University of Virginia Library

BOOK I.

I
THE ANCIENT BALLAD OF CHEVY-CHASE.

[_]

The fine heroic song of Chevy-Chase has ever been admired by competent judges. Those genuine strokes of nature and artless passion, which have endeared it to the most simple readers, have recommended it to the most refined; and it has equally been the amusement of our childhood, and the favourite of our riper years.


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Mr. Addison has given an excellent critique on this very popular ballad, but is mistaken with regard to the antiquity of the common received copy; for this, if one may judge from the style, cannot be older than the time of Elizabeth, and was probably written after the elogium of Sir Philip Sidney: perhaps in consequence of it. I flatter myself, I have here recovered the genuine antique poem: the true original song, which appeared rude even in the time of Sir Philip, and caused him to lament, that it was so evil-apparelled in the rugged garb of antiquity.

This curiosity is printed; from an old manuscript, at the end of Hearne's preface to Gul. Newbrigiensis Hist. 1719. 8 vo. vol. 1. To the MS. Copy is subjoined the name of the author, Rychard Sheale : whom Hearne had so little judgment as to suppose to be the same with a R. Sheale, who was living in 1588. But whoever examines the gradation of language and idiom in the following volumes, will be convinced that this is the production of an earlier poet. It is indeed expressly mentioned among some very ancient songs in an old book intituled, The Complaint of Scotland , (fol. 42.) under the title of the Huntis of Chevet, where the two following lines are also quoted;

The Perssee and the Mongumrye mette .
That day, that day, that gentil day :

Which, tho' not quite the same as they stand in the ballad, yet differ not more than might be owing to the author's quoting from memory. Indeed whoever considers the style and orthography of this old poem will not be inclined to place it lower than the time of Henry VI: as on the other hand the mention of Iames the Scottish king , with one or two Anachronisms, forbid us to assign it an earlier date. King James I. who was prisoner in this kingdom at the death of


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his father , did not wear the crown of Scotland till the second year of our Henry VI , but before the end of that long reign a third James had mounted the throne . A succession of two or three Jameses, and the long detention of one of them in England, would render the name familiar to the English, and dispose a poet in those rude time to give it to any Scottish king he happened to mention.

So much for the date of this old ballad: with regard to its subject, altho' it has no countenance from history, there is room to think it had originally some foundation in fact. It was one of the Laws of the Marches frequently renewed between the two nations, that neither party should hunt in the other's borders, without leave from the proprietors or their deputies . There had long been a rivalship between the two martial families of Percy and Douglas, which heightened by the national quarrel, must have produced frequent challenges and struggles for superiority, petty invasions of their respective domains, and sharp contests for the point of honour; which would not always be recorded in history. Something of this kind we may suppose gave rise to the ancient ballad of the Hunting a' the Cheviat . Percy earl of Northumberland had vowed to hunt for three days in the Scottish border without condescending to ask leave from earl Douglas, who was either lord of the soil, or lord warden of the marches. Douglas would not fail to resent the insult, and endeavour to repel the intruders by force: this would naturally


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produce a sharp conflict between the two parties: something of which, it is probable, did really happen, tho' not attended with the tragical circumstances recorded in the ballad: for these are evidently borrowed from the Battle of Otterbourn , a very different event, but which aftertimes would easily confound with it. That battle might be owing to some such previous affront as this of Chevy Chase, though it has escaped the notice of historians. Our poet has evidently jumbled the two events together: if indeed the lines in which this mistake is made, are not rather spurious, and the after-insertion of some person, who did not distinguish between the two stories.

Hearne has printed this ballad without any division of stanzas, in long lines, as he found it in the old written copy: but it is usual to find the distinction of stanzas neglected in ancient MSS; where, to save room, two or three verses are frequently given in one line undivided. See flagrant instances in the Harleian Catalog. No. 2253. s. 29. 34. 61. 70. & passim.

The First Part.

The Persé owt of Northombarlande,
And a vowe to God mayd he,
That he wolde hunte in the mountayns
Off Chyviat within dayes thre,
In the mauger of doughtè Dogles,
And all that ever with him be.
The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat
He sayd he wold kill, and cary them away:
Be my feth, sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn,
I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.

5

Then the Persé owt of Banborowe cam,
With him a myghtye meany;
With fifteen hondrith archares bold;
The wear chosen out of shyars thre
This begane on a monday at morn
In Cheviat the hillys so he;
The chyld may rue that ys un-born,
It was the mor pitté.
The dryvars thorowe the woodes went
For to reas the dear;
Bomen bickarte uppone the bent
With ther browd aras cleare.
Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went
On every syde shear;
Grea-hondes thorowe the greves glent
For to kyll thear dear.
The begane in Chyviat the hyls above
Yerly on a monnyn day;

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Be that it drewe to the oware off none
A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.
The blewe a mort uppone the bent,
The semblyd on sydis shear;
To the quyrry then the Persè went
To se the bryttlynge off the deare.
He sayd, It was the Duglas promys
This day to meet me hear;
But I wyste he wold faylle verament:
A gret oth the Persè swear.
At the laste a squyar of Northombelonde
Lokyde at his hand full ny,
He was war ath the doughetie Doglas comynge;
With him a myghtè meany,
Both with spear, ‘byll,’ and brande:
Yt was a myghti sight to se.
Hardyar men both off hart nar hande
Wear not in Christiantè.
The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good
Withouten any fayle;
The wear borne a-long be the watter a Twyde,
Yth bowndes of Tividale.

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Leave off the brytlyng of the dear, he sayde,
And to your bowys tayk good heed;
For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne
Had ye never so mickle need.
The dougheti Dogglas on a stede
He rode his men beforne;
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;
A bolder barne was never born.
Tell me ‘what’ men ye ar, he says,
Or whos men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this
Chyviat chays in the spyt of me?
The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,
Yt was the good lord Persè:
We wyll not tell the ‘what’ men we ar, he says,
Nor whos men that we be;
But we wyll hount hear in this chays
In the spyte of thyne, and of the.
The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat
We have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way.
Be my troth, sayd the doughtè Dogglas agayn,
Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day.

8

Then sayd the doughtè Doglas
Unto the lord Persè:
To kyll all thes giltles men,
A-las! it wear great pittè.
But, Persè, thowe art a lord of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contre;
Let all our men uppone a parti stande;
And do the battell off the and of me.
Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd the lord Persè,
Who-soever ther-to says nay.
Be my troth, doughtè Doglas, he says,
Thow shalt never se that day;
Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,
Nor for no man of a woman born,
But and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him on man for on.
Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde,
Ric. Wytharynton was his nam;
It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde, he says,
To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.
I wat youe byn great lordes twa,
I am a poor squyar of lande;

9

I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
And stande my-selffe, and looke on,
But whyll I may my weppone welde
I wyll not ‘fayl’ both harte and hande.
That day, that day, that dredfull day:
The first fit here I fynde.
And you wyll here any mor athe hontyng athe Chyviat
Yet ys ther mor behynde.

The Second Part.

The Yngglishe men hade ther bowys yebent,
Ther hartes were good yenoughe;
The first of arros that the shote off,
Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.
Yet bydys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent,
A captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.
The Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre,
Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde,

10

With suar speares off myghttè tre
The cum in on every syde.
Thrughe our Yngglishe archery
Gave many a wounde full wyde;
Many a doughete the garde to dy,
Which ganyde them no pryde.
The Yngglyshe men let thear bowys be,
And pulde owt brandes that wer bright;
It was a hevy syght to se
Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.
Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple
Many sterne the stroke downe streght:
Many a freyke, that was full free,
Ther undar foot dyd lyght.
At last the Duglas and the Persè met,
Lyk to captayns of myght and mayne;
The swapte togethar tyll the both swat
With swordes, that wear of fyn myllàn.
Thes worthè freckys for to fyght
Ther-to the wear full fayne,
Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,
As ever dyd heal or rayne.

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Holde the, Persè, sayd the Doglas,
And i' feth I shall the brynge
Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis
Of Jamy our Scottish kynge.
Thoue shalte have thy ransom fre,
I hight the hear this thinge,
For the manfullyste man yet art thowe,
That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng.
Nay ‘then’ sayd the lord Persè,
I tolde it the beforne,
That I wolde never yeldyde be
To no man of a woman born.
With that ther cam an arrowe hastely
Forthe off a mightie wane ,
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas
In at the brest bane.
Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe
The sharp arrowe ys gane,
That never after in all his lyffe days
He spayke mo wordes but ane,
That was, Fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may,
For my lyff days ben gan.

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The Persè leanyde on his brande,
And sawe the Duglas de;
He tooke the dede man be the hande,
And sayd, Wo ys me for the!
To have savyde thy lyffe I wold have pertyd with
My landes for years thre,
For a better man of hart, nare of hande
Was not in all the north countrè.
Off all that se a Skottishe knyght,
Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry,
He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght;
He spendyd a spear a trusti tre:
He rod uppon a corsiare
Throughe a hondrith archery;
He never styntyde, nar never blane
Tyll he came to the good lord Persè.
He set uppone the lord Persè
A dynte, that was full soare;
With a suar spear of a myghtè tre
Clean thorow the body he the Persè bore,
Athe tothar syde, that a man myght se,
A large cloth yard and mare:
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiantè,
Then that day slain wear thare.

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An archar off Northomberlonde
Say slean was the lord Persè,
He bar a bende-bow in his hande,
Was made off trusti tre:
An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang,
To th'hard stele halyde he;
A dynt, that was both sad and soar,
He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry.
The dynt yt was both sad and ‘soar,’
That he of Mongon-byrry sete;
The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar,
With his hart blood the wear wete .
Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle,
But still in stour dyd stand,
Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre,
With many a bal-ful brande.
This battell begane in Chyviat
An owar befor the none,
And when even-song bell was rang
The battell was nat half done.
The tooke ‘on’ on ethar hand
Be the lyght off the mone;

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Many hade no strenght for to stande,
In Chyviat the hyllys abone.
Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde
Went away but fifti and thre;
Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,
But even five and fifti:
But all wear slayne Cheviat within:
The hade no strengthe to stand on he:
The chylde may rue that ys un-borne,
It was the mor pittè.
Thear was slayne with the lord Persè
Sir John of Agerstone

The family of Haggerston of Haggerston, near Berwick, has been seated there for many centuries, and still remains. Thomas Haggerston was among the commissioners returned for Northumberland in 12 Hen. 6. 1433. (Fuller's Worthies, p. 310.) The head of this family at present is Sir Thomas Haggerston, Bart. of Haggerston abovementioned.

,

Sir Roger the hinde Hartly

Hartley is a village near the sea in the barony of Tinemouth, about 7 m. from North-Shiels. It probably gave name to a family of note at that time.

,

Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone

This family was one of the most ancient in Northumberland: they were once Lords of Ford Castle, and also of the Barony of Heron in this county; their principal seat being at Chip-Chose near Hexham. Thus, Johannes Hearon, miles, is among those who signed a treaty with the Scots in 1449. Hen. 6. (See Nicholson's Laws of the Borders, p. 34. see also p. 330. 331. 332. 333. 335.)—Two Herons are among the commissioners in Fuller. p. 310.—Johan Heronn was sheriff of Northumberland in 35 of Edw. 3. (Fuller. p. 311.) Also in 7° of Richard 2. (p. 312.) and others afterwards. The descendant of this family, Sir Thomas Heron, Bart. is at present an officer in the army.

.

