The mayor smote at Cloudesle with his bill,
His buckler he burst in two;
Full many a yeoman with great ill,
"Alas, treason!" they cried for woe.
"Keep we the gates fast," they bad,
"That these traitors theréout not go."
But all for nought was that they wrought,
For so fast they down were laid,
Till they all three, that so manfully fought,
Were gotten without at a braid.