Ance maire ys merrye ye borderre londe,
Harke thoroughe ye myddnyghte gale,
Ye bagpypes agayne playe a wasselle strayne,
Ronde ronde flees ye joyaunce tale:
Monie a joke offe ye fryares poke
Ys passedde oerre hylle ande dale.
Ye Ladye Delavalle ance matre smylde,
Ande sange tylle herre wene onne herre knee,
Ande pryedde herre knycghte ynne fonde delyghte,
Quihile hee helde herre lovynglye:
Ne gryevedde hee maire offe hys dolorres sayre,
Tho’ stryppedde offe londe ande ffee.
Atte Werkeworthe castelle, quilke proudlie lookes
Oerre ye stormie northernne mayne,
Ye Percye gretedde ye borderre knycghte,
Quithe hys merryeste mynstrelle strayne:
Throngedde wals ye hal, quithe nobles alle,
Toe wellcom ye knycghte agayne.
Nowe at thys daye quihile yeres rolle onne
Ande ye knycghte dothe cauldlie ly,
Ye stonne doth stande onne ye sylente londe
Toe tellen toe strangeres nyghe.
Yatte ane horrydde dede forre a pygge hys hede
Dydde y’ere toe hevenwerdde crye.
ON THE ABOVE LEGEND.
To the Editor.
The legend of “Syr Delavalle and the Moncke” is “owre true a tale.” The stone syr Delavalle was compelled to erect in commemoration of this “horryd dede” is (or rather the shattered remains of its shaft are) still lying close to a neat farmhouse, called Monkhouse, supposed to be built on the identical spot on which the “flagellrie” was effected, and is often bent over by the devout lovers of monkish antiquity.
The poem was found amongst the papers of an ingenious friend, who took pleasure in collecting such rhymes; but as he has been dead many years, I have no means of ascertaining at what period it was written, or whether it was the original channel through which the story has come down to posterity. I have some confused recollection, that I heard it stated my friend got this, and several similar ballads, from a very old man who resided at a romantic village, at a short distance from Tynemouth Priory, called “Holywell.” It is possible that there may be some account of its source among my lamented friend’s papers, but as they are very multitudinous and in a confused mass, I have never had courage to look regularly through them. There are several other poems of the like description the labour of copying which I may be induced to undergo should I find that this is within the range of the Table Book.
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