THE SLAIN
With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold baròn;
And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, Whose prowesse did surmount.
For Witherington needs must I wayle, As one in doleful dumpes; For when his legs were smitten off, He fought upon his stumpes.
And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, Sir Charles Murray, that from the field One foote would never flee;
Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, His sister's sonne was he; Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, Yet saved he could not be;
And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Erle Douglas dye: Of twenty hundred Scottish speares, Scarce fifty-five did flye.
Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three: The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, Under the greene woode tree.
Next day did many widdowes come, Their husbands to bewayle; They washt their wounds in brinish teares, But all wold not prevayle;
Their bodyes, bathed in purple gore, They bore with them away; They kist them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay.
THE TIDINGS
The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, Where Scotland's king did raigne, That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye Was with an arrow slaine:
‘O heavy newes,’ King James did say, ‘Scotland may witnesse be, I have not any captaine more Of such account as he.’
Like tydings to King Henry came, Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
‘Now God be with him,’ said our king, ‘Sith it will no better be; I trust I have, within my realme, Five hundred as good as he:
Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take: I'll be revengèd on them all, For brave Erle Percy's sake.’
This vow full well the king performed After, at Humbledowne; In one day, fifty knights were slayne, With lords of great renowne,
And of the rest, of small account, Did many thousands dye. Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, Made by the Erle Percye.
God save our king, and bless this land With plentye, joy, and peace, And grant henceforth that foule debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease!
[XXVI]
SIR PATRICK SPENS
The King sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine: ‘O whaur will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o' mine?’
O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the King's right knee: ‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea.’
Our King has written a braid letter And sealed it wi' his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.
‘To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The King's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame.’
The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud, loud lauchèd he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his ee.
‘O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the King of me, To send us out at this time o' year To sail upon the sea?
Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The King's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis we must bring her hame.’
They hoysed their sails on Monday morn Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say:
‘Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's goud And a' our Queenis fee.’ ‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, Fu' loud I hear ye lie!
For I brought as mickle white monie As gane my men and me, And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud Out-o'er the sea wi' me.
Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn.’ ‘Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm.
I saw the new moon late yestreen Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And, if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm.’
They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.
‘O where will I get a gude sailor To tak' my helm in hand, Till I gae up to the tall topmast To see if I can spy land?’
‘O here am I, a sailor gude, To tak' the helm in hand, Till you gae up to the tall topmast; But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.’
He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in.
‘Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And letna the sea come in.’
They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea cam' in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their milk-white hands; But lang ere a' the play was ower They wat their gowden bands.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heeled shoon; But lang ere a' the play was played They wat their hats aboon.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit Wi' their fans intill their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see nae mair.
Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, It's fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
[XXVII]
BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY
The fifteenth day of July, With glistering spear and shield, A famous fight in Flanders Was foughten in the field: The most conspicuous officers Were English captains three, But the bravest man in battel Was brave Lord Willoughby.
The next was Captain Norris, A valiant man was he: The other, Captain Turner, From field would never flee. With fifteen hundred fighting men, Alas! there were no more, They fought with forty thousand then Upon the bloody shore.
‘Stand to it, noble pikeman, And look you round about: And shoot you right, you bow-men, And we will keep them out: You musquet and cailiver men, Do you prove true to me, I'll be the bravest man in fight,’ Says brave Lord Willoughby.
And then the bloody enemy They fiercely did assail, And fought it out most furiously, Not doubting to prevail: The wounded men on both sides fell Most piteous for to see, But nothing could the courage quell Of brave Lord Willoughby.
For seven hours to all men's view This fight endurèd sore, Until our men so feeble grew That they could fight no more; And then upon dead horses Full savourly they eat, And drank the puddle water, That could no better get.
When they had fed so freely, They kneelèd on the ground, And praisèd God devoutly For the favour they had found; And bearing up their colours, The fight they did renew, And cutting tow'rds the Spaniard, Five thousand more they slew.
The sharp steel-pointed arrows And bullets thick did fly; Then did our valiant soldiers Charge on most furiously: Which made the Spaniards waver, They thought it best to flee: They feared the stout behaviour Of brave Lord Willoughby.
Then quoth the Spanish general, ‘Come, let us march away, I fear we shall be spoilèd all If that we longer stay: For yonder comes Lord Willoughby With courage fierce and fell, He will not give one inch of ground For all the devils in hell.’
And when the fearful enemy Was quickly put to flight, Our men pursued courageously To rout his forces quite; And at last they gave a shout Which echoed through the sky: ‘God, and St. George for England!’ The conquerors did cry.
This news was brought to England With all the speed might be, And soon our gracious Queen was told Of this same victory. ‘O! this is brave Lord Willoughby, My love that ever won: Of all the lords of honour 'Tis he great deeds hath done!’
To the soldiers that were maimèd, And wounded in the fray, The queen allowed a pension Of fifteen pence a day, And from all costs and charges She quit and set them free: And this she did all for the sake Of brave Lord Willoughby.
Then courage, noble Englishmen, And never be dismayed! If that we be but one to ten, We will not be afraid To fight with foreign enemies, And set our country free. And thus I end the bloody bout Of brave Lord Willoughby.
[XXVIII]
HUGHIE THE GRÆME
Good Lord Scroope to the hills is gane, Hunting of the fallow deer; And he has grippit Hughie the Græme For stealing of the Bishop's mare.
‘Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be! Here hangs a broadsword by my side; And if that thou canst conquer me, The matter it may soon be tried.’
‘I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief; Although thy name be Hughie the Græme, I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds, If God but grant me life and time.’
But as they were dealing their blows so free, And both so bloody at the time, Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, All for to take bold Hughie the Græme.
O then they grippit Hughie the Græme, And brought him up through Carlisle town: The lads and lasses stood on the walls, Crying, ‘Hughie the Græme, thou'se ne'er gae down!’
‘O loose my right hand free,’ he says, ‘And gie me my sword o' the metal sae fine, He's no in Carlisle town this day Daur tell the tale to Hughie the Græme.’
Up then and spake the brave Whitefoord, As he sat by the Bishop's knee, ‘Twenty white owsen, my gude lord, If ye'll grant Hughie the Græme to me.’
‘O haud your tongue,’ the Bishop says, ‘And wi' your pleading let me be; For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, They suld be hangit a' for me.’
Up then and spake the fair Whitefoord, As she sat by the Bishop's knee, ‘A peck o' white pennies, my good lord, If ye'll grant Hughie the Græme to me.’
‘O haud your tongue now, lady fair, Forsooth, and so it sall na be; Were he but the one Graham of the name, He suld be hangit high for me.’
They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe, He lookèd to the gallows tree, Yet never colour left his cheek, Nor ever did he blink his e'e.
He lookèd over his left shoulder To try whatever he could see, And he was aware of his auld father, Tearing his hair most piteouslie.
‘O haud your tongue, my father dear, And see that ye dinna weep for me! For they may ravish me o' my life, But they canna banish me fro' Heaven hie.
And ye may gie my brither John My sword that's bent in the middle clear, And let him come at twelve o'clock, And see me pay the Bishop's mare.
And ye may gie my brither James My sword that's bent in the middle brown, And bid him come at four o'clock, And see his brither Hugh cut down.
And ye may tell my kith and kin I never did disgrace their blood; And when they meet the Bishop's cloak, To mak' it shorter by the hood.’