Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe,
To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,140
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,145
He sayd, ye-feth shuld never be.
Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone,
Till the fourth Harry our kyng,
That lord Persè, [leyff]-tenante of the Merchis,
He lay slayne Chyviat within.150
"God have merci on his soll," sayd 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 Persè, and I brook my lyffe,155
Thy deth well quyte shall be."
As our noble kyng mayd his a-vowe,
Lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Persè
He dyde the battell of Hombyll-down:160
Wher syx and thritté 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;165
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:170
Ther was the dougghtè Doglas slean,
The Persè never went away.