THE BALLADS AND SONGS
OF YORKSHIRE,

TRANSCRIBED FROM PRIVATE MANUSCRIPTS, RARE BROADSIDES,
AND SCARCE PUBLICATIONS; WITH NOTES
AND A GLOSSARY.

BY

C. J. DAVISON INGLEDEW, M.A., Ph.D., F.G.H.S.

AUTHOR OF "THE HISTORY OF NORTH ALLERTON."

LONDON:

BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STREET
1860.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.

This Work

IS, WITH PERMISSION, MOST RESPECTFULLY
DEDICATED

BY THE EDITOR.

PREFACE.

The present work is a selection from the Ballads and Songs of my native county, and I trust the publication may not be deemed an unacceptable offering. In a polished age like the present, I am sensible that many of the productions of our county bards will require great allowances to be made for them. Yet have they, for the most part, a pleasing simplicity, and artless grace, which, in the opinion of such writers as Addison, Dryden, Percy, and others, have been thought to compensate for the want of higher beauties; and, in the words of the latter, "If they do not dazzle the imagination, they are frequently found to interest the heart."

Wherever I have had an opportunity, I have collated my copies with the earliest editions, retaining in the notes, in many places, the different readings, the text in modern editions being materially changed and frequently deteriorated. I have omitted pieces from the pens of Scott, Wordsworth, Rogers, and other modern writers, whose works may be assumed to be in the reader's possession. Another class, the last dying confessions of criminals, &c., have been, with few exceptions, left out, as more appropriate for a separate volume. I trust, however, in what is retained will be found every variety:—

"From grave to gay, from lively to severe."

And should the reader receive one half the pleasure in perusing the contents, that has been afforded in collecting, I shall be perfectly satisfied.

In the notes prefixed to the Ballads and Songs, I have acknowledged my obligations to the friends who have so kindly assisted me, but cannot allow this opportunity to pass without again expressing my sincere thanks to Edward Hailstone, esq., F.S.A., Charles Jackson, esq., and others who have manifested so great an interest in the work.

North Allerton,
May, 1860.

CONTENTS.

THE BALLADS AND SONGS OF
YORKSHIRE.

THE DIRGE OF OFFA.

By the Rev. Mr. Ball.

This ballad is supposed to be written by Mordrid, chief of the bards, in the reign of Edwin, king of Northumberland, whose son Offa was slain in the battle of Hatfield Wood, near Doncaster, A.D. 633. It concludes with the words of the bard. Rapin says, on Hatfield Heath a bloody battle was fought between Ceadwalla, king of the Britons, and Penda, the Pagan king of Mercia, against Edwin, the first Christian king of Northumberland, in which Edwin and Offrido his eldest son were slain.

See my son, my Offa, dies!

He who could chase his father's foes!

Where shall the king now close his eyes?

Where but in the tomb of woes.

'Tis there thy stony couch is laid,

And there the wearied king may rest—

But will not Penda's threats invade

The quiet of the monarch's breast?

No—my son shall quell his rage—

What have I said?—ah me, undone;

Ne'er shall the parent's snowy age

Recall the tender name of son!

O would that I for thee had died,

Nor liv'd to wail thy piteous case!

Who dar'd defy those looks of pride,

That mark the chiefs of Wyba's race!

But, O my son, I little knew

What pow'r was in that arm of might!

That weeds of such a baleful hue

The laurel's beauteous wreath should blight!

Yes, my son, the shaft that thee

Transfix'd, hath drawn thy father's fate!

O how will Hengist weep to see

The woes that on his line await!

To see my Offa's latest pangs,

As wild in death he bites the shore!

A savage wolf, with bloody fangs,

The lamb's unspotted bosom tore!

Who never knew to give offence,

But to revenge his father's wrong!—

Some abler arm convey him hence,

And bear a father's love along!

Alas! this tongue is all too weak

The last sad duties to perform!

These feeble arms their task forsake!

Else should they rise in wrathful storm.

Against the ruthless rebel's head

Who dared such laurels to destroy;

To bid each virtue's hope lie dead!

And crush a parent's only joy!

Inter him by yon ivy tow'r,

And raise the note of deepest dole!

Ne'er should a friend in deathful hour,

Forget the chief of gen'rous soul:

And o'er the grave erect a stone,

His worth and lineage high to tell:

And, by the faithful cross be shown

That in the faith of Christ he fell!

Hail! valiant chiefs of Hatfield Wood!

Ne'er may your blooming honours cease!

That with unequal strength withstood

Th' invader of your country's peace.

Now, round this head let darkness fall!

Descend, ye shafts of thund'rous hail!

Ne'er shall be said, in Edwy's hall

That troubled ghost was heard to wail!—

Then, with his feeble arm, the fire

Into the thickest battle flies,

To die, was all the chiefs desire;

Oppress'd with wounds and grief, he dies.

And let the future soul of rhime,

If chance he cons of Edwy's praise,

As high his quiv'ring fingers climb,

Record, that Mordrid pour'd the lays!

ATHELGIVA.

A LEGENDARY TALE OF WHITBY ABBEY.

