ynne daies of yore. It may be proper also to take notice, that the whole song was there written like prose, without any breaks, or divisions into verses.

ver. 6. for brastynge, r. burstynge. 11. for valyante, r. burlie. 23. for dysmall, r. honore. Ladgate's Answer.

No title in the vellum MS.

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Ella wythe thys I sende, and hope that you Wylle from ytte cast awaie, whatte lynes maie be

untrue.

Playes made from hallie tales I holde unmeete; Lette somme greate storie of a manne be songe;

adraming, churlish.
Unauthorized. There is however the adjective
? Perhaps waysies.

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