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 Persè.
He set uppone the lord Persè
A dynte that was full soare;
With a suar spear of a myghttè tre
Clean thorow the body he the Persè bore,
A' the tother syde that a man myght se
A large cloth yard and mare:
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Christiantè,
Then that day slain wear ther.
An archar off Northomberlonde
Say slean was the lord Persè;
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.