185 An arow, that a cloth-yarde was lang, to the harde stele halyde he; 190 196 200 A dynt that was both sad and soar he sat on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry. The dynt yt was both sad and sar, Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the myghte dre. This battell begane in Chyviat an owar befor the none, And when even-songe bell was rang, the battell was nat half done. The tocke . . . on ethar hande 205 Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde went away but seventi and thre; 210 Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, But all wear slayne Cheviat within; the hade no strengthe to stand on hy; Thear was slayne, withe the lord Persë, 215 Ser Rogar, the hinde Hartly, 220 Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone. Ser Jorg, the worthe Loumle, a knyghte of great renowen, Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe, with dyntes wear beaten dowene. For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, 225 Ther was slayne, with the dougeti Duglas, Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry, 230 Ser Davy Lydale, that worthë was, Ser Charls a Murrë in that place, that never a foot wolde fle; Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was, So on the morrowe the mayde them byears off birch and hassell so gray; 235 Many wedous, with wepyng tears, cam to fache ther makys away. Tivydale may carpe off care, Northomberlond may mayk great mon, For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear, 240 on the March-parti shall never be non. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches, 245 His handdës dyd he weal and wryng, 6 he sayd, Alas, and woe ys me! Such an othar captayn Skotland within,' Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, 250 till the fourth Harry our kynge, That lord Persë, lyff-tenante of the Marchis, he lay slayne Chyviat within. 256 260 'God have merci on his solle,' sayde Kyng Harry, 'good lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde,' he sayd, as good as ever was he: But, Perse, and I brook my lyffe, As our noble kynge mayd his avowe, For the deth of the lord Persë he dyde the battell of Hombyll-down; Wher syx and thrittë Skottishe knyghtes 265 Glendale glyterryde on ther armor bryght, 270 This was the hontynge off the Cheviat, Old men that knowen the grounde well yenoughe At Otterburn begane this spurne Ther was the doughtë Doglas slean, the Perse never went away. 275 Ther was never a tym on the Marche-partes sen the Doglas and the Persë met, But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not as the reane doys in the stret. Jhesue Crist our balys bete, 280 and to the blys us brynge! Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat: God send us alle good endyng! SIR PATRICK SPENS (From Percy's Reliques, pub. 1765. Date uncertain, but a popular ballad in 1580) 10 The King sits in Dumferling toune, 'O whar will I get guid sailor, 5 Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the king's richt kne: 'Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, That sails upon the se.' The king has written a braid letter, And signed it wi his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, The first line that Sir Patrick red, 15 The next line that Sir Patrick red 20 'O wha is this has don this deid, To send me out this time o' the yeir, 'Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:' 'O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme. 25 Late late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi the auld moone in hir arme, 30 And I feir, I feir, my deir master, O our Scots nobles wer richt laith O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi thair fans into their hand, 35 Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence Cum sailing to the land. 40 O lang, lang may the ladies stand, |