The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good Withouten any fayle; The wear borne a-long be the watter a Twyde, Yth 12 bowndes of Tividale. Leave off the brytlyng of the dear, he sayde, [heed; And to your bowys look ye tayk good For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne Had ye never so mickle need. The dougheti Dogglas on a stede He rode att his men beforne; Tell me what' men ye ar, he says, Chyviat chays in the spyt of me? The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, Yt was the good lord Persè : We wyll not tell the what' men we ar, he says, Nor whos men that we be; We have kyld, and cast 14 to carry Be my troth, sayd the doughtè Dogglas Let all our men uppone a parti stande; And do the battell off the and of me. Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, Ric. Wytharynton was him nam; It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde, To kyng Herry the fourth for sham. I wat 17 youe byn 18 great lordes twaw, I am a poor squyar of lande; I will never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, And stande my-selffe, and looke on, But whyll I may my weppone welde, I wyll not fayl' both harte and hande. That day, that day, that dredfull day; The first fit here I fynde. And youe wyll here any mor athe hountyng athe Chyviat, Yet ys ther mor behynde. THE SECOND FIT. The Yngglishe men hade ther bowys yebent, The hartes were good yenoughe; The first of arros that the shote off, Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.19 Yet bydys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent A captayne good yenoughe, For he wrought hom both woo and The Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre, Gave many a wounde full wyde; The Yngglishe men let thear bowys be, And pulde 24 owt brandes that wer bright; Now Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd It was a hevy syght to se the lord Persè, Who-soever ther-to says nay. Be my troth, doughtè Doglas, he says, Thow shalt never se that day; Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar Nor for no man of a woman born, Bryght swordes on basnites 25 lyght. Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple Many sterne the stroke downe streight: Many a freyke 26 that was full free, That undar foot dyd lyght. At last the Duglas and the Persè met, Lyk to captayns of myght and mayne; The swapte togethar tyll the both swat With swordes, that wear of fyn myllàn. 16 Earl. 17 Know. 18 Are. 19 Slew. 26 Fellow. 15 One. 24 Pulled. 23 Helmets. Thes worthè freckys for to fyght Ther-to the wear full fayne, Tyll the bloode owte off their basnites sprente,27 As ever dyd heal 28 or rayne. Holde the, Persè, 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 ransom fre, I hight 29 the hear this thinge, Nay then' sayd the lord Persè, To no man of a woman born. With that ther cam an arrowe hastely The sharp arrowe ys gane, For my lyff days ben 33 gan. The Persè leanyde 34 on his brande, And sawe the Duglas de; 35 He tooke the dede man be the hande, To have sayvde thy lyffe I wold have pertyd 36 with My landes for years thre, For a better man of hart, nare of hande Was not in all the north countrè. Off all that se 37 a Skottishe knyght, Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry, He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght; 38 He spendyd 39 a spear a trusti tre : He rod uppon a corsiare Throughe a hondrith archery; He never styntyde 40 nar never blane,11 Tyll he cam to the good lord Persè. He set uppone the lord Persè A dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghtè tre Clean thorow the body he the Persè bore, Athe 42 tothar syde, that a man myght sc, Then that day slain wear ther. Say slean was the lord Persè, He bar a bende-bow in his hande, Was made off trusti tre: An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, To th' hard stele haylde 43 he; A dynt, that was both sad and sore, He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongon- The dynt yt was both sad and sar, With his hart blood the wear wete. Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, But still in stour 45 dyd stand, Heawying on yche othar, whyll the myght dre, With many a bal-ful brande. This battell begane in Chyviat The tooke'on' on ethar hand 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 un-borne, It was the mor pittè. Thear was slayne with the lord Persè Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Roge the hinde Hartly, Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone. Sir Jorg the worthè Lovele A knight of great renowen, Sir Raff the rych Rugbè With dyntes wear beaten dowene. 30 Ane, one, зe. man. 31 Both. 38 Put. 39 Grasped. 37 Saw. 45 Fight For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, Yet he knyled and fought on hys kne. Ther was slayne with the dougheti Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry, Sir Charles a Murrè, in that place, That never a foot wolde fle; So on the morrowe the mayde them byears Off byrch, and hasell so gray;' Many wedous with wepyng tears Cam to fach 48 ther makys a-way. Tivydale may carpe 49 off care, Northombarlond may mayk grat mone, For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear, On the march perti shall never be none. Wordeys commen to Edden burrowe, To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches, He lay slean Chyviot with-in. His handdes did he weal 50 and wryng, He sayd, Alas, and woe ys me! Such another captayn Skotland within, He sayd, y-feth shud never be. Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone Till the fourth Harry our kyng, That lord Persè, leyff-tennante of the Merchis, He lay slayne Chyviat within. Good lord, yf thy will it be ! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde, As good as ever was hee: As our noble kyng made his a-vowe, He dyd the battel of Hombyll-down : 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 monnyn day : Ther was the dougghtè Doglas slean, Ther was never a tym on the march partes Sen 54 the Doglas and the Persè 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 : God send us all good ending! 48 Fetch. 49 Lament. 50 Wail. 51 Enjoy. 52 Paid. 53 Thirty. 54 Since. 33. The more modern Ballad of Chevy Chase. This form of the Ballad was probably written not much later than It is the one criticised by Addison in the time of Queen Elizabeth. the 'Spectator,' Nos. 70 and 74. God prosper long our noble king, A woefull hunting once there did To drive the deere with hound and horne, The child may rue that is unborne, The stout Erle of Northumberland The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace Who sent Erle Percy present word, He wold prevent his sport. Ere day-light did appeare; And long before high noone they had The bow-men mustered on the hills, Theire backsides all, with speciall care, That day were guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deere to take, Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, Most like a baron bold, Rode formost of his company, Whose armour shone like gold. "Show me," sayd hee, "whose men you bee, That hunt soe boldly heere, The first man that did answer make, Who sayd, "Wee list not to declare, Yet wee will spend our deerest blood, One of us two shall dye : I know thee well, an erle thou art; But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, That with their cryes the hills and dales Any of these our guiltlesse men, An eccho shrill did make. Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughter'd deere ; But if I thought he wold not come, "Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, Fast by the river Tweede :" That ever did on horsebacke come, I durst encounter man for man, For they have done no ill. Let thou and I the battell trye, Ile doe the best that doe I may, While I have power to stand: While I have power to weeld my sword, Ile fight with hart and hand." Our English archers bent their bowes, Their harts were good and trew; Att the first flight of arrowes sent, Full four-score Scots they slew. [Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, As Chieftain stout and good. As valiant Captain, all unmov'd 1 The 4 stanzas here inclosed in Brackets, which are borrowed chiefly from the ancient Copy are offered to the Reader instead of the following lines, which occur in the Editor's folio MS. : To drive the deere with hound and horne, Douglas bade on the bent; Two captaines moved with mickle might His host he parted had in three, As Leader ware and try'd, They dealt full many a wound : They closed full fast on everye side, O Christ! it was a griefe to see, And likewise for to heare, And scattered here and there. At last these two stout erles did meet, They fought untill they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steele ; Until the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling downe did feele. "Yeeld thee, Lord Percy," Douglas sayd; "In faith I will thee bringe, Where thou shalt high advanced bee By James our Scottish king: Thy ransome I will freely give, And this report of thee, "Noe, Douglas," quoth Erle Percy then, "Thy proffer I doe scorne; I will not yeelde to any Scott, That ever yett was borne." With that, there came an arrow keene Out of an English bow, O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed For sure, a more redoubted knight A knight amongst the Scotts there was, Who streight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percye : Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, Ran fiercely through the fight; With such a vehement force and might The staff ran through the other side Whose courage none could staine : Made of a trusty tree; This fight did last from breake of day, For when they rung the evening-bell, With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James that bold barròn: And with Sir George and stout Sir Both knights of good account, Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine A deepe and deadlye blow: Who never spake more words than these, 66 Fight on, my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end; Lord Percy sees my fall." Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke Whose prowesse did surmount. For Witherington needs must I wayle, He fought upon his stumpes. And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld One foote wold never flee. |