By William Watkins.

Oswy, king of Northumberland, being engaged in war with Penda, the Pagan king of Mercia, he vowed that, should he come off victorious, his daughter should dedicate herself to the service of God by a life of celibacy, and that he would give twelve of his mansions for the erection of monasteries. Being successful, Oswy, in order to fulfil his vow, placed his daughter Ethelfleda, then scarcely a year old, as a nun in the monastery called Hertesie (Stag Island), of which Lady Hilda, niece of Edwin, first Christian king of Northumberland, was abbess; and having procured ten hides of land, in the place called Streanshalle (Whitby), built there in 657, a monastery for men and women of the Benedictine order, which was dedicated to St. Peter, and Lady Hilda appointed the first abbess. This lady was so famous for her sanctity that she attained the name of St. Hilda, and the monastery, though dedicated to St. Peter, is generally called after her. This abbey continued to flourish till about the year 867, when a party of Danes, under Hinguar and Hubba, landed at Dunsley Bay, the Dunus Sinus of Ptolemy, plundered the country around, and amongst other depredations entirely destroyed the monastery. About this period the tale is supposed to commence; the succeeding incidents are all fictitious, and were dictated to the author, in some measure, by the romantic situation of the abbey, (magnificent in ruin,) which is exceedingly proper for such events.

This monastery lay in ruins till after the conquest, when king William assigned Whitby to Hugh de Abrincis, who disposed of the place to William de Percy, by whom the monastery was refounded about 1074, and dedicated to St. Peter and St. Hilda. In the reign of Henry VIII. this house shared the fate of the other monastic establishments; and its yearly revenues, according to Dugdale, were £437 2s. 9d.; and £505 9s. 1d., according to Speed.

"Here mayst thou rest, my sister dear,

Securely here abide;

Here royal Edelfleda lived,

Here pious Hilda died.

"Here peace and quiet ever dwell:

Here fear no rude alarms;

Nor here is heard the trumpet's sound,

Nor here the din of arms!"

With voice compos'd and look serene,

(Whilst her soft hand he press'd,)

The maid, who trembled on his arm,

Young Edwy thus address'd.

Blue gleam'd the steel in Edwy's hand,

The warrior's vest he bore:

For now the Danes, by Hubba led,

Had ravaged half the shore.

His summons at the abbey gate

The ready porter hears;

And soon, in veil and holy garb,

The abbess kind appears.

"O take this virgin to thy care,

Good angels be your guard;

And may the saints in heaven above

That pious care reward.

"For we by fierce barbarian hands

Are driven from our home;

And three long days and nights forlorn,

The dreary waste we roam.

"But I must go—these towers to save;

Beneath the evening shade,

I haste to seek Earl Osrick's pow'r,

And call Lord Redwald's aid."

He said—and turn'd his ready foot;

The abbess nought replies;

But, with a look that spoke her grief,

To heaven upcast her eyes.

Then, turning to the stranger dame,

"O welcome to this place;

For never Whitby's holy fane

Did fairer maiden grace."

And true she said—for on her cheek

Was seen young beauty's bloom,

Though grief, with slow and wasting stealth,

Did then her prime consume.

Her shape was all that thought can frame,

Of elegance and grace;

And heav'n the beauties of her mind

Reflected in her face.

"My daughter, lay aside thy fears,"

Again the matron cry'd,

"No Danish ravishers come here—"

—Again the virgin sigh'd.

The abbess saw, the abbess knew,

'Twas love that shook her breast;

And thus, in accents soft and mild,

The mournful maid addrest,

"My daughter dear, as to thy friend

Be all thy care confest;

I see 'tis love disturbs thy mind,

And wish to give thee rest.

"But hark! I hear the vesper bell,

Now summons us to prayer;

That duty done, with needful food

Thy wasted strength repair."

But now the pitying mournful muse

Of Edwy's hap shall tell;

And what amid his nightly walk

That gallant youth befell.

For journeying by the bank of Esk

He took his lonely way;

And now through showers of driving rain

His erring footsteps stray.

At length, from far, a glimmering light

Trembled among the trees:

And entering soon a moss-built hut,

A holy man he sees.

"O father, deign a luckless youth

This night with thee to shield;

I am no robber, though my arm

This deadly weapon wield."

"I fear no robber, stranger, here,

For I have nought to lose;

And thou mayst safely through the night

In this poor cell repose.

"And thou art welcome to my hut,"

The holy man replied;

"Still welcome here is he whom fate

Has left without a guide.

"Whence and what art thou, gentle youth?"

The noble Edwy said,

"I go to rouse Earl Osrick's power,

And seek Lord Redwald's aid.

"My father is a wealthy lord,

Who now with Alfred stays;

And me he left to guard his seat,

Whilst he his duty pays.

"But vain the hope—in dead of night

The cruel spoiler came;

And o'er each neighb'ring castle threw

The wide-devouring flame.

"To shun its rage, at early dawn,

I with my sister fled;

And Whitby's abbey now affords

A shelter to her head.

"Whilst I, to hasten promised aids,

Range wildly through the night,

And, with impatient mind, expect

The morning's friendly light."