Sir Jorg the worthè Lovele

Joh. de Lavale, miles, was sheriff of Northumberland 34 Hen. 7.—Joh. de Lavele, mil. in the 1 Edw. 6. and afterwards (Fuller 313.) In Nicholson this name is spelt Da Lovel. p. 304. This seems to be the ancient family of Delaval, of Seaton Delaval, in Northumberland.


A knyght of great renowen,
Sir Raff the ryche Rugbè

The anceint family of Rokeby in Yorkshire, seems to be here intended. In Thoresby's Ducat. Leod. p. 253: fol. is a genealogy of this house, by which it appears that the head of the family about the time when this ballad was written, was Sir Ralph Rokeby, Knt. Ralph being a common name of the Rokebys.


With dyntes wear beaten dowene.
For Wetharryngton

Rog. de Widrington was sheriff of Northumberland in 36 of Edw. 3. (Fuller, p. 311.)—Joh. de Widrington in 11 of Hen. 4. and many others of the same name afterwards.—See also Nicholson, p. 331.—Of this family was the late Lord Witherington.

my harte was wo,

That ever he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
He knyled and fought on hys kne.

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Ther was slayne with the dougheti Douglas
Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry

Sir Hugh Montgomery was son of John Lord Montgomery, the lineal ancestor of the present Earl of Eglington.

,

Sir Davye Lwdale

The ancient family of the Liddels were originally from Scotland, where they were Lords of Liddel Castle, and of the Barony of Buff. (Vid. Collins's Peerage.) The head of this family is the present Lord Ravensworth, of Ravensworth Castle, in the county of Durham.

, that worthè was,

His sistars son was he:
Sir Charles a Murrè, in that place,
That never a foot wolde fle;
Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was,
With the Duglas dyd he dey.
So on the morrowe the mayde them byears
Off byrch, and hasell so ‘gray’;
Many wedous with wepyng tears,
Cam to fach ther makys a-way.
Tivydale may carpe off care,
Northombarlond may mayk grat mone,
For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear,
On the march perti shall never be none.
Word ys commen to Edden-burrowe
To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,
That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches,
He lay slean Chyviot with-in.
His handdes dyd he weal and wryng,
He sayd, Alas, and woe ys me!

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Such another captayn Skotland within,
He sayd, y-feth shuld never be.
Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone
Till the fourth Harry our kyng,
That lord Persè, leyff-tenante of the Merchis,
He lay slayne Chyviat within.
God have merci on his soll, sayd kyng Harry,
Good lord, yf thy will it be!
I have a hondrith captayns in Yynglonde, he sayd,
As good as ever was hee:
But Persè, and I brook my lyffe,
Thy deth well quyte shall be.
As our noble kyng made his a-vowe,
Lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Persè,
He dyd the battel of Hombyll-down:
Wher syx and thritte Skottish knyghtes
On a day wear beaten down:
Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght,
Over castill, towar, and town.
This was the hontynge off the Cheviat;
That tear begane this spurn:

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Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe,
Call it the Battell of Otterburn.
At Otterburn began this spurne
Uppon a monnyn day:
Ther was the dougghté Doglas slean,
The Persè never went away.
Ther was never a tym on the march partes
Sen the Doglas, and the Persè met,
But yt was marvele, and the rede blude ronne not,
As the reane doys in the stret.
Jhesue Crist our balys bete,
And to the blys us brynge!
Thus was the hountynge of the Chevyat:
God send us all good ending!
[_]

The style of this and the following ballad is uncommonly rugged and uncouth, owing to their being writ in the very coarsest and broadest northern Dialect.

The battle of Hombyll-down, or Humbleton, was fought Sept. 14. 1402. (anno 3. Hen. IV.) wherein the English, under the command of the E. of Northumberland, and his son Hotspur, gained a compleat victory over the Scots. The village of Humbleton is one mile north-west from Wooller in Northumberland: near it are two hills, which retain to this day evident marks of encampments.—Humbleton is in Glendale ward, a district so named in this county, and mentioned above in ver. 163.

 

Spectator, No. 70. 74.

Subscribed, after the usual manner of our old poets, expliceth [explicit] quoth Rychard Sheale.

One of the earliest productions of the Scottish press, now to be found. The title-page was wanting in the copy here quoted; but it is supposed to have been printed in 1540.

See Ames.

See Pt. 2. v. 25.

See Pt. 1. v. 104.

Pt. 2. v. 36. 140.

Who died Aug. 5. 1406, in the 7th year of our Hen. IV.

James I. was crowned May 22. 1424. murdered Feb. 21. 1436–7.

In 1460.—Hen. VI. was deposed 1461: restored and slain 1471.

Item. . . Concordatum est, quod, . . . nullus unius partis vel alterius ingrediatur terras, boschas, forrestas, warrenas, loca, dominia quæcunque alicujus partis alterius subditi, causa venandi, piscandi, aucupandi, disportum aut solatium in eisdem, aliave quacunque de causa, absque licentia ejus . . . . ad quem . . . loca . . . . . . pertinent, aut de deputatis suis prius capt. & obtent.

Vid. Œp. Nicholson's Leges Marchiarum. 1705. 8 vo. pag. 27. 51.

This was the original title.

See the ballad, Pt. 1. v. 106. Pt. 2. v. 165.

See the next ballad.

Vid. Pt. 2. v. 167.

magger in Hearne's PC. [Printed Copy.]

The the Persé. PC.

archardes bolde off blood and bone. PC.

By these “shyars thre” is probably meant three districts in Northumberland, which still go by the name of shires, and are all in the neighbourhood of Cheviot. These are Island-shire, being the district so named from Holy-Island: Norehamshire, so called from the town and castle of Norcham (or Norham); and Bamboroughshire, the ward or hundred belonging to Bamborough-castle and town.

throrowe. PC.

blwe a mot. PC.

myghtte. PC. passim.

brylly. PC.

withowte . . . feale. PC.

boys lock ye tayk. PC.

ned. PC.

att his. PC.

whos. PC.

whoys. PC.

agay. PC.

sayd the the. PC.

on. i. e. one.

twaw. PC.

fit. Vid. Gloss.

youe . . . hountyng. PC.

first, i. e. flight.

byddys. PC.

boys. PC.

briggt. PC.

throrowe. PC.

done. PC.

to, i. e. two. Ibid. and of. PC.

ran. P.C.

helde. PC.

Scottish. PC.

Wane. i.e. ane. ane, sc. man. an arrow came from a mighty one: from a mighty man.

throroue. PC.

ber. PC.

ther. PC.

Say, i. e. Sawe.

haylde. PC.

far. PC.

This incident is taken from the battle of Otterbourn; in which Sir Hugh Montgomery, Knt. (son of John Lord Montgomery) was slain with an arrow. Vid. Crawford's Peerage.

abou. PC.

strenge . . . . hy. PC.

lóule. PC.

in to, i.e. in two.

Yet he . . . kny. PC.

gay. PC.

mon. PC.

non. PC.

ye feth. PC.

cheyff tennante. PC.


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II. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.

[_]

The only battle, wherein an Earl of Douglas was slain fighting with a Percy, was that of Otterbourn, which is the subject of this ballad. It is here related with the allowable partiality of an English poet, and much in the same manner as it is recorded in the English Chronicles. The Scottish writers have, with a partiality at least as excuseable, related it no less in their own favour. Luckily we have a very circumstantial narrative of the whole affair from Froissart a French historian, who appears to be unbiassed. Froissart's relation is prolix; I shall therefore give it as abridged by Carte, who has however had recourse to other authorities, and differs from Froissart in some things, which I shall note in the margin.

In the twelfth year of Richard II, 1388, “The Scots taking advantage of the confusions of this nation, and falling with a party into the west-marches, ravaged the country about Carlisle, and carried off 300 prisoners. It was with a much greater force, headed by some of the principal nobility, that, in the beginning of August , they invaded Northumberland: and having wasted part of the county of Durham , advanced to the gates of Newcastle; where,


19

in a skirmish, they took a ‘penon’ or colours belonging to Henry lord Percy, surnamed Hotspur, son to the earl of Northumberland. In their retreat home, they attacked the castle of Otterbourn: and in the evening of Aug. 9. (as the English writers say, or rather, according to Froissart, Aug. 15.) after an unsuccessful assault were surprized in their camp, which was very strong, by Henry, who at the first onset put them into a good deal of confusion. But James earl of Douglas rallying his men, there ensued one of the best-fought actions that happened in that age; both armies shewing the utmost bravery : the earl Douglas himself being slain on the spot ; the earl of Murrey mortally wounded; and Hotspur , with his brother Ralph Percy, taken prisoners. These disasters on both sides have given occasion to the event of the engagement's being disputed; Froissart (who derives his relation from a Scotch knight, two gentlemen of the same country, and as many of Foix ) affirming that the Scots remained masters of the field; and the English writers insinuating the contrary. These last maintain that the English had the better of the day: but night coming on, some of the northern lords, coming with the bishop of Durham to their assistance, killed

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many of them by mistake, supposing them to be Scots; and the earl of Dunbar at the same time falling on another side upon Hotspur, took him and his brother prisoners, and carried them off while both parties were fighting. It is at least certain, that immediately after this battle the Scots engaged in it made the best of their way home: and the same party was taken by the other corps about Carlisle.”

Such is the account collected by Carte, in which he seems not to be free from partiality: for prejudice must own that Froissart's circumstantial account carries a great appearance of truth, and he gives the victory to the Scots. He however does justice to the courage of both parties; and represents their mutual generosity in such a light, that the present age might edify by the example. “The Englysshmen on the one partye, and Scottes on the other party, are good men of warre, for whan they mete, there is a hard fighte without sparynge. There is no hoo betwene them as long as speares, swordes, axes, or dagers wyll endure; but lay on eche upon other: and whan they be well beaten, and that the one party hath obtayned the victory, they than glorifye so in their dedes of armes, and are so joyfull, that suche as be taken, they shall be ransomed or they go out of the felde ; so that shortely eche of them is so contente with other, that at their departynge, curtoysly they will saye, God thanke you. But in fyghtynge one with another there is no playe, nor sparynge.” Froissart's Cronycle, (as translated by Sir Johan Bourchier Lord Berners) Cap. cxlij.

The following ballad is printed from a manuscript copy in the Harleian Collection [No. 293. fol. 52.] where it is intitled, “A songe made in R. 2. his tyme of the battele of Otterburne, betweene Lord Henry Percye earle of Northomberlande and the earle Douglas of Scotlande, Anno


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1388.”—But this title is erroneous, and added by some ignorant transcriber of after-times: for, 1. The battle was not fought by the earl of Northumberland, who was absent, nor is once mentioned in the ballad; but by his son Sir Henry Percy, Knt. surnamed Hotspur, (in those times they did not usually give the title of Lord to an earl's eldest son.) 2. Altho' the battle was fought in Richard IId's time, the song is evidently of later date, as appears from the poet's quoting the chronicles in ver. 130; and speaking of Percy in the last stanza as dead. It was however written in all likelihood as early as the foregoing song, if not earlier; which perhaps may be inferred from the minute circumstances with which the story is related, many of which are recorded in no chronicle, and were probably preserved in the memory of old people. It will be observed that the authors of these two poems have some lines in common; but which of them was the original proprietor, must depend upon their priority; and this the sagacity of the reader must determine.

Yt felle about the Lamas tyde,
When hosbandes winn their haye,
The dughtie Douglas bowned him to ride,
In England to take a praye:
The earle of Fyffe , withouten striffe,
He bounde him over Sulway :
The grete wold ever together ride;
That race they may rue for aye.

