The Poetical Works of John Skelton :: :: University of Virginia Library

Reioyse, Englande,
And vnderstande
These tidinges newe,
Whiche be as trewe
As the gospell:
This duke so fell
Of Albany,
So cowardly,
With all his hoost
Of the Scottyshe coost,
For all theyr boost,
Fledde lyke a beest;
Wherfore to ieste
Is my delyght
Of this cowarde knyght,
And for to wright
In the dispyght
Of the Scottes ranke
Of Huntley banke,

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Of Lowdyan,
Of Locryan,
And the ragged ray
Of Galaway.

Dunbar, Dunde,
Ye shall trowe me,
False Scottes are ye:
Your hartes sore faynted,
And so attaynted,
Lyke cowardes starke,
At the castell of Warke,
By the water of Twede,
Ye had euill spede;
Lyke cankerd curres,
Ye loste your spurres,
For in that fraye
Ye ranne awaye,
With, hey, dogge, hay!
For Sir William Lyle
Within shorte whyle,
That valiaunt knyght,
Putte you to flyght;
By his valyaunce
Two thousande of Fraunce
There he putte backe,
To your great lacke,
And vtter shame
Of your Scottysshe name.

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Your chefe cheftayne,
Voyde of all brayne,
Duke of all Albany,
Than shamefuly
He reculed backe,
To his great lacke,
Whan he herde tell
That my lorde amrell
Was comyng downe,
To make hym frowne
And to make hym lowre,
With the noble powre
Of my lorde cardynall,
As an hoost royall,
After the auncient manner,
With sainct Cutberdes banner,
And sainct Williams also;
Your capitayne ranne to go,
To go, to go, to go,
And brake vp all his hoost
For all his crake and bost,
Lyke a cowarde knyght,
He fledde, and durst nat fyght,
He ranne awaye by night.

But now must I
Your Duke ascry
Of Albany
With a worde or twayne
In sentence playne.

Ye duke so doutty,
So sterne, so stoutty,

324

In shorte sentens,
Of your pretens
What is the grounde,
Breuely and rounde
To me expounde,
Or els wyll I
Euydently
Shewe as it is;
For the cause is this,
Howe ye pretende
For to defende
The yonge Scottyshe kyng,
But ye meane a thyng,
And ye coude bryng
The matter about,
To putte his eyes out
And put hym downe,
And set hys crowne
On your owne heed
Whan he were deed.
Such trechery
And traytory
Is all your cast;
Thus ye haue compast
With the Frenche kyng
A fals rekenyng
To enuade Englande,
As I vnderstande:
But our kyng royall,
Whose name ouer all,
Noble Henry the eyght,

325

Shall cast a beyght,
And sette suche a snare,
That shall cast you in care,
Bothe Kyng Fraunces and thé,
That knowen ye shall be
For the moost recrayd
Cowardes afrayd,
And falsest forsworne,
That euer were borne.

O ye wretched Scottes,
Ye puaunt pyspottes,
It shalbe your lottes
To be knytte vp with knottes
Of halters and ropes
About your traytours throtes!
O Scottes pariured,
Vnhaply vred,
Ye may be assured
Your falshod discured
It is and shal be
From the Scottish se
Vnto Gabione!
For ye be false echone,
False and false agayne,
Neuer true nor playne,
But flery, flatter, and fayne,
And euer to remayne
In wretched beggary
And maungy misery,
In lousy lothsumnesse

326

And scabbed scorffynesse,
And in abhominacion
Of all maner of nacion,
Nacion moost in hate,
Proude and poore of state.
Twyt, Scot, go kepe thy den,
Mell nat with Englyshe men;
Thou dyd nothyng but barke
At the castell of Warke.
Twyt, Scot, yet agayne ones,
We shall breke thy bones,
And hang you vpon polles,
And byrne you all to colles;
With, twyt, Scot, twyt, Scot, twyt,
Walke, Scot, go begge a byt
Of brede at ylke mannes hecke:
The fynde, Scot, breke thy necke!
Twyt, Scot, agayne I saye,
Twyt, Scot of Galaway,
Twyt, Scot, shake thy dogge, hay!
Twyt, Scot, thou ran away.

We set nat a flye
By your Duke of Albany;
We set nat a prane
By suche a dronken drane;
We set nat a myght
By suche a cowarde knyght,
Suche a proude palyarde,

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Suche a skyrgaliarde,
Suche a starke cowarde,
Suche a proude pultrowne,
Suche a foule coystrowne,
Suche a doutty dagswayne;
Sende him to F[r]aunce agayne,
To bring with hym more brayne
From Kynge Fraunces of Frauns:
God sende them bothe myschauns!

Ye Scottes all the rable,
Ye shall neuer be hable
With vs for to compare;
What though ye stampe and stare?
God sende you sorow and care!
With vs whan euer ye mell,
Yet we bear away the bell,
Whan ye cankerd knaues
Must crepe into your caues
Your heedes for to hyde,
For ye dare nat abyde.