Thus Edwy spoke; and wondering, gazed

Upon his hermit host,

For in his form beam'd manly grace,

Untouch'd by age's frost.

The hermit sigh'd and thus he said;—

"Know, there was once a day,

This tale of thine would fire my heart,

And bid me join thy way.

"But luckless love dejects my soul,

And casts my spirits down;

Thou seest the wretch of woman's pride,

Of follies not my own.

"I once amid my sovereign's train

Was a distinguish'd youth,

But blighted is my former fame,

By Sorrow's cankering tooth.

"When Ethelred the crown did hold,

I to this district came;

And then a fair and matchless maid

First raised in me a flame.

"Her father was a noble lord

Of an illustrious race,

Who join'd to rustic honesty

The courtier's gentle race.

"'Twas then I told my artless tale,

By love alone inspired;

For never was my honest speech

In flattering guise attired.

"At first she heard, or seem'd to hear,

The voice of tender love;

But soon, the ficklest of her sex,

Did she deceitful prove.

"She drove me scornful from her sight,

Rejected and disdain'd;

In vain did words for pity plead,

In vain my looks complain'd.

"How could that breast which pity fill'd,

Ever relentless be?

How could that face which smiled on all,

Have ever frowns for me?

"Since that fell hour, I in this cell

Have lived recluse from man;

And twice ten months have pass'd since I

The hermit's life began."

"O stain to honour!" Edwy cry'd;

"O foul disgrace to arms!

What, when thy country claims thy aid,

And shakes with war's alarms!

"Canst thou, inglorious, here remain,

And strive thyself to hide;

Assume the monkish coward life,

All for a woman's pride?"

With louder voice and warmer look,

His hermit host rejoin'd;

"Think'st thou, vain youth, the chains of fear

Could here a warrior bind?

"Know, boy, thou seest Hermanrick here;

Well vers'd in war's alarms;

A name once not unknown to fame,

Nor unrenown'd in arms.

"O, Athelgiva! (yet too dear)

Did I thy danger know:

Yet would I fly to thy relief,

And crush th' invading foe."

With fluster'd cheek, young Edwy turn'd,

At Athelgiva's name;

And, "Gracious powers! it must be he!"

He cries, "it is the same!

"I know full well, I have not now

More of thy tale to learn;

I heard this morn, ere from the wave

You could the sun discern.

"My sister loves thee, gallant youth,

By all the saints on high!

She wept last night, when thy hard fate

She told with many a sigh.

"Forgive her, then, and in her cause

Thy limbs with steel infold:

Was it not Ardolph's daughter, say,

Who late thy heart did hold?"

"It was, it was!" Hermanrick cry'd;

"I heard her brother's name;

"Tis said he was a gallant youth,

Who sought abroad for fame."

Then Edwy sprang to his embrace,

And clasp'd him to his breast;

"And thou shalt be my brother, too,"

He said and look'd the rest.

"But now let honour fill thy mind,

Be love's soft laws obey'd;

'Tis Athelgiva claims thy sword,

'Tis she demands thy aid.

"She, with impatient anxious heart,

Expects my quick return;

And till again she sees me safe,

The hapless maid will mourn.

"Then let us fly to seek these chiefs,

Who promised aid to send;

Earl Osrick was my father's guest,

Lord Redwald is my friend."

Hermanrick said, "First let us go

To cheer yon drooping maid;

Again I'll wear my canker'd arms,

Again I'll draw my blade."

Then from a corner of the cell

His clashing arms appear;

But when he mark'd the growing rust,

The warrior dropt a tear.

Then forth they went—Hermanrick knew

Each pathway of the wood;

And safe before the abbey gate

At break of day they stood.

Now sleep the wearied maiden's eyes

At length had kindly seal'd,

When at the gate the wandering knights

Returning day reveal'd.

"Quick call the abbess," Edwy said,

To him who kept the door,

Who watch'd and pray'd the live-long night,

A pious priest and poor.

The abbess came, with instant haste;

Th' alarming bell was rung;

And from their matted homely beds

The fainted virgins sprung.

Fair Athelgiva first the dame,

Soft speaking, thus addrest;

"My daughter, an important call

Commands me break thy rest.

"Thy brother at the abbey gate,

Appears with features glad;

And with him comes a stranger knight,

In war-worn armour clad."

With falt'ring step and bloodless cheek,

Young Athelgiva went:

Confusion, shame, surprise and joy,

At once her bosom rent,

When in the stranger knight she saw

Hermanrick's much-lov'd face;

Whilst he, by gen'rous love impell'd,

Rush'd to her fond embrace.

Vain would the muse attempt to paint

What joy the lover knew,

Who found his long-disdainful maid

At once fair, kind, and true.

Then Edwy, while entranc'd in bliss

The happy pair remain'd,

Recounted o'er the tale, how he

Hermanrick lost regain'd.

But soon, alas! too soon, was heard,

To damp their new-form'd joys,

The groan of death, the shout of war,

And battle's mingled noise.

