Ballad Book Part 12

At last the Duglas and the Perse met, Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; The swapte togethar tyll the both swat, With swordes that wear of fyn myllan,

Thes worthe freckys for to fyght, Ther-to the wear full fayne, Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, As ever dyd heal or rayne.

"Holde the, Perse," sayd the Doglas, "And i' feth I shall the brynge Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis Of Jamy our Scottish kynge.

"Thoue shalte have thy ranson fre, I hight the hear this thinge, For the manfullyste man yet art thowe, That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng."

"Nay," sayd the lord Perse, "I tolde it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be To no man of woman born."

With that ther cam an arrowe hastely Forthe off a myghtte wane; Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas In at the brest bane.

Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe The sharp arrowe ys gane, That never after in all his lyffe-days, He spayke mo wordes but ane: That was, "Fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may, For my lyff-days ben gan."

The Perse leanyde on his brande, And sawe the Duglas de; He tooke the dede man be the hande, And sayd, "Wo ys me for the!

"To have savyde thy lyffe I wolde have pertyde with My landes for years thre, For a better man, of hart nare of hande, Was not in all the north contre."

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry; He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght, He spendyd a spear, a trust! tre:--

He rod uppon a corsiare Throughe a hondrith archery: He never styntyde, nar never blane, Tyll he cam to the good lord Perse.

He set uppone the lord Perse A dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghtte tre Clean thorow the body he the Perse bore,

A' the tother syde that a man myght se A large cloth yard and mare: Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Christiante, Then that day slain wear ther.

An archar off Northomberlonde Say slean was the lord Perse; He bar a bende-bowe in his hande, Was made off trusti tre.

An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, To th' hard stele halyde he; A dynt that was both sad and soar, He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and sar, That he on Mongonberry sete; The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar, With his hart-blood the wear wete.

Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, But still in stour dyd stand, Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre, With many a balful brande.

This battell begane in Chyviat An owar befor the none, And when even-song bell was rang, The battell was nat half done.

The tooke on ethar hand Be the lyght off the mone; Many hade no strenght for to stande, In Chyviat the hillys aboun.

Of fifteen hondrith archars of Yonglonde Went away but fifti and thre; Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, But even five and fifti:

But all wear slayne Cheviat within; The hade no strengthe to stand on hie; The chylde may rue that ys unborne, It was the mor pitte.

Thear was slayne with the lord Perse Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly, Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.

Sir Jorg the worthe Lovele, A knyght of great renowen, Sir Raff the ryche Rugbe, With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, That ever he slayne shulde be; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, Yet he knyled and fought on hys kne.

Ther was slayne with the dougheti Douglas, Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry, Sir Davye Lwdale, that worthe was, His sistars son was he:

His Charls a Murre in that place, That never a foot wolde fle; Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was, With the Duglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the mayde them byears Off birch and hasell so gray; Many wedous with wepyng tears Cam to fach ther makys away.

Tivydale may carpe off care, Northombarlond may mayk grat mon, For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear, On the march perti shall never be non.

Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches, He lay slean Chyviot with-in.

His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, He sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me!

"Such an othar captayn Skotland within,"

He sayd, "y-feth shall never be."

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, Till the fourth Harry our kyng, That lord Perse, lyffe-tennante of the Merchis, He lay slayne Chyviat within.

"G.o.d have merci on his soil," sayd kyng Harry, "Good lord, yf thy will it be!

I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd, "As good as ever was hee: But Perse, and I brook my lyffe, Thy deth well quyte shall be."

As our n.o.ble kyng mayd his a-vowe, Lyke a n.o.ble prince of renowen, For the deth of the lord Perse He dyde the battell of Hombyll-down:

Wher syx and thritte Skottishe knyghtes On a day wear beaten down; Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, Over castill, towar, and town.

This was the Hontynge off the Cheviat; That tear begane this spurn: Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe, Call it the Battell of Otterburn.

At Otterburn began this spurne Uppon a monnynday: Ther was the dougghte Doglas slean, The Perse never went away.

Ther was never a tym on the March partes Sen the Doglas and the Perse met, But yt was marvele, and the redde blude ronne not, As the reane doys in the stret.

Jhesue Christ our balys bete, And to the blys us brynge!

Thus was the Hountynge of the Chevyat: G.o.d send us all good endyng.

EDOM O' GORDON.

It fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and cauld, Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, "We maun draw to a hauld.

"And whatna hauld sall we draw to, My merry men and me?

We will gae to the house o' the Rodes, To see that fair ladie."

The ladie stude on her castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down, There she was ware of a host of men Were riding towards the town.

"O see ye not, my merry men a', O see ye not what I see?

Methinks I see a host of men-- I marvel what they be."

She ween'd it had been ner ain dear lord As he cam' riding hame; It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon, Wha recked nor sin nor shame.

She had nae suner buskit hersell, Nor putten on her goun, Till Edom o' Gordon and his men Were round about the toun.

They had nae suner supper set, Nor suner said the grace, Till Edom o' Gordon and his men Were light about the place.