Sir Duke of Albany,
Right inconuenyently
Ye rage and ye raue,
And your worshyp depraue:
Nat lyke Duke Hamylcar,
With the Romayns that made war,
Nor lyke his sonne Hanyball,
Nor lyke Duke Hasdruball
Of Cartage in Aphrike;
Yet somwhat ye be lyke

328

In some of their condicions,
And their false sedycions,
And their dealyng double,
And their weywarde trouble:
But yet they were bolde,
And manly manyfolde,
Their enemyes to assayle
In playn felde and battayle;
But ye and your hoost,
Full of bragge and boost,
And full of waste wynde,
Howe ye wyll beres bynde,
And the deuill downe dynge,
Yet ye dare do nothynge,
But lepe away lyke frogges,
And hyde you vnder logges,
Lyke pygges and lyke hogges,
And lyke maungy dogges.
What an army were ye?
Or what actyuyte
Is in you, beggers braules,
Full of scabbes and scaules,
Of vermyne and of lyce,
And of all maner vyce?

Syr duke, nay, syr ducke,
Syr drake of the lake, sir ducke
Of the donghyll, for small lucke
Ye haue in feates of warre;
Ye make nought, but ye marre;
Ye are a fals entrusar,

329

And a fals abusar,
And an vntrewe knyght;
Thou hast to lytell myght
Agaynst Englande to fyght;
Thou art a graceles wyght
To put thy selfe to flyght:
A vengeaunce and dispight
On thé must nedes lyght,
That durst nat byde the sight
Of my lorde amrell,
Of chiualry the well,
Of knighthode the floure
In euery marciall shoure,
The noble Erle of Surrey,
That put thé in suche fray;
Thou durst no felde derayne,
Nor no batayle mayntayne
Against our st[r]onge captaine,
But thou ran home agayne,
For feare thou shoulde be slayne,
Lyke a Scottyshe keteryng,
That durst abyde no reknyng;
Thy hert wolde nat serue thé:
The fynde of hell mot sterue thé!

No man hath harde
Of suche a cowarde,
And such a mad ymage
Caried in a cage,
As it were a cotage;
Or of suche a mawment

330

Caryed in a tent;
In a tent! nay, nay,
But in a mountayne gay,
Lyke a great-hill
For a wyndmil,
Therin to couche styll,
That no man hym kyll;
As it were a gote
In a shepe cote,
About hym a parke
Of a madde warke,
Men call it a toyle;
Therin, lyke a royle,
Sir Dunkan, ye dared,
And thus ye prepared
Youre carkas to kepe,
Lyke a sely shepe,
A shepe of Cottyswolde,
From rayne and from colde,
And from raynning of rappes,
And suche after clappes;
Thus in your cowardly castell
Ye decte you to dwell:
Suche a captayne of hors,
It made no great fors
If that ye had tane
Your last deedly bane
With a gon stone,
To make you to grone.
But hyde thé, sir Topias,

331

Nowe into the castell of Bas,
And lurke there, lyke an as,
With some Scotyshe [l]as,
With dugges, dugges, dugges:
I shrewe thy Scottishe lugges,
Thy munpynnys, and thy crag,
For thou can not but brag,
Lyke a Scottyshe hag:
Adue nowe, sir Wrig wrag,
Adue, sir Dalyrag!
Thy mellyng is but mockyng;
Thou mayst giue vp thy cocking,
Gyue it vp, and cry creke,
Lyke an huddypeke.

Wherto shuld I more speke
Of suche a farly freke,
Of suche an horne keke,
Of suche an bolde captayne,
That dare nat turne agayne,
Nor durst nat crak a worde,
Nor durst nat drawe his swerde
Agaynst the Lyon White,
But ran away quyte?
He ran away by nyght,
In the owle flyght,
Lyke a cowarde knyght.
Adue, cowarde, adue,
Fals knight, and mooste vntrue!
I render thé, fals rebelle,
To the flingande fende of helle.

332

Harke yet, sir duke, a worde,
In ernest or in borde:
What, haue ye, villayn, forged,
And virulently dysgorged,
As though ye wolde parbrake,
Your auauns to make,
With wordes enbosed,
Vngraciously engrosed,
Howe ye wyll vndertake
Our royall kyng to make
His owne realme to forsake?
Suche lewde langage ye spake.
Sir Dunkan, in the deuill waye,
Be well ware what ye say:
Ye saye that he and ye,—
Whyche he and ye? let se;
Ye meane Fraunces, French kyng,
Shulde bring about that thing.
I say, thou lewde lurdayne,
That neyther of you twayne
So hardy nor so bolde
His countenaunce to beholde:
If our moost royall Harry
Lyst with you to varry,
Full soone ye should miscary,
For ye durst nat tarry
With hym to stryue a stownde;
If he on you but frounde,
Nat for a thousande pounde
Ye durst byde on the grounde,

333

Ye wolde ryn away rounde,
And cowardly tourne your backes,
For all your comly crackes,
And, for feare par case
To loke hym in the face,
Ye wolde defoyle the place,
And ryn your way apace.
Thoughe I trym you thys trace
With Englyshe somwhat base,
Yet, saue voster grace,
Therby I shall purchace
No displesaunt rewarde,
If ye wele can regarde
Your cankarde cowardnesse
And your shamfull doublenesse.