For up the hill, with eager haste,

A breathless courier came;

He cries, "Prepare for dire alarms,

And shun th' approaching flame."

"Fierce Hubba, landing on the beach,

Now drives our feeble band;

Who, far too few to stop his force,

Fly o'er the crimson'd sand."

What anguish fill'd the maiden's breast,

What rage the lover knew,

When looking down the steepy hill,

They found the tale was true.

Each warlike youth then grasp'd his spear,

The trembling damsel said,

"O where is now Earl Osrick's power,

And where Lord Redwald's aid?"

"Alas, alas!" the abbess cries,

"Far as my sight is borne,

I cannot see the ruddy cross,

Nor hear Earl Osrick's horn."

Stern Hubba now to direful deeds

Impell'd his savage crew;

And o'er the blood-empurpled strand

The golden raven flew.[1]

"Behold," he cries, and waves his lance,

"Where yon proud turrets rise;

Of those who prove war's glorious toil,

Let beauty be the prize.

"There gold and beauty both are found,

Then follow where I lead;

And quickly know you have not fought

For honour's empty meed."

He said: and press'd to gain the hill,

His shouting train pursue;

And, fir'd by hopes of brutal joys,

Behold the prize in view.

Young Edwy mark'd their near approach,

And rush'd t' oppose their way;

Nor did, with equal ardour fir'd,

Behind Hermanrick stay.

Like mountain boars, the brother chiefs

On Denmark's warriors flew;

And those who held the foremost ranks,

Their fury overthrew.

Soon, pierc'd by Edwy's fatal lance,

Lay valiant Turkil here,

There Hardicanute bit the dust,

Beneath Hermanrick's spear.

But vain is courage, strength, or skill,

Where two oppose an host;

A dart, with sure and deadly aim,

At Edwy Hubba tost.

His sister, who, o'erpower'd by grief,

Had fainted on the floor,

Recover'd by the matron's care,

Now sought the abbey door.

When on the fated carnag'd spot,

She cast her weeping eyes;

"O blessed Mary!" cries the maid,

"My brother bleeds and dies."

Then forth she ran and gain'd the place;

Where, press'd by crowds of foes,

Hermanrick stood—the shades of death

Her brother's eyelids close.

The furious Dane nor pity knew

Nor stay'd his vengeful arm;

Nor aught avails that heavenly face,

Which might a tiger charm.

First on th' unguarded chief he rush'd,

And bore him to the ground;

The helpless damsel's plaint of woe,

In war's loud shout is drown'd.

She saw Hermanrick's quiv'ring lips,

She mark'd his rolling eye;

She faints, she falls; before her sight

Death's visions dimly fly.

"And, O thou dear and much-lov'd youth,"

The dying virgin cried;

"Howe'er in life I wrong'd thy truth,

Yet true with thee I died."

She spoke no more—e'en Hubba felt

The force of love sincere;

Then first his breast confess'd the sigh,

Then first his cheek the tear.

"And, O my friends, the rage of war,"

He cries, "awhile forbear;

And to their weeping kindred straight

These breathless bodies bear.

"Or fear the wrath of Powers Divine—"

Nor could he further say;

But quickly with disorder'd march,

Bent to his ships his way.

For now was heard Earl Osrick's horn,

Shrill sounding through the dale;

And now Lord Redwald's ruddy cross

Was waving to the gale.

His tardy aid Earl Osrick brought

Too late, alas! to save;

And far beyond th' avenging sword

The Dane now rode the wave.

Grief seized the warrior's heart, to see

In dust young Edwy laid;

And stretch'd by brave Hermanrick's side

Fair Athelgiva dead.

But on the holy cross he swore

A brave revenge to take,

On Denmark's proud and bloody sons,

For Athelgiva's sake.

This vow in Kenwurth's glorious field

The gallant earl did pay;

When Alfred's better star prevail'd,

And England had her day.

That day the Dane full dearly paid

The price of lovers' blood:

That day in Hubba's cloven helm

The Saxon javelin stood.

The bodies of the hapless three

A single grave contains;

And in the choir, with dirges due,

Are laid their cold remains.

Lord Ardolph on his children's tomb

Inscribed th' applauding verse;

And long the monks, in gothic rhyme,

Their story did rehearse.

And often pointing to the skies,

The cloister'd maids would cry,

"To those bright realms, in bloom of youth,

Did Athelgiva fly."

THE BATTLE OF CUTON MOORE.

In the year 1138, David, king of Scotland, invaded the north of England with a numerous army, in aid of the claim of the empress Matilda, his niece, against king Stephen. The fury of his massacres and ravages enraged the northern barons, who assembled an army and encamped near Northallerton. On Monday the 22nd of August, 1138, the standard was raised on Cowton Moor, three miles north of Northallerton, and after a severe contest the Scots were defeated and ten thousand of their number slain; the rest, with king David and prince Henry his son, retreated with difficulty to Carlisle. This engagement is sometimes called the Battle of Northallerton, but generally the Battle of the Standard, from a long pole,

"Like the mast of some tall ammiral,"

which Thurstan, archbishop of York, brought from the convent of Beverley. This was drawn on a four-wheeled carriage; and had on the top of it a silver crucifix, under which were suspended the banners of St. Peter of York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfred of Ripon, and above all, in a silver pix, the consecrated host. The following ballad was first printed, by Mr. Evans, in 1784.

