‘But now yonder pedlars, they are pass’d,
Which is no little grief to me:
Fetch them backe,’ sayes Sir Andrew Barton,
‘They shall all hang at my maine-mast tree.’
XL
With that the pinnace it shot off,
That my Lord Howard might it well ken;
It strokè down my lord’s fore-màst,
And kill’d fourteen of my lord his men.
XLI
‘Come hither, Simon!’ says my Lord Howard,
‘Look that thy words be true thou said;
I’le hang thee at my maine-mast tree
If thou miss thy mark past three pence bread.’
XLII
Simon was old, but his hart it was bold;
He tooke downe a piece, and laid it full low;
Chaine yeards nine he put therein,
Besides other great shot less and moe.
XLIII
With that he let his gun-shot go;
So well he settled it with his e’e,
The first sight that Sir Andrew saw,
He saw his pinnace sunk in the sea.