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Over ‘Ottercap’ hill they came in,
And so doune by Rodelyffe crage,
Upon Grene ‘Leyton’ they lighted downe,
Many a stirande stage :
And boldely brent Northomberlande,
And haried many a towne;
They did our Englishe men great wronge,
To battelle that weare not ‘bowne.’
Then spake a berne uppon the bent,
Of comforte that was not colde,
And said, We have brent Northomberlande,
We have all welthe in holde.
Now we have carried all Bamborroweshire,
All the welthe in the worlde have wee;
I rede we ride to New Castelle,
So still and stalworthlye.
Uppon the morowe, when it was daye,
The standards shone fulle brighte;

23

To the New Castelle they tooke the waye,
And thither they came fulle right.
Sir Henrye Percy laye at the New Castelle,
I telle you withouten dreede;
He had bine a marche-man all his dayes,
And kepte Barwicke upon Tweed.
To the New Castelle when they cam,
The Scottes they cried on height,
Sir Harye Percy, and thou beste within,
Come to the feeld, and fyghte:
For we have brente Northomberland,
Thy eritage good and right;
And syne my lodginge I have take,
With my brande dubbed many a knight.
Sir Henry ‘he’ came to the walles,
The Scottishe oste for to see;
“And thou haste brente Northomberland,
Full sore it ruethe mee.
Yf thou hast harried all Bambarowe shire,
Thou haste done me great envie;
For the trespas thou haste me done,
The tone of us shall dye.”
Wher shall I byde thee, said the Douglas?
Or wher wilte thou come to me?

24

“At Otterburne in the highe waye ,
Theare maieste thou well lodged be.
The ‘roe’ full rekeles ther she runes,
To make the game and glee:
The faulkone and the fesante bothe,
Amonge the holtes on ‘hee’.
Theare maieste thou have thie welthe at will,
Well lodged there maiste thou be.”
Yt shall not be long, or I com thee till,
Sayd Sir Henrye Percy.
Ther shall I byde thee, said the Douglas,
By the faithe of my bodye.
Ther shall I come, sayes Sir Harye Percy;
My trowthe I plighte to thee.
A pipe of wyne he gave him over the walles,
For south, as I you saye:
Theare he made the Douglas drinke,
And all his hoste that daye.
The Douglas turned him homwarde againe,
For southe withouten naye,

25

He tooke his lodginge at Otterburne
Uppon a wedensdaye:
And theare he pight his standard doune,
His getinge more and lesse,
And syne he warned his men to goe
To choose their geldings grasse.
A Scottishe knight hovered ‘on the bent,’
A watche I dare well saye:
So was he ware one the noble Percye
In the dawninge of the daye.
He pricked to his pavilliane dore,
As fast as he might roone,
Awakene, Dowglas, cried the knight,
For his love, that sits in throne.
Awakene, Dowglas, cride the knight,
For thow maieste wakene with wynne:
Yonder have I spiede the proud Persye,
And sevene standards with him.
Naye by my trowthe, the Douglas sayde,
It is but a fained call:
The durste not looke one my bred bannor,
For all England to haylle.
Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell,
That stands so fayere one Tyne?

26

For all the men the Percye hade,
He could not gare me once to dyne.
He steped out at his pavillian dore,
To looke and it were lesse;
Arraye you, lordinges, one and all,
For heare begyns no peace.
The earle of Mentaye

At the time of this battle the Earldom of Menteith was possessed by Robert Stewart, Earl of Fise, third son of K. Robert II. who, according to Buchanan, commanded the Scots that entered by Carlisle. But our Minstrel had probably an eye to the family of Graham, who had this Earldom when the ballad was written. See Douglas's Peerage of Scotland, 1764. fol.

, thou art my eame,

The fowarde I geve to thee:
The earle of Hunteley

This shews this ballad was not composed before 1449; for in that year Alexander Lord of Gordon and Huntley, was created Earl of Huntley by K. James II.

kawte and keene,

He shall with thee bee.
The lord of Bowghan

The Earl of Buchan at that time was Alexander Stewart, fourth son of K. Robert II.

in armor brighte

One the other hande he shall be:
Lord Jhonstone, and lord Maxwell

These two families of Johnston Lord of Johnston, and Maxwell Lord of Maxwell, were always very powerful on the borders. Of the former family is Johnston Marquis of Annandale: of the latter is Maxwell Earl of Nithsdale. I cannot find that any chief of this family was named Sir Hugh; but Sir Herbert Maxwell was about this time much distinguished. (See Doug.) This might have been originally written Sir H. Maxwell, and by transcribers converted into Sir Hugh. So above, in p. 8. Richard is contracted into Ric.

,

They two shall be with me.
Swintone

i. e. The Laird of Swintone; a small village within the Scottish border, 3 miles from Norham. This family still subsists, and is very ancient.

faire feelde uppon your pride

To battelle make you bowen:
Sir Davie Scotte

The illustrious family of Scot, ancestors of the Duke of Buccleugh, always made a great figure on the borders. Sir Walter Scot was at the head of this family when the battle was fought; but his great-grandson Sir David Scot, was the hero of that house, when the Ballad was written.

, Sir Walter Stewarde

The person here designed was probably Sir Walter Stewart, Lord of Dalswinton and Gairlies, who was eminent at that time. (See Doug.) From him is descended the present Earl of Galloway.

,

Sir John of Agurstone

The seat of this family was sometimes subject to the Kings of Scotland. Thus Richardus Hagerstoun, miles, is one of the Scottish knights, who signed a treaty with the English in 1249. Hen. 3. (Nicholson, p. 2. note.)—It was the fate of many parts of Northumberland often to change their masters, according as the Scottish or English arms prevailed.

.

The Percy came before his oste,
Which was ever a gentle knighte,
Uppon the Dowglas lowde can he crie,
I wille hould that I have highte:
For thowe haste brente Northomberlande,
And done me greate envye;

27

For this trespas thou haste me done,
The tone of us shall dye.
The Dowglas answered him againe
With greate worde upe on ‘hee’,
And sayd, I have twenty against thy one,
Beholde and thou mayeste see.
With that the Percy was greeved sore,
For sothe as I you say:
Jhesu Christe in hevene on height
Did helpe him well that daye.
But nine thousand thear was no more,
The Chronicles will not leane;
Forty thousand of Scots and fowere
That daye foughte them againe.
Uppon St. Andrewe loud cane they crye,
And Christe they shout on heighte,
And syne ‘marcht on’ our Englishe men,
As I have tould you righte.
St. George the brighte our Ladye's knighte
To name they weare full fayne,
Our Englishe mene they cried on height,
And Christe they shoute againe.

28

With that sharpe arrowes gane up to fly,
I tell you in sertayne;
Men of armes begane to joyne;
Many a doughty man was slayne.
The Percye and the Douglas mette,
That ether of other was faine;
The swapped together, whille that they swatte,
With swoards of ffyne Collayne;
Tyll the bloode from the bassonets ranne,
As the rocke doth in the rayne.
Yeld thee to me, sayd the Dowglàs,
Or else thowe shalte be slayne:
For I see, by thy brighte bassonete,
Thou art some mane of mighte;
And so I doe by thy burnished brande,
Thou arte an earle, or else a knighte .
By my good faithe, said the noble Percye,
Now haste thou rede full righte,
Yet will I never yeeld me to thee,
Whille I maye stonde and fighte.
They swopede together, whille that they swotte,
With swoards sharpe and longe;

29

Eiche one other so faste they beete,
Tyll their helmets came in pieces downe.
The Percye was a mane of strengthe,
I tell you in this stownde,
He smote the Dowglas at the swords length,
That he felle to the grounde.
The swoard was sharpe and soare can byte,
I tell you in certáyne;
To the earle he coulde him smytte,
Thus was the Dowglas slayne.
The stonderes stood still one elke syde
With many a greevous grone;
Ther the foughte the daye, and all the nighte,
And many a doughtie man was ‘slone.’
Ther was no ffreke, that wold flye,
But styfly in stowre cane stand,
Eyche hewinge on other whylle they might drye,
With many a balfull brande.
Theare was slayne uppon the Scotes syd,
For southe and sertenlye,
Sir James Dowglas theare was slayne,
That daye that he could dye.

30

The earlle of Mentay he was slayne,
Grisly groned uppon the grounde;
Sir Davie Scotte, Sir Walter Stuard,
Sir ‘John’ of Agurstonne .
Sir Charles Murrey

The person here meant was probably Sir Charles Murray of Cockpoole, who flourished at that time, and was ancestor of the Murrays sometime Earls of Annandale. See Doug. Peerage.

in that place

That never a foote wold flye;
Sir Hughe Maxwell, a lord he was,
With the Dowglas did he dye.
Theare was slayne upon the Scottishe syde,
For southe as I you saye,
Of four and forty thousand Scotts
Went but eighteene awaye.
Theare was slain upon the Englishe syde,
For southe and sertenlye,
A gentle knighte, Sir John Fitz-hughe

Dugdale (in his Baron. V. 1. p. 403.) informs us, that John son of Henry Lord Fitzhugh, was killed at the battle of Otterbourne. This was a Northumberland family. Vid. Dugd. p. 403. col. 1. and Nicholson, p. 33. 60.

,

Yt was the more pittye.
Sir James Harbotle

Harbottle is a village upon the river Coquet, about 10 m. west of Rothbury. The family of Harbottle was once considerable in Northumberland. (See Fuller. p. 312. 313.) A daughter of Sir Guischard Harbottle, Knt. married Sir Thomas Percy, Knt. son of Henry the fifth,—and father of Thomas, seventh Earl of Northumberland.

ther was slayne,

For him their harts weare soare,
The gentle ‘Lovelle’ thear was slayne,
That the Percyes standard boare.

31

Theare was slayne uppon the Englyshe parte,
For soothe as I you saye;
Of nine thousand Englishe mene
Fyve hondred came awaye:
The other weare slayne in the feeld,
Christe keepe thear sowles from wo,
Seeing thear was so fewe frendes
Against so manye foo.
Then one the morowe they made them beeres
Of byrche, and haselle graye;
Many a wydowe with weepinge teeres
Their maks they fette away.
This fraye begane at Otterborne
Betweene the nighte and the daye:
Theare the Dowglas loste his lyfe,
And the Percye was leade away .
Then was theare a Scottyshe prisonere tane,
Sir Hughe Mongomerye was his name,
For soothe as I you saye
He borowed the Percye home agayne.
Now let us all for the Percye praye
To Jeasue moste of might,
To bring his sowle to the blyss of heven,
For he was a gentle knight.
 

Froissart speaks of both parties (consisting in all of more than 40,000 men) as entering England at the same time: but the greater part by way of Carlisle.

And, according to the ballad, that part of Northumberland called Bamboroughshire; a large tract of land so named from the town and castle of Bamborough; formerly the residence of the Northumbrian Kings.

This circumstance is omitted in the ballad. Hotspur and Douglas were two young warriors much of the same age.

Froissart says the English exceeded the Scots in number three to one, but that these had the advantage of the ground, and were also fresh from sleep, while the English were greatly fatigued with their previous march.

By Henry L. Percy, according to this ballad, and our old English historians, as Stow, Speed, &c. but borne down by numbers, if we may believe Froissart.