The welkin[2] darke o'er Cuton Moore

With drearye cloudes did low're—

The woeful carnage of that daye

Sall Scotlande aye deplore.

The river Tees full oft dyd sighe,

As she roll'd her wynding floode,

That ever her sylver tyde soe cleare

Shoulde bee swell'd with human bloode!

Kyng Davyd hee stode on the rising hille,

And the verdante prospecte view'd;

And hee sawe that sweete river that o'er the moore

Roll'd on her sylver floode.

Oh then bespake that noble kyng,

And with griefe hys hearte was woo'd:

"And ever I mourne that yon fayre streame

Shoulde be swell'd with human bloode!"

Kynge Davyd hee sawe the verdante moore,

With wilde flow'res all bestrow'de:

"And ever I'm griev'd that soe greene a moore

Sholde be stayn'd with human bloode!

"But more am I griev'd, alas!" he cry'd,

"And more my hearte is woo'd,

That soe manye warriours young and brave

Muste thys daye shed theyr bloode!"

As princely a hoste that kyng dyd leade

As ever march'd on playne:

Alas! that soe manye a warriour brave

Should be soe soone yslayne!

And firste march'd forthe the Galloway men,

Of the antiente Picts they sprange;

Theyr speares all soe brighte and bucklers strong

For manye myles yrang.

And then cam on the Norman troopes,

With Englishe them amonge:

For the empresse Maud they cam to fighte,

To righte that ladye's wronge.

And then march'd forthe the Scottish foote,

And then march'd forthe the horse;

In armoure stronge, all those warriours came,

A greate and warlike force.

Kynge Davyd look'd athawart the moore,

And prince Henry hys brave sonne,

And they were aware of the Englishe hoste,

Com merrilye marching on.

Oh then call'd forthe kynge Davyd,

And loudelye called hee,

"And whoo is heare in alle mye campe,

Can descrybe yon hoste to mee?"

Then came a bearne, besyde the tente,

An Englisheman was hee;

'Twas not long since from the Englishe hoste,

That traiterous wighte dyd flee.

"Nowe tell mee yon hostes," the kyng hee cry'd,

"And thou shalte have golde and fee—

And whoo is yon chiefe that rydes along

With hys lockes soe aged greye?"

"Oh that is Walter de Gaunte[3] you see,

And hee hath beene greye full long,

But manye's the troope that hee dothe leade,

And they are stoute and stronge."

"And whoo is yon chiefe soe brighte of blee,

With hys troopes that beate the playne?"

"Oh that's the younge earle of Albermarle,[4]

Yleading hys gallante trayne.

"A more gallante warrioure than that lorde

Is not yon hostes among;

And the gallante troopes that hee doth leade,

Like hym, are stoute and younge."

"And who yon shynny warriours twoo,

With theyre troopes yclade the same?"

"Oh they're the Bruces,[5] that in thys fighte

Have com t'acquire them fame."

Oh then call'd oute kynge Davyd,

And fulle of woe spake hee:

"And ever I hold those Bruces false,

For muche they owe to mee.

"And who's yon chiefe of giante heighte,

And of bulke so huge to see?"

"Walter Espec[6] is that chiefe's name,

And a potente chiefe is hee.

"Hys stature's large as the mountaine oake,

And eke as strong hys mighte:

There's ne'ere a chiefe in alle the northe

Can dare with hym to fighte."

"And whoo's yon youthe, yon youthe I see,

A galloping o'er the moore?

Hys troopes that followe soe gallantelye

Proclayme hym a youthe of pow're."

"Young Roger de Mowbray[7] is that youthe,

And hee's sprang of the royal line;

Hys wealthe and hys followers, oh kyng,

Are allemost as greate as thyne."

"And who's yon aged chiefe I see

All yclad in purple veste?"

"Oh that's the Bishoppe o' th' Orkney isles,[8]

And hee alle the hoste hath bleste.

"And alle the reste are noblemen,

Of fortune and fame ech one:

From Nottingham and from Derbyeshyre

Those valiante chiefetaynes com."[9]

"But what's yon glitt'ring tow're I see

I' the centre o' the hoste?"

"Oh that's the hallow'd Standarde of whyche

The Englishe make suche boaste.

"A maste of a shipp it is so hie,

Alle bedect with golde soe gaye;

And on the topp is a holye crosse,

That shynes as brighte as the daye.

"Around it hang the holye banners

Of manye a blessed saynte;

Saynte Peter, and John of Beverlye,

And Saynte Wilfred there they paynte.

"The aged folke arounde it throng,

With their old hayres alle so greye;

And manye a chiefetayne there bows ydowne,

And so heart'lye dothe hee praye."

Oh then bespake the kyng of Scotts,

And soe heavylie spake hee:

"And had I but yon holye Standarde,

Right gladsom sholde I bee.