Are ye nat frantyke madde,
And wretchedly bestadde,
To rayle agaynst his grace,
That shall bring you full bace,
And set you in suche case,
That bytwene you twayne
There shalbe drawen a trayne
That shalbe to your payne?
To flye ye shalbe fayne.
And neuer tourne agayne.

What, wold Fraunces, our friar,
Be suche a false lyar,
So madde a cordylar,
So madde a murmurar?
Ye muse somwhat to far;

334

All out of ioynt ye iar:
God let you neuer thriue!
Wene ye, daucockes, to driue
Our kyng out of his reme?
Ge heme, ranke Scot, ge heme,
With fonde Fraunces, French kyng:
Our mayster shall you brynge
I trust, to lowe estate,
And mate you with chekmate.

Your braynes arr ydell;
It is time for you to brydell,
And pype in a quibyble;
For it is impossible
For you to bring about,
Our kyng for to dryue out
Of this his realme royall
And lande imperiall;
So noble a prince as he
In all actyuite
Of hardy merciall actes,
Fortunate in all his faytes.

And nowe I wyll me dresse
His valiaunce to expresse,
Though insufficient am I
His grace to magnify
And laude equiualently;
Howe be it, loyally,
After myne allegyaunce,
My pen I wyll auaunce

335

To extoll his noble grace,
In spyght of thy cowardes face,
In spyght of Kyng Fraunces,
Deuoyde of all nobles,
Deuoyde of good corage,
Deuoyde of wysdome sage,
Mad, frantyke, and sauage;
Thus he dothe disparage
His blode with fonde dotage.
A prince to play the page
It is a rechelesse rage,
And a lunatyke ouerage.
What though my stile be rude?
With trouthe it is ennewde:
Trouth ought to be rescude,
Trouthe should nat be subdude.

But nowe will I expounde
What noblenesse dothe abounde,
And what honour is founde,
And what vertues be resydent
In our royall regent,
Our perelesse president,
Our kyng most excellent:

In merciall prowes
Lyke vnto Hercules;
In prudence and wysdom
Lyke vnto Salamon;
In his goodly person
Lyke vnto Absolon;
In loyalte and foy

336

Lyke to Ector of Troy;
And his glory to incres,
Lyke to Scipiades;
In royal mageste
Lyke vnto Ptholome,
Lyke to Duke Iosue,
And the valiaunt Machube;
That if I wolde reporte
All the roiall sorte
Of his nobilyte,
His magnanymyte,
His animosite,
His frugalite,
His lyberalite,
His affabilite,
His humanyte,
His stabilite,
His humilite,
His benignite,
His royall dignyte,
My lernyng is to small
For to recount them all.

What losels than are ye,
Lyke cowardes as ye be,
To rayle on his astate,
With wordes inordinate!

He rules his cominalte
With all benignite;
His noble baronage,
He putteth them in corage

337

To exployte dedes of armys,
To the domage and harmys
Of suche as be his foos;
Where euer he rydes or goos,
His subiectes he dothe supporte,
Maintayne them with comforte
Of his moste princely porte,
As all men can reporte.

Than ye be a knappishe sorte,
Et faitez a luy grant torte,
With your enbosed iawes
To rayle on hym lyke dawes;
The fende scrache out your mawes!

All his subiectes and he
Moost louyngly agre
With hole hart and true mynde,
They fynde his grace so kynde;
Wherwith he dothe them bynde
At all houres to be redy
With hym to lyue and dye,
And to spende their hart blode,
Their bodyes and their gode,
With hym in all dystresse,
Alway in redynesse
To assyst his noble grace;
In spyght of thy cowardes face,
Moost false attaynted traytour,
And false forsworne faytour.

Auaunte, cowarde recrayed!
Thy pride shalbe alayd;

338

With sir Fraunces of Fraunce
We shall pype you a daunce,
Shall tourne you to myschauns.

I rede you, loke about;
For ye shalbe driuen out
Of your lande in shorte space:
We will so folowe in the chace,
That ye shall haue no grace
For to tourne your face;
And thus, Sainct George to borowe,
Ye shall haue shame and sorowe.

Lenuoy.

Go, lytell quayre, quickly;
Shew them that shall you rede,
How that ye are lykely
Ouer all the worlde to sprede.
The fals Scottes for dred,
With the Duke of Albany,
Beside the water of Twede
They fledde full cowardly.
Though your Englishe be rude,
Barreyne of eloquence,
Yet, breuely to conclude,
Grounded is your sentence
On trouthe, vnder defence
Of all trewe Englyshemen,
This mater to credence
That I wrate with my pen.

339

SKELTON LAUREAT, OBSEQUIOUS ET LOYALL. TO MY LORDE CARDYNALS RIGHT NOBLE GRACE, ETC.

Lenuoy.

Go, lytell quayre, apace,
In moost humble wyse,
Before his noble grace,
That caused you to deuise
This lytel enterprise;
And hym moost lowly pray,
In his mynde to comprise
Those wordes his grace dyd saye
Of an ammas gray.
Ie foy enterment en sa bone grace.