Hotspur (after a very sharp conflict) was taken prisoner by John lord Montgomery, whose eldest son Sir Hugh was slain in the same action with an arrow, according to Crawfurd's Peerage (and seems also to be alluded to in the foregoing ballad, p. 13.) but taken prisoner and exchanged for Hotspur, according to this ballad.

Froissart (according to the Eng. Translation) says he had his account from two squires of England, and from a knight and squire of Scotland, soon after the battle.

So in Langham's letter concerning Q. Elizabeth's entertainment at Killingworth Castle, 1575. 12°. p. 61. “Heer was no ho in devout drinkyng.”

i.e. They scorn to take the advantage, or to keep them lingering in long captivity.

winn their haye. This is the reading in Crawford's Peerage, p. 97; and this is the Northumberland phrase to this day: by which they always express “getting in their bay.” The orig. MS. reads here winn their waye.

Robert Stuart, second son of K. Robert II.

i. e. “over Solway frith.” This evidently refers to the other division of the Scottish army, which came in by way of Carlisse.—Bounde him; i. e. hied him. Vid. Gloss.

They: sc. the earl of Douglas and his party.—The several stations here mentioned, are well-known places in Northumberland. Ottercap hill is in the parish of Kirk-Whelpington, in Tynedale-ward. Rodeliffe- (or as it is more usually pronounced Rodeley-) Cragge is a noted cliff near Rodeley, a small village in the parish of Hartburn, in Morpethward: It lies south-east of Ottercap. Green Leyton is another small village in the same parish of Hartburn, and is south-east of Rodeley.— The orig. MS. reads here corruptly, Hoppertop and Lynton.

This line is probably corrupted. It should perhaps be

Stirrande many a stagge:

A species of stags or wild deer have been killed within the present century, on some of the large wastes in Northumberland.

bounde, MS.

Probably harried. Vid. Gloss.

Marche-man, i. e. a scowrer of the marches.

syne seems here to mean since.

Otterbourn stands near the old Watling-street road, being in the parish of Elsdon, and lying three miles west of that town. The remains of the Scottish encampment are still visible.

Roe-bucks were to be found upon the wastes not far from Hexham within these forty years.—Whitfield, Esq; of Whitfield, is said to have destroyed the last of them. The orig. MS. reads rowe.

hye. MS.

lese. MS.

upon the best bent. MS.

one, i. e. en, for of.

The earl of Menteith.

The lord Buchan.

Pearcy. MS.

I will hold to what I have promised.

highe. MS.

Pearcy. MS.

marked then one. MS.

i.e. the English.

was theare slaine. MS.

schapped. MS.

Being all in armour he could not know him.

i.e. Each on other.

slayne. MS.

Eyche one hewinge. MS.

bronde. MS.

i.e. He died that day.

Our old Minstrel repeats these names, as Homer and Virgil do those of their Heroes:

------ fortemque Gyam, fortemque Cloanthum. &c. &c.

The Orig. MS. reads, here, “Sir James.” but see above, ver. 112.

Scotts. MS. but see v. 197.

Covelle. MS.— For the names in this page, see the Remarks at the end of this Ballad.

one, i. e. on.

sc. captive.

Percyes. MS.


35

III. THE JEW'S DAUGHTER,

A Scottish Ballad,

[_]

—Is founded upon the supposed practice of the Jews in crucifying or otherwise murthering Christian children; out of hatred to the religion of their parents: a practice, which hath been always alledged in excuse for the cruelties exercised upon that wretched people, but which probably never happened in a single instance. For if we consider, on the one hand, the ignorance and superstition of the times when such stories took their rise, the virulent prejudices of the monks who record them, and the eagerness with which they would be catched up by the barbarous populace as a pretence for plunder; on the other hand, the great danger incurred by the perpetrators, and the inadequate motives they could have to


36

excite them to a crime of so much horror, we may reasonably conclude the whole charge to be groundless and malicious.

The following ballad is probably built upon some Italian Legend, and bears a great resemblance to the Prioresse's Tale in Chaucer: the poet seems also to have had an eye to the known story of Hugh of Lincoln, a child said to have been there murthered by the Jews in the reign of Henry III. The conclusion of this ballad appears to be wanting: what it probably contained may be seen in Chaucer. As for Mirryland Toun, it is probably a corruption of Milan (called by the Dutch Meylandt) Town; since the Pa is evidently the river Po.

Printed from a MS. copy sent from Scotland.


36

The rain rins doun through Mirry-land toune,
Sae dois it doune the Pa:
Sae dois the lads of Mirry-land toune,
Quhan they play at the ba'.
Than out and cam the Jewis dochtèr,
Said, Will ye cum in and dine?
I winnae cum in, I cannae cum in,
Without my play-feres nine.
Scho powd an apple reid and white
To intice the zong thing in:
Scho powd an apple white and reid,
And that the sweit bairne did win.
And scho has taine out a little pen-knife,
And low down by her gair,
Scho has twin'd the zong thing and his life;
A word he nevir spak mair.

37

And out and cam the thick thick bluid,
And out and cam the thin;
And out and cam the bonny herts bluid:
Thair was nae life left in.
Scho laid him on a dressing borde,
And drest him like a swine,
And laughing said, Gae nou and pley
With zour sweit play-feres nine.
Scho rowd him in a cake of lead,
Bade him lie stil and sleip.
Scho cast him in a deip draw-well,
Was fifty fadom deip.
Quhan bells wer rung, and mass was sung,
And every lady went hame:
Than ilka lady had her zong sonne,
Bot lady Helen had nane.
Scho rowd hir mantil hir about,
And sair sair gan she weip:
And she ran into the Jewis castèl,
Quhan they wer all asleip.
My bonny sir Hew, my pretty sir Hew,
I pray thee to me speik:
‘O lady, rinn to the deip draw-well
‘Gin ze zour sonne wad seik.’

38

Lady Helen ran to the deip draw-well,
And knelt upon her kne:
My bonny sir Hew, an ze be here,
I pray thee speik to me.
The lead is wondrous heavy, mither,
The well is wondrous deip,
A keen pen-knife sticks in my hert,
A word I dounae speik.
Gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir,
Fetch me my windling sheet,
And at the back o' Mirry-land toun,
Its thair we twa sall meet.

IV. SIR CAULINE.

[_]

This old romantic tale was preserved in the Editor's folio MS, but in so defective and mutilated a condition that it was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and compleat the story.

There is something peculiar in the metre of this old ballad: it is not unusual to meet with redundant stanzas of six lines; but the occasional insertion of a double third or fourth line, as ver. 31, 44, &c. is an irregularity I do not remember to have seen elsewhere.


39

It may be proper to inform the reader before he comes to Pt. 2. v. 110, 111. that the round table was not peculiar to the reign of K. Arthur, but was common in all the ages of Chivalry. The proclaiming a great turnament (probably with some peculiar solemnities) was called “holding a Round Table.” Dugdale tells us, that the great baron Roger de Mortimer “having procured the honour of knighthood to be conferred ‘on his three sons’ by K. Edw. I. he, at his own costs, caused a tourneament to be held at Kenilworth; where he sumptuously entertained an hundred knights, and as many ladies for three days; the like whereof was never before in England; and there began the round table, (so called by reason that the place wherein they practised those feats, was environed with a strong wall made in a round form:) And upon the fourth day, the golden lion, in sign of triumph, being yielded to him; he carried it (with all the company) to Warwick.”—It may further be added, that Matthew Paris frequently calls justs and turnaments Hasti Iudia Mensæ Rotundæ.

As to what will be observed in this ballad of the art of healing being practised by a young princess; it is no more than what is usual in all the old romances, and was conformable to real manners; it being a practice derived from the earliest times among all the Gothic and Celtic nations, for [illeg.]men, even of the highest rank, to exercise the art of surgery. In the Northern Chronicles we always find the young damsels stanching the wounds of their lovers, and the wives those of their husbands . And even so late as the time of Q. Elizabeth, it is mentioned among the accomplishments of the ladies of her court, that the “eldest of them are skilful in surgery.”

See Harrison's Description of England, prefixed to Hollingshed's Chronicle, &c.

40

The First Part.

In Ireland, ferr over the sea,
There dwelleth a bonnye kinge;
And with him a yong and comlye knighte,
Men call him syr Caulìne.
The kinge had a ladye to his daughter,
In fashyon she hath no peere;
And princely wightes that ladye wooed
To be theyr wedded feere.
Syr Cauline loveth her best of all,
But nothing durst he saye;
Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man,
But deerlye he lovde this may.
Till on a daye it so beffell,
Great dill to him was dight;
The maydens love removde his mynd,
To care-bed went the knighte.
One while he spred his armes him fro,
One while he spred them nye:
And aye! but I winne that ladyes love,
For dole now I mun dye.
And whan our parish-masse was done,
Our kinge was bowne to dyne:

41

He sayes, Where is syr Cauline,
That is wont to serve the wyne?
Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte,
And fast his handes gan wringe:
Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye
Without a good leechìnge.
Fetche me downe my daughter deere,
She is a leeche fulle fine:
Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread,
And serve him with the wyne soe red;
Lothe I were him to tine.
Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes,
Her maydens followyng nye:
O well, she sayth, how doth my lord?
O sicke, thou fayr ladyè.
Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame,
Never lye soe cowardlee;
For it is told in my fathers halle,
You dye for love of mee.
Fayre ladye, it is for your love
That all this dill I drye:
For if you wold comfort me with a kisse,
Then were I brought from bale to blisse,
No lenger wold I lye.

42

Sir knighte, my father is a kinge,
I am his onlye heire;
Alas! and well you knowe, syr knighte,
I never can be youre fere.
O ladye, thou art a kinges daughtèr,
And I am not thy peere,
But let me doe some deedes of armes
To be your bacheleere.
Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe,
My bacheleere to bee,
(But ever and aye my heart wold rue,
Giff harm shold happe to thee,)
Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne,
Upon the mores brodìnge;
And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte
Untill the fayre mornìnge?
For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte,
Will examine you beforne:
And never man bare life awaye,
But he did him scath and scorne.
That knighte he is a foul paynìm,
And large of limb and bone;
And but if heaven may be thy speede,
Thy life it is but gone.

43

Nowe on the Eldridge hilles Ile walke,
For thy sake, fair ladìe;
And Ile either bring you a ready tokèn,
Or Ile never more you see.
The lady is gone to her own chaumbère,
Her maydens following bright:
Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone,
And to the Eldridge hills is gone,
For to wake there all night.
Unto midnight, that the moone did rise,
He walked up and downe;
Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe
Over the bents soe browne:
Quoth hee, If cryance come till my heart,
I am ffar from any good towne.
And soone he spyde on the mores so broad,
A furyous wight and fell;
A ladye bright his brydle led,
Clad in a fayre kyrtèll:
And soe fast he called on syr Caulìne,
O man, I rede thee flye,
For ‘but’ if cryance come till thy heart,
I weene but thou mun dye.

44

He sayth, ‘No’ cryance comes till my heart,
Nor, in faith, I wyll not flee;
For, cause thou minged not Christ before,
The less me dreadeth thee.
The Eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed;
Syr Cauline bold abode:
Then either shooke his trustye speare,
And the timber these two children bare
Soe soone in sunder slode.
Then tooke they out theyr two good swordes,
And layden on full faste,
Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde,
They all were well-nye brast.
The Eldridge knight was mickle of might,
And stiffe in stower did stande,
But syr Cauline with a ‘backward’ stroke,
He smote off his right-hand;
That soone he with paine and lacke of bloud
Fell downe on that lay-land.
Then up syr Cauline lift his brande
All over his head so hye:
And here I sweare by the holy roode,
Nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye.