"And had I but yon holye Standarde,

That there so his doth tow're,

I would not care for yon Englishe hoste,

Nor alle yon chieftaynes pow're.

"Oh had I but yon holie roode,

That there soe brighte doth showe;

I wolde not care for yon Englishe hoste,

Nor the worste that theye colde doe."

Oh then bespake prince Henrye,

And like a brave prince spake hee:

"Ah let us but fighte like valiante men,

And wee'l make yon hostes to flee.

"Oh let us but fighte like valiante men,

And to Christe's wyll ybowe,

And yon hallow'd Standarde shall bee ours,

And the victorie alsoe."

Prince Henrye was as brave a youthe

As ever fought in fielde;

Full many a warrioure that dreade day

To hym hys lyfe dyd yeilde.

Prince Henrye was as fayre a youthe

As the sunne dyd e're espye;

Full manye a ladye in Scottishe lande

For that young prince dyd sighe.

Prince Henrye call'd his young foot page,

And thus to hym spake hee:

"Oh heede my wordes, and serve mee true,

And thou sall have golde and fee.

"Stande thou on yonder rising hylle,

Fulle safe I weene the syte:

And from thence oh marke thee well my creste

In all the thickeste fighte.

"And if, o'ercome with woundes, I falle,

Then take thee a swifte swifte steede,

And from thys moore to Dumfries towne,

Oh ryde thee awaye with speede.

"There to the ladye Alice wende;

(You'll knowe that lovelye fayre,

For the fayreste mayde in all that towne,

Cannot with her compare;)

"And tell that ladye of my woe,

And telle her of my love;

And give to her thys golden ring,

My tender faythe to prove.

"And stryve to cheare that lovelye mayde

In alle her griefe and care:

For well I knowe her gentle hearte

Dyd ever holde mee deare."

And nowe the Englishe hoste drewe neare,

And alle in battle arraye;

Theire shyning swordes and glitt'ring speares

Shot rounde a brilliante raye.

And nowe both valiante hostes cam neare,

Eache other for to slaye;

Whyle watchfulle hovered o'er their heades

Full manye a byrde of preye.

The sun behynde the darke darke cloudes

Dyd hyde each beamy raye,

As fearefulle to beholde the woe

That mark'd that doleful daye.

The thund'ring wyndes of heaven arose,

And rush'd from pole to pole,

As stryving to drowne the groanes and sighes

Of manye a dyeing soule.

Sterne deathe he hearde the shoutes of warre,

That ecchoed arounde soe loude;

And hee rouz'd hym to th' embattled fielde,

To feaste on human bloode.

And fyrste the Pictish race began

The carnage of that daye;

The cries they made were like the storm

That rends the rocks awaye.

Those fierce fierce men of Gallowaye

Began that day of dole;

And their shoutes were like the thunder's roare,

That's hearde from pole to pole.

Nowe bucklers rang 'gainst swordes and speares,

And arrows dimn'd the playne;

And manye a warrioure laye fulle lowe,

And manye a chiefe was slayne.

Oh woeful woeful was that daye,

To chylde and wydowe dreare!

For there fierce deathe o'er human race

Dyd triumphe 'farre and neare.

Dreare was the daye—in darke darke cloudes

The welkin alle endrown'd;

But farre more dreare the woeful scene

Of carnage alle arounde.

Dreare was the sounde of warring wyndes

That foughte along the skyes;

But farre more dreare the woeful sounde

Of dying warriours sighes.

Laden with deathe's unpitying arme,

Swordes fell and arrowes flewe;

The wydow'd wyfe and fatherlesse chylde

That day of dole sall rue.

Ten thousand Scotts who on that morne

Were marching alle soe gaye,

By nighte, alas! on that drearye moore

Poore mangled corps ylaye.

Weepe, dames of Scotlande, weepe and waile,

Let your sighes reecho rounde;

Ten thousande brave Scotts that hail'd the morne,

At night laye deade on grounde.

And yee fayr dames of merrye Englande,

As faste youre teares muste poure;

For manye's the valiante Englisheman

That yee sall see noe more.

Sighe, dames of Englande, and lamente,

And manye a salte teare shed;

For manye an Englisheman hail'd that morne,

That ere the nyghte was deade.

The Scotts they fled; but still their kynge,

With hys brave sonne by hys syde,

Foughte long the foe (brave kynge and prince,

Of Scotlande aye the pryde).

The Scotts they fled; but stille their kynge,

With hys brave sonne, foughte full welle,

Till o'er the moore an arrowe yflewe—

And brave prynce Henrye felle.

Alle thys espy'd his young foote page,

From the hille whereon he stode;

And soone hath hee mounted a swifte swifte steede,

And soone from the moore hath rode.

And hee hath cross'd the Tees fayre streame,

Nowe swell'd with human bloode;

Th' affrighted page he never stay'de,

Tyll to Dumfries hee hath rode.

Fayre Alice was gone to the holye kirke,

With a sad hearte dyd shee goe;

And ever soe faste dyd she crye to heav'n,

"Prynce Henrye save from woe."

