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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,
that he of Monggomberry 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, whylle the myghte dre.
with many a balfull brande.

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
be the lyght of the mone;
Many hade no strenght for to stande,
in Chyviat the hillys abon.

205 Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde went away but seventi and thre;

210

Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,
but even five and fifti.

But all wear slayne Cheviat within;

the hade no strengthe to stand on hy;
The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
it was the mor pittë.

Thear was slayne, withe the lord Persë,
Sir Johan of Agerstone,

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,
that ever he slayne shulde be;

For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
yet he knyled and fought on hys kny.

225 Ther was slayne, with the dougeti Duglas, Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry,

230

Ser Davy Lydale, that worthë was,
his sistar's son was he.

Ser Charls a Murrë in that place,

that never a foot wolde fle;

Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was,
with the Doglas dyd he dey.

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,
to Jamy the Skottische kynge,

That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches,
he lay slean Chyviot within.

245 His handdës dyd he weal and wryng,

6

he sayd, Alas, and woe ys me!

Such an othar captayn Skotland within,'
he sayd, 'ye-feth shuld never be.'

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.

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'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,
thy deth well quyte shall be.'

As our noble kynge mayd his avowe,
lyke a noble prince of renowen,

For the deth of the lord Persë

he dyde the battell of Hombyll-down;

Wher syx and thrittë Skottishe knyghtes
on a day wear beaten down:

265 Glendale glyterryde on ther armor bryght,
over castille, towar, and town.

270

This was the hontynge off the Cheviat,
that tear begane this spurn;

Old men that knowen the grounde well yenoughe
call it the battell of Otterburn.

At Otterburn begane this spurne
uppone a Monnynday;

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,
Drinking the blude-reid wine;

'O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?'

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,
Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;

15 The next line that Sir Patrick red
The teir blinded his ee.

20

'O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,

To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se!

'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,
That we will cum to harme.'

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To wut their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.

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,
Wi thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.

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