45

Then up and came that ladye brighte,
Faste wringing of her hande:
For the maydens love, that most you love,
Withold that deadlye brande.
For the maydens love, that most you love,
Now smyte no more I praye;
And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord,
He shall thy hests obaye.
Now sweare to mee, thou Eldridge knighte,
And here on this lay-land,
That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye,
And therto plight thy hand:
And that thou never on Eldridge come
To sporte, gamon, or playe:
And that thou here give up thy armes
Until thy dying daye.
The Eldridge knighte gave up his armes
With many a sorrowfulle sighe;
And sware to obey syr Caulines hest,
Till the tyme that he shold dye.
And he then up and the Eldridge knighte
Sett him in his saddle anone,
And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye
To theyr castle are they gone.

46

Then he tooke up the bloudy hand,
That was so large of bone,
And on it he founde five ringes of gold
Of knightes that had be slone.
Then he tooke up the Eldridge sworde,
As hard as any flint:
And he tooke off those ringès five,
As bright as fyre and brent.
Home then pricked syr Cauline
As light as leafe on tree:
I-wys he neither stint ne blanne,
Till he his ladye see.
Then downe he knelt upon his knee
Before that lady gay:
O ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills;
These tokens I bring away.
Now welcome, welcome, syr Caulìne,
Thrice welcome unto mee,
For now I perceive thou art a true knighte,
Of valour bolde and free.
O ladye, I am thy own true knighte,
Thy hests for to obaye:
And mought I hope to winne thy love!—
Ne more his tonge colde say.

47

The ladye blushed scarlette redde,
And fette a gentill sighe:
Alas! syr knight, how may this bee,
For my degree's soe highe?
But sith thou hast hight, thou comely youth,
To be my batchilere,
Ile promise if thee I may not wedde
I will have none other fere.
Then shee held forthe her lilly-white hand
Towards that knighte so free:
He gave to it one gentill kisse,
His heart was brought from bale to blisse,
The teares sterte from his ee.
But keep my counsayl, syr Caulìne,
Ne let no man it knowe;
For and ever my father sholde it ken,
I wot he wolde us sloe.
From that daye forthe that ladye fayre
Lovde syr Caulìne the knighte:
From that daye forthe he only joyde
Whan shee was in his sight.
Yea and oftentimes they mette
Within a fayre arbòure,
Where they in love and sweet daliaunce
Past manye a pleasaunt houre.

48

[_]

In this conclusion of the First Part, and at the beginning of the Second, the reader will observe a resemblance to the story of Sigismunda and Guiscard, as told by Boccace and Dryden: See the latter's Description of the Lovers meeting in the Cave, and those beautiful lines, which contain a reflection so like this of our poet, “everye white, &c. viz.

“But as extremes are short of ill and good,
“And tides at highest mark regorge their flood;
“So Fate, that could no more improve their joy,
“Took a malicious pleasure to destroy.
“Tancred, who fondly loved, &c.”

Part the Second.

Everye white will have its blacke,
And everye sweete its sowre:
This founde the ladye Christabelle
In an untimely howre.
For so it befelle as syr Caulìne
Was with that ladye faire,
The kinge her father walked forthe
To take the evenyng aire:
And into the arboure as he went
To rest his wearye feet,

49

He found his daughter and syr Caulìne
Theresette in daliaunce sweet.
The kinge hee sterted forthe, I-wys,
And an angrye man was hee:
Nowe, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe,
And rewe shall thy ladìe.
Then forthe syr Cauline he was ledde,
And throwne in dungeon deepe:
And the ladye into a towre so hye,
There left to wayle and weepe.
The queene she was syr Caulines friend,
And to the kinge sayd shee:
I praye you save syr Caulines life,
And let him banisht bee.
Now, dame, that traitor shall be sent
Across the salt sea some:
But here I will make thee a band,
If ever he come within this land,
A foule deathe is his doome.
All woe-begone was that gentil knight
To parte from his ladyè;
And many a time he sighed sore,
And cast a wistfulle eye:

50

Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte,
Farre lever had I dye.
Faire Christabelle, that ladye bright,
Was had forthe of the towre;
But ever shee droopeth in her minde,
As nipt by an ungentle winde
Doth some faire lillye flowre.
And ever shee doth lament and weepe
To tint her lover soe:
Syr Cauline, thou little think'st on mee,
But I will still be true.
Manye a kinge, and manye a duke,
And lords of high degree,
Did sue to that fayre ladye of love;
But never shee wolde them nee.
When manye a daye was past and gone,
Ne comforte she colde finde,
The kynge proclaimed a tourneament,
To cheere his daughters mind:
And there came lords, and there came knights,
Fro manye a farre countryè,
To break a spere for theyr ladyes love
Before that faire ladyè.

51

And many a ladye there was sette
In purple and in palle:
But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone
Was the fayrest of them all.
Then manye a knighte was mickle of might
Before his ladye gaye;
But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe,
He wan the prize eche daye.
His acton it was all of blacke,
His hewberke, and his sheelde,
Ne noe man wist whence he did come,
Ne noe man knewe where he did gone,
When they came out the feelde.
And now three days were prestlye past
In feates of chivalrye,
When lo upon the fourth mornìnge
A sorrowfulle sight they see.
A hugye giaunt stiffe and starke,
All foule of limbe and lere;
Two goggling eyen like fire farden,
A mouthe from eare to eare.
Before him came a dwarffe full lowe,
That waited on his knee,
And at his backe five heads he bare,
All wan and pale of blee.

52

Sir, quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe,
Behold that hend Soldàin!
Behold these heads I beare with me!
They are kings which he hath slain.
The Eldridge knìght is his own cousìne,
Whom a knight of thine hath shent:
And hee is come to avenge his wrong,
And to thee, all thy knightes among,
Defiance here hath sent.
But yette he will appease his wrath
Thy daughters love to winne:
And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd,
Thy halls and towers must brenne.
Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee;
Or else thy daughter deere;
Or else within these lists soe broad
Thou must finde him a peere.
The king he turned him round aboute,
And in his heart was woe:
Is there never a knighte of my round tablè,
This matter will undergoe?
Is there never a knighte amongst yee all
Will fight for my daughter and mee?
Whoever will fight yon grimme soldàn,
Right fair his meede shall bee.

53

For hee shall have my broad lay-lands,
And of my crowne be heyre;
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle
To be his wedded fere.
But every knighte of his round tablè
Did stand both still and pale;
For whenever they lookt on the grim soldàn,
It made their hearts to quail.
All woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,
When she sawe no helpe was nye:
She cast her thought on her owne true-love,
And the teares gusht from her eye.
Up then sterte the stranger knighte,
Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd:
Ile fight for thee with this grimme soldàn,
Thoughe he be unmacklye made.
And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde,
That lyeth within thy bowre,
I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende
Thoughe he be stiff in stowre.
Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde,
The kinge he cryde, with speede:
Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte;
My daughter is thy meede.

54

The gyaunt he stepped into the lists,
And sayd, Awaye, awaye:
I sweare, as I am the hend soldàn,
Thou lettest me here all daye.
Then forthe the stranger knight he came
In his blacke armoure dight:
The ladye sighed a gentle sighe,
“That this were my true knighte!”
And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett
Within the lists soe broad;
And now with swordes soe sharpe of steele,
They gan to lay on load.
The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke,
That made him reele asyde;
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,
And thrice she deeply sighde.
The soldan strucke a second stroke,
And made the bloude to flowe:
All pale and wan was that ladye fayre,
And thrice she wept for woe.
The soldan strucke a third fell stroke,
Which brought the knighte on his knee:
Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart,
And she shriekt loud shriekings three.

55

The knighte he leapt upon his feete,
All recklesse of the pain:
Quoth hee, But heaven he now my speede,
Or else I shall be slaine.
He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte,
And spying a secrette part,
He drave it into the soldan's syde,
And pierced him to the heart.
Then all the people gave a shoute,
Whan they sawe the soldan falle:
The ladye wept, and thanked Christ,
That had reskewed her from thrall.
And nowe the kinge with all his barons
Rose uppe from offe his seate,
And downe he stepped intò the listes,
That curteous knighte to greete.
But he for payne and lacke of bloude
Was fallen intò a swounde,
And there all walteringe in his gore,
Lay lifelesse on the grounde.
Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare,
Thou art a leeche of skille;
Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,
Than this good knighte sholde spille.

56

Downe then steppeth that fayre ladyè,
To helpe him if she maye;
But when she did his beavere raise,
It is my life, my lord, she sayes,
And shriekte and swound awaye.
Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes
When he heard his ladye crye,
O ladye, I am thine owne true love.
For thee I wisht to dye.
Then giving her one partinge looke,
He closed his eyes in death,
Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde,
Begane to drawe her breathe.
But when she found her comelye knighte
Indeed was dead and gone,
She layde her pale cold cheeke to his,
And thus she made her moane.
O staye, my deare and onlye lord,
For mee thy faithfulle feere;
'Tis meet that I shold followe thee,
Who hast bought my love soe deare.
Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune,
And with a deepe-fette sighe,
That burst her gentle hearte in twayne,
Fayre Christabelle did dye.
 

See Descript. of the ancient Danes, vol. 1. p. 318. Memoires de la Chevalerie. Tom. 1. p. 44.

This line is restored from the folio MS.

i. e. Knights. See the ballad of Child Waters, vol. 3. p. 54.

aukeward. MS.


57

V. EDWARD, EDWARD.

A Scottish Ballad.

[_]

From a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland.

Quhy dois zour brand sae drap wi' bluid,
Edward, Edward?
Quhy dois zour brand sae drap wi' bluid?
And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
Edward, Edward.
Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid;
My deir son I tell the, O.
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and frie, O.
Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
Edward, Edward:

58

Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
Sum other dule ze drie, O.
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas! and wae is mee, O!
And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,
Edward, Edward?
And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
My deir son, now tell me, O.
Ile set my feit in zonder boat,
Mither, mither:
Ile set my feit in zonder boat,
And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.
And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?
Ile let thame stand til they doun fa',
Mither, mither:
Ile let thame stand till they doun fa',
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
Edward, Edward?

59

And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and your wife,
Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?
The warldis room, late them beg throw life,
Mither, mither:
The warldis room, let them beg throw life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
My deir son, now tell mee, O.
The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,
Mither, mither:
The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,
Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.

VI. KING ESTMERE.

[_]

This old Romantic Legend, (which is given from two copies, one of them in the Editor's folio MS.) bears marks of great antiquity, and perhaps ought to have taken place of any in this volume. It should seem to have been written while a great part of Spain was in the hands of the Saracens or Moors: whose empire there was not fully extinguished before the year 1491. The Mahometans are spoken of in v. 49, &c. just in the same terms as in all other old romances. The author of the ancient Legend of Sir


60

Bevis represents his hero, upon all occasions, breathing out defiance against

“Mahound and Termagaunte ;”

And so full of zeal for his religion, as to return the following polite message to a Paynim king's fair daughter, who had fallen in love with him, and sent two Saraecn knights to invite him to her bower,

“I wyll not ones stirre off this grounde,
“To speake with an heathen hounde,
“Unchristen houndes, I rede you fie,
“Or I your harte bloud shall se .”