Fayre Alice shee hied her to the choire,

Where the priestes dyd chaunte soe slowe;

And ever shee cry'd, "May the holye sayntes

Prynce Henrye save from woe!"

Fayre Alice, with manye a teare and sighe,

To Mary's shrine dyd goe;

And soe faste shee cry'de, "Sweete Mary mylde

Prynce Henrye save from woe!"

Fayre Alice she knelte bye the hallow'd roode,

Whyle faste her teares dyd flowe;

And ever shee cry'd, "Oh sweete sweete Savioure,

Prynce Henrye save from woe!"

Fayre Alice look'd oute at the kirke doore,

And heavye her hearte dyd beate;

For shee was aware of the prynce's page,

Com galloping thro' the streete.

Agayne fayre Alice look'd out to see,

And well nighe did shee swoone;

For nowe shee was sure it was that page

Com galloping thro' the towne.

"Nowe Christe thee save, thou sweete young page,

Nowe Christe thee save and see!

And howe dothe sweete prynce Henrye?

I praye thee telle to me."

The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,

And hys hearte was fulle of woe;

The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,

Tylle hys teares faste 'gan to flowe.

"Ah woe is me!" sad Alice cry'd,

And tore her golden hayre;

And soe faste shee wrang her lilly handes,

Alle woo'd with sad despayre.

"The Englishe keepe the bloodye fielde,

Fulle manye a Scott is slayne,

But lyves prynce Henrye?" the ladye cry'd,

"Alle else to mee is vayne.—

"Oh lives the prynce? I praye thee tell,"

Fayre Alice still dyd calle:

"These eyes dyd see a keen arrowe flye,

Dyd see prynce Henrye falle."

Fayre Alice she sat her on the grounde,

And never a worde shee spake;

But like the pale image dyd shee looke,

For her hearte was nighe to breake.

The rose that once soe ting'd her cheeke,

Was nowe, alas! noe more;

But the whitenesse of her lillye skin

Was fayrer than before.

"Fayre ladye, rise," the page exclaym'de

"Nor laye thee here thus lowe."—

She answered not, but heav'd a sighe,

That spoke her hearte felte woe.

Her maydens came and strove to cheare,

But in vaine was all their care;

The townesfolke wept to see that ladye

Soe 'whelm'd in dreade despare.

They rais'de her from the danky grounde,

And sprinkled water fayre;

But the coldest water from the spring

Was not soe colde as her.

And nowe came horsemen to the towne,

That the prynce had sente with speede;

With tydyngs to Alice that he dyd live,

To ease her of her dreade.

For when that hapless prince dyd falle,

The arrowe dyd not hym slaye;

But hys followers bravelye rescued hym,

And convey'd hym safe away.

Bravelye theye rescued that noble prince,[10]

And to fayre Carlile hym bore;

And there that brave young prynce dyd lyve,

Tho' wounded sad and sore.

Fayre Alice the wond'rous tydings hearde,

And thrice for joye shee sigh'd:

That haplesse fayre, when shee hearde the newes

She rose—she smiled—and dy'd.

The teares that her fayre maydens shed,

Ran free from their brighte eyes;

The ecchoing wynde that then dyd blowe,

Was burden'd with theyre sighes.

The page hee saw the lovelye Alice

In a deepe deepe grave let downe,

And at her heade a green turfe ylade,

And at her feete a stone!

Then with manye a teare and manye a sighe

Hathe hee hy'd hym on hys waye;

And hee hath come to Carlile towne,

All yclad in blacke arraye.

And now hath he com to the prince's halle,

And lowelye bente hys knee;

"And howe is the ladye Alice so fayre,

My page com telle to mee."

"O, the ladye Alice, so lovelye fayre,

Alas! is deade and gone;

And at her heade is a green grass turfe,

And at her foote a stone.

"The ladye Alice is deade and gone,

And the wormes feede by her syde;

And alle for the love of thee, oh prynce,

That beauteous ladye dy'd.

"And where shee's layde the greene turfe growes,

And a colde grave-stone is there;

But the dew-clad turfe, nor the colde colde stone,

Is not soe colde as her."

Oh then prynce Henrye sad dyd sighe,

Hys hearte alle fulle of woe:

That haplesse prince ybeate hys breaste,

And faste hys teares 'gan flowe.

"And art thou gon, my sweet Alice?

And art thou gone?" hee cry'd:

"Ah woulde to heav'n that I with thee,

My faythful love, had dy'd!

"And have I loste thee, my sweet Alice?

And art thou dead and gon?

And at thy deare heade a green grass turfe,

And at thy foote a stone?

"The turfe that's o'er thy grave, deare Alice!

Sall with my teares bee wet;

And the stone at thy feete sall melte, love,

Ere I will thee forget."

And when the newes cam to merrye Englande

Of the battle in the northe;

Oh then kynge Stephen and hys nobles

So merrylie marched forthe.

And theye have had justes and tournamentes,

And have feasted o'er and o'er;

And merrylie merrylie have they rejoic'd,

For the victorye of Cuton Moore.

But manye a sighe adds to the wynde,

And many a teare to the show're,

And manye a bleedyng hearte hath broke,

For the battle of Cuton Moore.