Indeed they return the compliment by calling him elswhere “A christen hounde. ”

This was conformable to the real manners of the barbarous ages: perhaps the same excuse will hardly serve our bard for the situations in which he has placed some of his royal personages. That a youthful monarch should take a journey into another kingdom to visit his mistress incog. was a piece of gallantry paralleled in our own Charles I. but that king Adland should be found lolling or leaning at his gate (v. 35.) may be thought perchance a little out of character. And yet the great painter of manners, Homer, did not think it inconsistent with decorum to represent a king of the Taphians rearing himself at the gate of Ulysses to inquire for that monarch, when he touched at Ithaca as he was taking a voyage with a ship's cargo of iron to dispose in traffic . So little ought we to judge of ancient manners by our own.

Before I conclude this article, I cannot help observing that the reader will see in this ballad, the character of the old Minstrels (those successors of the bards) placed in a very respectable light : here he will see one of them represented mounted on a fine horse, accompanied with an attendant to bear his harp after him, and to sing the


61

poems of his composing. Here he will see him mixing in the company of kings without ceremony: no mean proof of the great antiquity of this poem. The farther we carry our inquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic nations. Their character was deemed so sacred, that under its sanction our famous king Alfred (as we have already seen ) made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at once admitted to the king's head-quarters . Our poet has suggested the same expedient to the heroes of this ballad. All the histories of the North are full of the great reverence paid to this order of men. Harold Harfagre, a celebrated king of Norway, was wont to seat them at his table above all the officers of his court: and we find another Norwegian king placing five of them by his side in a day of battle, that they might be eye-witnesses of the great exploits they were to celebrate .—As to Estmere's riding into the hall while the kings were at table, this was usual in the ages of chivalry; and even to this day we see a relic of this custom still kept up, in the champion's riding into Westminster-hall during the coronation dinner

Hearken to me, gentlemen,
Come and you shall heare;
Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren,
That ever born y-were.
The tone of them was Adler yonge,
The tother was kyng Estmere;

62

The were as bolde men in their deedes,
As any were farr and neare.
As they were drinking ale and wine
Within kyng Estmeres halle:
When will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr,
A wyfe to gladd us all?
Then bespake him kyng Estmere,
And answered him hastilee:
I knowe not that ladye in any lande,
That is able to marry with mee.
Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,
Men call her bright and sheene;
If I were kyng here in your stead,
That ladye sholde be queene.
Sayes, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
Throughout merrye Englànd,
Where we might find a messenger
Betweene us two to sende.
Sayes, You shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr,
Ile beare you companèe;
Many throughe fals messengers are deceivde,
And I feare lest soe shold wee.

63

Thus the renisht them to ryde
Of twoe good renisht steedes,
And when they came to king Adlands halle,
Of red golde shone their weedes.
And whan the came to kyng Adlands halle
Before the goodlye yate,
Ther they found good kyng Adlànd
Rearing himselfe theratt.
Nowe Christ thee save, good king Adlànd;
Nowe Christ thee save and see.
Sayd, You be welcome, king Estmere,
Right hartilye unto mee.
You have a daughter, sayd Adler yonge,
Men call her bright and sheene,
My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,
Of Englande to be queene.
Yesterdaye was at my deare daughtèr
Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;
And then she nicked him of naye,
I feare sheele do youe the same.
The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynìm,
And 'leeveth on Mahound;
And pitye it were that fayre ladyè
Shold marrye a heathen hound.

64

But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere,
For my love I you praye;
That I may see your daughter deare
Before I goe hence awaye.
Althoughe itt is seven yeare and more
Syth my daughter was in halle,
She shall come downe once for your sake
To glad my guestès alle.
Downe then came that mayden fayre,
With ladyes lacede in pall,
And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes,
To bring her from bowre to hall;
And eke as manye gentle squieres,
To waite upon them all.
The talents of golde, were on her head sette,
Hunge lowe downe to her knee;
And everye rynge on her smalle fingèr,
Shone of the chrystall free.
Sayes, Christ you save, my deare madàme;
Sayes, Christ you save and see.
Sayes, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
Right welcome unto mee.
And iff you love me, as you saye,
So well, and hartilèe,

65

All that ever you are comen about
Soone sped now itt may bee.
Then bespake her father deare:
My daughter, I saye naye;
Remember well the kyng of Spayne,
What he sayd yesterdaye.
He wold pull downe my halles and castles,
And reave me of my lyfe:
And ever I feare that paynim kyng,
Iff I reave him of his wyfe.
Your castles and your towres, father,
Are stronglye built aboute;
And therefore of that foule paynìm
Wee neede not stande in doubte.
Plyght me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmère,
By heaven and your righte hand,
That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
And make me queene of your land.
Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth
By heaven and his righte hand,
That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
And make her queene of his land.
And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
To goe to his owne countree,

66

To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
That marryed the might bee.
They had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle forthe of the towne,
But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
With kempès many a one.
But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
With manye a grimme baròne,
Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carrye her home.
Then shee sent after kyng Estmère
In all the spede might bee,
That he must either returne and fighte,
Or goe home and lose his ladyè.
One whyle then the page he went,
Another whyle he ranne;
Till he had oretaken king Estmere,
I wis, he never blanne.
Tydinges, tydinges, kyng Estmere!
What tydinges nowe, my boye?
O tydinges I can tell to you,
That will you sore annoye.
You had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle out of the towne,

67

But in did come the kyng of Spayne
With kempès many a one:
But in did come the kyng of Spayne
With manye a grimme baròne,
Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carrye her home.
That ladye fayre she greetes you well,
And ever-more well by mee:
You must either turne againe and fighte,
Or goe home and lose your ladyè.
Sayes, Reade me, reade me, deare brothèr,
My reade shall ryde at thee,
Whiche waye we best may turne and fighte,
To save this fayre ladyè.
Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,
And your reade must rise at me,
I quicklye will devise a waye
To sette thy ladye free.
My mother was a westerne woman,
And learned in gramaryè
And when I learned at the schole,
Something shee taught itt mee.

68

There groweth an hearbe within this fielde,
And iff it were but knowne,
His color, which is whyte and redd,
It will make blacke and browne:
His color, which is browne and blacke,
Itt will make redd and whyte;
That sworde is not in all Englande,
Upon his coate will byte.
And you shal be a harper, brother,
Out of the north countrèe;
And Ile be your boye, so faine of fighte,
To beare your harpe by your knee.
And you shall be the best harpèr,
That ever tooke harpe in hand;
And I will be the best singèr,
That ever sung in this land.
Itt shal be written in our forheads
All and in grammaryè,
That we towe are the boldest men,
That are in all Christentyè.
And thus they renisht them to ryde,
On towe good renish steedes;
And whan they came to king Adlands hall,
Of redd gold shone their weedes.

69

And whan the came to kyng Adlands hall
Untill the fayre hall yate,
There they found a proud portèr
Rearing himselfe theratt.
Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud portèr;
Sayes, Christ thee save and see.
Nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr,
Of what land soever ye bee.
We been harpers, sayd Adler yonge,
Come out of the northe countrèe;
We beene come hither untill this place,
This proud weddinge for to see.
Sayd, And your color were white and redd,
As it is blacke and browne,
Ild saye king Estmere and his brother
Were comen untill this towne.
Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
Layd itt on the porters arme:
And ever we will thee, proud portèr,
Thow wilt saye us no harme.
Sore he looked on kyng Estmère,
And sore he handled the ryng,
Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
He lett for no kind of thyng.

70

Kyng Estmere he light off his steede
Up att the fayre hall board;
The frothe, that came from his brydle bitte,
Light on kyng Bremors beard.
Sayes, Stable thy steede, thou proud harpèr,
Goe stable him in the stalle;
Itt doth not beseeme a proud harpèr
To stable him in a kyngs halle.
My ladd he is so lither, he sayd,
He will do nought that's meete;
And aye that I cold but find the man,
Were able him to beate.
Thou speakst proud words, sayd the Paynim king,
Thou harper here to mee;
There is a man within this halle,
That will beate thy lad and thee.
O lett that man come downe, he sayd,
A sight of him wold I see;
And whan hee hath beaten well my ladd,
Then he shall beate of mee.
Downe then came the kemperye man,
And looked him in the eare;
For all the gold, that was under heaven,
He durst not neigh him neare.

71

And how nowe, kempe, sayd the kyng of Spayne,
And how what aileth thee?
He sayes, Itt is written in his forhead
All and in gramaryè,
That for all the gold that is under heaven,
I dare not neigh him nye.
Kyng Estmere then pulled forth his harpe,
And playd thereon so sweete:
Upstarte the ladye from the kynge,
As hee sate at the meate.
Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harpèr,
Now stay thy harpe, I say;
For an thou playest as thou beginnest,
Thou'lt till my bride awaye.
He strucke upon his harpe agayne,
And playd both fayre and free;
The ladye was so pleasde theratt,
She laught loud laughters three.
Nowe sell me thy harpe, sayd the kyng of Spayne,
Thy harpe and stryngs eche one,
And as many gold nobles thou shalt have,
As there be stryngs thereon.

72

And what wold ye doe with my harpe, he sayd,
Iff I did sell it yee?
“To playe my wiffe and me a fitt ,
When abed together we bee.”
Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay,
As shee sitts laced in pall,
And as many gold nobles I will give,
As there be rings in the hall.
And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,
Iff I did sell her yee?
More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
To lye by mee than thee.
Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,
And Adler he did syng,
“O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
“Noe harper, but a kyng.
“O ladye, this is thy owne true love,
“As playnlye thou mayest see;
“And Ile rid thee of that foule paynìm,
“Who partes thy love and thee.”
The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,
And blushte and lookt agayne,

73

While Adler he hath drawne his brande,
And hath the Sowdan slayne.
Up then rose the kemperye men,
And loud they gan to crye:
Ah! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,
And therefore yee shall dye.
Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,
And swith he drew his brand;
And Estmere he, and Adler yonge
Right stiffe in stour can stand.
And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,
Throughe help of Gramaryè
That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
Or forst them forth to flee.
Kyng Estmere tooke that fayre ladyè,
And marryed her to his wyfe,
And brought her home to merrye Englànd
With her to leade his lyfe.
 

See a short Memoir at the end of this ballad, pag. 74.

Termagaunt (mentioned above in p. 60.) is the name given in the old romances to the God of the Sarazens: in which he is constantly linked with Mahound or Mahomet. Thus in the legend of syr Guy the Soudan (Sultan) swears,

“So helpe me Mahowne of might,
“And Termagaunt my God so bright.”

Sign. p. iij. b.

This word is derived by the very learned Editor of Junius from the Anglo-Saxon [for] very, and [for] mighty. —As this word had so sublime a derivation, and was so applicable to the true God, how shall we account for its being so degraded? Perhaps Termagant had been a name originally given to some Saxon idol, before our ancestors were converted to Christianity; or had been the peculiar attribute of one of their false deities; and therefore the first Christian missionaries rejected it as profane and improper to be applied to the true God. Afterwards when the irruptions of the Saracens into Europe, and the Crusades into the East, had brought them acquainted with a new species of unbelievers; our ignorant ancestors, who thought all that did not receive the Christian law, were necessarily Pagans and Idolaters, supposed the Mahometan creed was in all respects the same with that of their Pagan forefathers, and therefore made no scruple to give the ancient name of Termagant to the God of the Saracens: just in the same manner as they afterwards used the name of Sarazen to express any kind of Pagan or Idolater. In the ancient romance of Merline (in the editor's folio MS.) the Saxons themselves that came over with Hengist, because they were not Christians, are constantly called Sarazens.