And manye's the wydowe alle forlorne,

And helplesse orphan poore,

And many's the mayden that sall rue

The victorye of Cuton Moore.

The ladye Alice is layd in her grave,

And a colde stone markes the site;

And many's the mayde like her dothe dye,

Cause kynges and nobles wyll fighte.

The ladye Alice is layde full lowe,

And her mayden teares doe poure,

The manye's the wretche with them sall weepe,

For the victorye of Cuton Moore.

The holye prieste doth weepe as he syngs

Hys masses o'er and o'er;

And alle for the soules of them that were slayne,

At the battle of Cuton Moore.

ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE.

Robin Hood, a celebrated English outlaw, was born at Locksley, in the county of Nottingham, in the reign of Henry II. about 1160. He is said to have been of noble extraction, being the son of William Fitzooth by his wife a daughter of Payn Beauchamp, baron of Bedford, and lady Roisia de Vere, daughter of Aubrey, earl of Guisnes in Normandy,[11] and is frequently styled earl of Huntingdon—a title to which, in the latter part of his life, he actually appears to have had some sort of pretension. In his youth he is said to have been of a wild and extravagant turn; insomuch that, his inheritance being consumed, and his person outlawed for debt,[12] he sought an asylum in the woods of Barnsdale, in Yorkshire,[13] Sherwood, in Nottinghamshire, and, according to some, Plumpton-park, in Cumberland.[14] He either found or was afterwards joined by a number of persons, the principal being Little John (whose surname is said to have been Nailor), William Scadlock (Scathelock or Scarlet), George a Green (pinder or pound-keeper of Wakefield), Much (a miller's son), and a certain monk or friar called Tuck. "These renowned thieves," says Stowe, "continued in the woods, despoiling and robbing the goods of the rich. They killed none but such as would invade them, or by resistance for their own defence. The said Robin entertained 100 tall men, good archers, with such of the spoils and thefts as he got, upon whom 400 (were they ever so strong) durst not give the onset. He suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or otherwise molested; poor men's goods he spared, abundantly relieving them with that which by theft he got from abbeys and the houses of rich old carles." He died in 1247; see Robin Hood's Death and Burial, post.

Guy of Gisborne,—the only other memorial which I can find relating to him is in an old satirical piece by William Dunbar, a celebrated Scottish poet, of the fifteenth century,[15] on one "Schir Thomas Nory," where he is named along with our hero, Adam Bell, and other worthies, it is conjectured, of a similar stamp, but whose merits have not come to the knowledge of posterity:—

"Was neuir weild Robeine vnder bewch,

Nor zitt Roger of Clekkinstewch,

So bauld a bairne as he;

Gy of Gysburne, na Allane Bell,

Na Simones sones of Quhynsell,

Off thocht war neuir so slies."

Gisborne, or Gisburne, is a market town in the west-riding of Yorkshire, on the borders of Lancashire.

The following ballad was first printed in Percy's Reliques in 1765, from his "folio MS."

When shaws[16] beene sheene, and shraddes[17] full fayre,

And leaves both large and longe,

Itt's merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest

To heare the small birdes' songe.

The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,

Sitting upon the spraye,

Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,

In the greenwood where he lay.

"Now, by my saye," sayd jollye Robin,

"A sweaven[18] I had this night;

I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen

That fast with me can fight.

"Methought they did me beate and binde,

And tooke my bowe me froe;

Iff I be Robin alive in this lande

Ile be wroken on them towe."

"Sweavens are swift," sayd Little John,

"As the wind blowes over the hill;

For iff itt be never so loude this night,

To morrow it may be still."

"Buske[19] yee, bowne[20] yee, my merry men all,

And John shall goe with mee,

For Ile goe seeke yon wighty[21] yeoman,

In greenwood where they bee."

Then they cast on theyr gownes of grene,

And tooke theyr bowes each one;

And they away to the greene forrest

A shooting forth are gone;

Untill they came to the merry greenwood,

Where they had gladdest to bee,

There they were ware of a wighty yeoman,

That leaned agaynst a tree.

A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,

Of manye a man the bane:

And he was clad in his capull[22] hyde

Topp and tayll and mayne.

"Stand still, master," quoth Little John,

"Under this tree so grene,

And I will go to yond wighty yeoman,

To know what he doth meane."

"Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,

And that I farly finde:

How often send I my men before,

And tarry my selfe behinde?

"It is no cunning a knave to ken,

And a man but heare him speake;

And it were not for bursting of my bowe,

John, I thy head wold breake."

As often wordes they breeden bale,[23]

So they parted Robin and John:

And John is gone to Barnesdale;

The gates[24] he knoweth eche one.

But when he came to Barnesdale,

Great heavinesse there he hadd,

For he found tow of his own fellowes

Were slaine both in a slade.[25]

And Scarlette he was flying a-foote

Fast over stocke and stone,

For the proud sheriffe with seven score men

Fast after him is gone.

"One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John,

"With Christ his might and mayne;

Ile make yond sheriffe that wends soe fast,

To stopp he shall be fayne."

Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,