However that be, it is certain that, after the times of the Crusades, both Mahound and Termagaunt made their frequent appearance in the Pageants and religious Enterludes of the barbarous ages; in which they were exhibited with gestures so furious and frantic, as to become proverbial. Thus Skelton speaks of Wolsey,

“Like Mahound in a play,
“No man dare him withsay.”

Ed. 1736. p. 158.

And Bale, describing the threats used by some Papist magistrates to his wife, speaks of them as “grennyng upon her lyke Termagauntes in a playe.” [Actes of Engl. Votaryes, pt. 2. fo. 83. Ed. 1550. 12mo.]—Hence we may conceive the force of Hamlet's expression in Shakespeare, where condemning a ranting player he says, “I could have such a fellow whipt for ore-doing Termagant: it out-Herods Herod.” A. 3. sc. 3.—By degrees the word came to be applied to an outrageous turbulent person, and especially to a violent brawling woman; to whom alone it is now confined: and this the rather as, I suppose, the character of Termagant was anciently represented on the stage after the eastern mode, with long robes or petticoats.

Another frequent character in the old pageants or enterludes of our ancestors, was the sowdan or soldan representing a grim eastern tyrant: This appears from a curious passage in Stow's Annals [p. 458.]—In a stage-play “the people know right well that he that plaieth the sowdain, is percase a sowter [shoe-maker], yet if one should cal him by his owne name, while he standeth in his majestie, one of his tormentors might bap to break his head.” The sowdain or soldan, was a name given to any Sarazen king, (being only a more rude pronunciation of the word sultan) as the soldan of Egypt, the soudan of Persia, the sowdan of Babylon, &c. who were generally represented as accompanied with grim Sarazens, whose business it was to punish and torment Christians.

I cannot conclude this short Memoir, without observing that the French romancers who had borrowed the word Termagant from us, and applied it as we in their old romances, corrupted it into Tervagaunte: And from them La Fontaine took it up, and has used it more than once in his tales.—This may be added to the other proofs adduced in these volumes of the great intercourse that formerly subsisted between the old minstrels and legendary writers of both nations, and that they mutually borrowed each others romances.

Sign. C. ij. b.

Sign. C. j. b.

Odyss. a. 105.

See vol. 2. p. 168.

See the Essay on the ancient Minstrels prefixed to this Vol.

Even so late as the time of Froissart, we find Minstrels and Heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an enemy's country. Cap. cxl.

Bartholini Antiq. Dan. p. 173.—Descript. of the anc. Danes, Vol. 1. p. 386. 389. &c.

See also the account of Edw. II. in the Essay on the Minstrels.

He means fit, suitable.

sic. MS.

sic. MS.

The word Gramayre occurs several times in the foregoing poem, and every where seems to signify Magic or some kind of supernatural science. I know not whence to derive it, unless it be from the word Grammar.—In those dark and ignorant ages, when it was thought a high degree of learning to be able to read and write; he who had made a little further progress in literature, might well pass for a conjurer or magician.

i. e. Entice. Vid. Gloss. For Gramary, see below.

i. e. a tune, or strain of music. See Gloss.


76

VII. SIR PATRICK SPENCE,

A Scottish Ballad

[_]

—is given from two MS copies transmitted from Scotland. In what age the hero of this ballad lived, or when this fatal expedition happened that proved so destructive to the Scots nobles, I have not been able to discover; yet am of opinion that their catastrophe is not altogether without foundation in history, though it has escaped my own researches. In the infancy of navigation, such as used the northern seas, were very liable to shipwreck in the wintry months: hence a law was enacted in the reign of James the III, (a law which was frequently repeated afterwards) “That there be na schip frauched out of the realm with any staple gudes, fra the feast of Simons day and Jude, unto the feast of the purification our Lady called Candelmess.”

Jam. III. Parlt. 2. Ch. 15.

In some modern copies, instead of Patrick Spence hath been substituted the name of Sir Andrew Wood, a famous Scottish admiral who flourished in the time of our Edw. IV. but whose story hath nothing in common with this of the ballad. As Wood was the most noted warrior of Scotland, it is probable that, like the Theban Hercules, he hath engrossed the renown of other heroes.


77

The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
O quhar will I get guid sailòr,
To sail this schip of mine?
Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailòr,
That sails upon the se.
The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi' his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he:
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
O quha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me;
To send me out this time o'the zeir,
To sail upon the se?
Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne.
O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.

78

Late late yestreen I saw the new moone
Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
And I feir, I feir, my deir mastèr,
That we will com to harme.
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit
Wi' thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang, may the ladies stand
Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
Have owre, have owre to Aberdour ,
It's fiftie fadom deip:
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
 

A village lying upon the river Forth, the entrance to which is sometimes denominated De mortuo mari.


79

VIII. ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE.

[_]

We have here a ballad of Robin Hood (from the Editor's folio MS) which was never before printed, and carries marks of much greater antiquity than any of the common popular songs on this subject.

The severity of those tyrannical forest-laws, that were introduced by our Norman kings, and the great temptation of breaking them by such as lived near the royal forests, at a time when the yeomanry of this kingdom were every where trained up to the long-bow, and excelled all other nations in the art of shooting, must constantly have occasioned great numbers of outlaws, and especially of such as were the best marksmen. These naturally fled to the woods for shelter, and forming into troops, endeavoured by their numbers to protect themselves from the dreadful penalties of their delinquency. The ancient punishment for killing the king's deer, was loss of eyes and castration: a punishment far worse than death. This will easily account for the troops of banditti, which formerly lurked in the royal forests, and from their superior skill in archery and knowledge of all the recesses of those unfrequented solitudes, found it no difficult matter to resist or elude the civil power.

Among all these, none was ever more famous than the hero of this ballad: the heads of whose story, as collected by Stow, are briefly these.

“In this time [about the year 1190, in the reign of Richard I.] were many robbers, and outlawes, among the which Robin Hood, and Little John, renowned theeves, continued in woods, despoyling and robbing the goods of


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the rich. They killed none but such as would invade them; or by resistance for their own defence.

“The saide Robert entertained an hundred tall men and good archers with such spoiles and thefts as he got, upon whom four hundred (were they ever so strong) durst not give the onset. He suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or otherwise molested: poore mens goods he spared, abundantlie relieving them with that, which by theft he got from abbeys and the houses of rich carles: whom Maior (the historian) blameth for his rapine and theft, but of all theeves he affirmeth him to be the prince and the most gentle theefe.” Annals, p. 159.

The personal courage of this celebrated outlaw, his skill in archery, his humanity, and especially his levelling principle of taking from the rich and giving to the poor, have in all ages rendered him the favourite of the common people: who not content to celebrate his memory by innumerable songs and stories, have erected him into the dignity of an earl. Indeed it is not impossible, but our hero, to gain the more respect from his followers, or they to derive the more credit to their profession, may have given rise to such a report themselves: for we find it recorded in an epitaph, which, if genuine, must have been inscribed on his tombstone near the nunnery of Kirk-lees in Yorkshire; where (as the story goes) he was bled to death by a treacherous nun to whom he applied for phlebotomy.

Hear undernead dis lait ī stean
laiz robert earl of huntingtun
nea arcir ver az hie sae geud
an pipl kauld im Robin Heud
sick utlawz as hi an is men
vil England nivir si agen.
obiit 24 kal. dekembris, 1247.

This Epitaph appears to me suspicious; however, a late Antiquary has given a pedigree of Robin Hood, which,


81

if genuine, shews that he had real pretensions to the Earldom of Huntington, and that his true name was Robert Fitz-ooth . Yet the most ancient poems on Robin Hood make no mention of this Earldom. He is expressly asserted to have been a yeoman in a very old legend in verse preserved in the archives of the public library at Cambridge in eight fyttes or Parts, printed in black letter, quarto, thus inscribed, “Here begynneth a lytell geste of Robyn hode and his meyne, and of the proude sheryfe of Notyngham.” The first lines are,

“Lithe and lysten, gentylmen,
“That be of fre bore blode:
“I shall you tell of a good yeman,
“His name was Robyn hode.
“Robyn was a proude out-lawe,
“Whiles he walked on grounde;
“So curteyse an outlawe as he was one,
“Was never none yfounde.” &c.

The printer's colophon is, “Explicit Kinge Edwarde and Robin hode and Lyttel Johan. Enprented at London in Fletestrete at the sygne of the sone by Wynkin de Worde.” —In Mr. Garrick's Collection is a different edition of the same poem “Imprinted at London upon the thre Crane wharfe by Wyllyam Copland.” containing at the end a little dramatic piece on the subject of Robin Hood and the Friar, not found in the former copy, called, “A newe playe for to be played in Maye games very plesaunte and full of pastyme.”

I shall conclude these preliminary remarks with observing, that the hero of this ballad was the favourite subject of popular songs so early as the time of K. Edw. III. In the


82

Visions of Pierce Plowman, written in that reign, a monk says,

I can rimes of Roben Hod, and Randal of Chester,
But of our Lorde and our Lady, I lerne nothyng at all.
Fol. 26. Ed. 1550.

See also in Bp. Latimer's Sermons a very curious and characteristical story, which shews what respect was shewn to the memory of our archer in the time of that prelate.

Whan shaws beene sheene, and shraddes full fayre,
And leaves both large and longe,
Itt's merrye walkyng in the fayre forrèst
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 faye, sayd jollye Robìn,
A sweaven 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.

83

Sweavens are swift, sayd Lyttle John,
As the wind blowes over the hill;
For iff itt be never so loude this night,
To-morrow it may be still.
Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe seeke yond wighty yeomen,
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 forrèst
A shooting forth are gone;
Untill they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest to bee,
There they were ware of a wight yeomàn,
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 hyde
Topp and tayll and mayne.
Stand still, master, quoth Litle John,
Under this tree so grene,
And I will go to yond wight yeoman
To know what he doth meane.

84

Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
And that I farley 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,
So they parted Robin and John;
And John is gone to Barnesdale:
The gates he knoweth eche one.
But when he came to Barnesdale,
Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
For he found tow of his owne fellòwes
Were slaine both in a slade.
A Scarlette he was flyinge 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;

85

Ile make yond sheriffe that wends soe fast,
To stopp he shall be fayne.
Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
And fetteled him to shoote:
The bow was made of tender boughe,
And fell downe at his foote.
Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ever thou grew on a tree;
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote when thou shold bee.
His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sherriffes men,
And William a Trent was slaine.
It had bene better of William a Trent
To have bene abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the green wood slade
To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
But as it is said, when men be mett
Fyve can doe more than three,
The sheriffe hath taken little John,
And bound him fast to a tree.
Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
And hanged hye on a hill.

86

But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
If it be Christ his will.
Lett us leave talking of little John,
And thinke of Robin Hood,
How he is gone to the wight yeomàn,
Where under the leaves he stood.
Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
“Good morrowe, good fellow, quo' he:”
Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
A good archere thou sholdst bee.
I am wilfulle of my waye, quo' the yeman,
And of my morning tyde.
Ile lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
Good fellow, Ile be thy guide.
I seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd,
Men call him Robin Hood;
Rather Ild meet with that proud outlàwe
Than fortye pound soe good.
Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
And Robin thou soone shalt see:
But first let us some pastime find
Under the greenwood tree.

87

First let us some masterye make
Among the woods so even,
We may chance to meete with Robin Hood
Here at some unsett steven.
They cutt them down two summer shroggs,
That grew both under a breere,
And sett them threescore rood in twaine
To shoote the prickes y-fere.
Leade on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
Leade on, I do bidd thee.
Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
My leader thou shalt bee.
The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
He mist but an inch it fro:
The yeoman he was an archer good,
But he cold never do soe.
The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
He shot within the garlànd:
But Robin he shott far better than hee,
For he clave the good pricke wande.
A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;
Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
Thou wert better than Robin Hoode.

88

Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
Under the leaves of lyne.
Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robìn,
Till thou have told me thine.
I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,
And Robin to take Ime sworne;
And when I am called by my right name
I am Guy of good Gisbòrne.
My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,
By thee I set right nought:
I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,
Whom thou so long hast sought.
He that had neyther beene kithe nor kin,
Might have seen a full fayre sight,
To see how together these yeomen went
With blades both browne and bright.

89

To see how these yeomen together they fought
Two howres of a summers day:
Yett neither Robin Hood nor sir Guy
Them fettled to flye away.
Robin was reachles on a roote,
And stumbled at that tyde;
And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all,
And hitt him upon the syde.
Ah deere Ladye, sayd Robin Hood tho,
That art but mother and may',
I think it was never mans destinye
To dye before his day.
Robin thought on our ladye deere,
And soone leapt up againe,
And strait he came with a ‘backward’ stroke,
And he sir Guy hath slayne.
He took sir Guys head by the hayre,
And stuck it upon his bowes end:
Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life,
Which thing must have an end.
Robin pulled forth an Irish knife,
And nicked sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on woman born,
Cold know whose head it was.

90

Sayes, Lye there, lye there, now sir Guye,
And with me be not wrothe;
Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better clothe.
Robin did off his gowne of greene,
And on sir Guy did throwe,
And hee put on that capull hyde,
That cladd him topp to toe.
Thy bowe, thy arrowes, and litle horne,
Now with me I will beare;
For I will away to Barnèsdale,
To see how my men doe fare.
Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth,
And a loud blast in it did blow.
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.
Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,
I heare nowe tydings good,
For yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blow,
And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
Yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blowe,
Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
Cladd in his capull hyde.

91

Come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir Guy,
Aske what thou wilt of mee.
O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
Nor I will none of thy fee:
But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,
Let me goe strike the knave;
For this is all the meede I aske;
None other rewarde I'le have.
Thou art a madman, sayd the sheriffe,
Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee:
But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
Well granted it shal bee.
When Little John heard his master speake,
Well knewe he it was his steven:
Now shall I be looset, quoth Little John,
With Christ his might in heaven.
Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John,
He thought to loose him blive;
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him can drive.
Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;
Why draw you mee so neere?
Itt was never the use in our countryè,
Ones shrift another shold heere.

92

But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife,
And losed John hand and foote,
And gave him sir Guyes bow into his hand,
And bade it be his boote.
Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
His boltes and arrowes eche one:
When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
He fettled him to be gone.
Towards his house in Nottingham towne,
He fled full fast away;
And soe did all the companye;
Not one behind wold stay.
But he cold neither runne soe fast,
Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
But Little John with an arrowe soe broad,
He shott him into the ‘backe’-syde.
[_]

The title of Sir was not formerly peculiar to Knights, it was given to priests, and sometimes to very inferior personages.

 

See Thoresby's Ducat. Leod. p. 576. Biog. Brit. VI. 3933.

Stukeley, in his Palæographia Britannica, No. II. 1746.

See also the following ballad, v. 147.

Num. D. 5. 2.

Old Plays, 4 to. K. vol. 10.

Ser. 6th before K. Ed. Apr. 12. fol. 75. Gilpin's life of Lat. p. 122.

It should perhaps be Swards: i.e. the surface of the ground: viz. “when the fields are in their beauty.”

i.e. ways, passes, paths, ridings. Gate is a common word in the North for way.

The common epithet for a sword or other offensive weapon, in the old metrical romances, is Brown. As “brown brand,” or “brown sword: brown bill,” &c. and sometimes even “bright brown sword.” Chaucer applies the word rustie in the same sense; thus he describes the reve:

And by his side he bare a rustie blade.”

Prol. ver. 620.

And even thus the God Mars:

“And in his hand he had a rousty sword.”

Test. of Cressid. 188.

Spencer has sometimes used the same epithet: See Warten's Observ. vol. 2. p. 62. It should seem from this particularity that our ancestors did not pique themselves upon keeping their weapons bright: perhaps they deemed it more honourable to carry them stained with the blood of their enemies.

awkwarde. MS.


93

IX. AN ELEGY ON HENRY FOURTH EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

[_]

The subject of this poem, which was written by Skelton, is the death of Henry Percy, fourth earl of Northumberland, who fell a victim to the avarice of Henry VII. In 1489 the parliament had granted the king a subsidy for carrying on the war in Bretagne. This tax was found so heavy in the North, that the whole country was in a flame. The E. of Northumberland, then lord lieutenant for Yorkshire, wrote to inform the king of the discontent, and praying an abatement. But nothing is so unrelenting as avarice: the king wrote back that not a penny should be abated. This message being delivered by the earl with too little caution, the populace rose, and supposing him to be the promoter of their calamity, broke into his house, and murdered him with several of his attendants: who yet are charged by Skelton with being backward in their duty on this occasion. This melancholy event happened at the earl's seat at Cocklodge, near Thirske, in Yorkshire, April 28. 1489. See Lord Bacon, &c.

If the reader does not find much poetical merit in this old poem (which yet is one of Skelton's best), he will see a striking picture of the state and magnificence kept up by our


94

ancient nobility during the feudal times. This great earl is described here as having among his menial servants, knights, squires, and even barons: see v. 32. 183. &c. Which however different from modern manners, was formerly not unusual with our greater Barons, whose castles had all the splendour and offices of a royal court, before the Laws against Retainers abridged and limited the number of their attendants.

John Skelton, who commonly styled himself Poet Laureat, died June 21. 1529. The following poem, which appears to have been written soon after the event, is printed from an ancient MS. copy preserved in the British Museum, being much more correct than that printed among Skelton's Poems in bl. let. 12mo. 1568.—It is addressed to Henry Percy fifth earl of Northumberland, and is prefacea, &c. in the following manner:

Poeta Skelton Laureatus libellum suum metrice alloquitur.
Ad dominum properato meum mea pagina Percy,
Qui Northumbrorum jura paterna gerit.
Ad nutum celebris tu prona repone leonis,
Quæque suo patri tristia justa cano.
Ast ubi perlegit, dubiam sub mente volutet
Fortunam, cuncta quæ male fida rotat.
Qui leo sit felix, & Nestoris occupet annos;
Ad libitum cujus ipse paratus ero.
Skelton Laureat upon the dolorus dethe and much lamentable chaunce of the moost honorable Erle of Northumberlande.
I wayle, I wepe, I sobbe, I sigh ful sore
The dedely fate, the dolefulle destenny
Of him that is gone, alas! withoute restore,

95

Of the blode royall descendinge nobelly;
Whos lordshepe doutles was slayne lamentably
Thorow treson ageyn hym compassyd and wrought;
Trew to his prince, in word, in dede, and thought.
Of hevenly poems, O Clyo calde by name
In the college of musis goddess hystoriall,
Adres the to me, whiche am both halt and lame
In elect uteraunce to make memoryall:
To the for soccour, to the for helpe I call
Myne homely rudnes and drighnes to expelle
With the freshe waters of Elyconys welle.
Of noble actes auncyently enrolde,
Of famous princis and lordes of astate,
By thy report ar wonte to be extold,
Regestringe trewly every formare date;
Of thy bountie after the usuall rate,
Kyndle in me suche plenty of thy noblès,
Thes sorrowfulle dities that I may shew expres.
In sesons past who hathe harde or sene
Of formar writinge by any presidente
That vilane hastarddis in ther furious tene,

96

Fulfyld with malice of froward entente,
Confeterd togeder of commoun concente
Falsly to slo ther moste singular goode lorde?
It may be registerde of shamefull recorde.
So noble a man, so valiaunt lorde and knight,
Fulfilled with honor, as all the worlde dothe ken;
At his commaundement, whiche had both day and night
Knyghtis and squyers, at every season when
He calde upon them, as menyall houshold men:
Were no thes commones uncurteis karlis of kynde
To slo their owne lorde? God was not in their minde.
And were not they to blame, I say also,
That were aboute hym, his owne servants of trust,
To suffre hym slayn of his mortall fo?
Fled away from hym, let hym ly in the dust:
They bode not till the rekening were discust.
What shuld I flatter? what shulde I glose or paynt?
Fy, fy for shame, their harts wer to faint.
In Englande and Fraunce, which gretly was redouted;
Of whom both Flaunders and Scotland stode in drede;
To whome grete astates obeyde and lowttede;
A mayny of rude villayns made him for to blede:
Unkindly they slew hym, that holp them oft at nede:
He was their bulwark, their paves, and their wall,
Yet shamfully they slew hym; that shame mot them befal.

97

I say, ye comoners, why wer ye so stark mad?
What frantyk frensy syll in youre brayne?
Where was your wit and reson, ye shuld have had?
What willfull foly made yow to ryse agayne
Your naturall lord? alas! I can not fayne.
Ye armed you with will, and left your wit behynd;
Well may you be called comones most unkynd.
He was your chyfteyne, your shelde, your chef defence,
Redy to assyst you in every tyme of nede:
Your worship depended of his excellence:
Alas! ye mad men, to far ye did excede:
Your hap was unhappy, to ill was your spede:
What movyd you agayn hym to war or to fight?
What aylde you to sle your lord agyn all right?
The grounde of his quarel was for his sovereyn lord,
The welle concernyng of all the hole lande,
Demaundyng soche dutyes as nedis most acord
To the right of his prince which shold not be withstand;
For whos cause ye slew hym with your awne hande:
But had his nobill men done wel that day,
Ye had not been hable to have saide him nay.
But ther was fals packinge, or els I am begylde:
How-be-it the mater was evident and playne,
For yf they had occupied ther spere and ther shelde,
This noble man doutles had not be slayne.
Bot men say they wer lynked with a double chayn,
And held with the commouns under a cloke,
Whiche kindeled the wyld fyre that made all this smoke.

98

The commouns renyed ther taxes to pay
Of them demaunded and asked by the kynge;
With one voice importune, they playnly said nay:
They buskt them on a bushment themself in baile to bringe:
Agayne the kings plesure to wrastle or to wringe,
Bluntly as bestis withe boste and with cry
They saide, they forsede not, nor carede not to dy.
The noblenes of the northe this valiant lorde and knyght,
As man that was innocent of trechery or trayne,
Presed forthe boldly to witstand the myght,
And, lyke marciall Hector, he fauht them agayne,
Vigorously upon them with myght and with mayne,
Trustinge in noble men that wer with hym there:
Bot all they fled from hym for falshode or fere.
Barons, knights, squyers, one and alle,
Togeder with servaunts of his famuly,
Turnd their backis, and let ther master fall,
Of whos [life] they counted not a flye;
Take up whos wolde for them, they let hym ly.
Alas! his golde, his fee, his annuall rente
Upon suche a sort was ille bestowde and spent.
He was envyronde aboute on every syde
Withe his enemys, that were stark mad and wode;
Yet whils he stode he gave them woundes wyde:
Alas for routhe! what thouche his mynde were goode,
His corage manly, yet ther he shed his bloode!

99

All left alone, alas! he fawte in vayne;
For cruelly amonge them ther he was slayne.
Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt,
The famous erle of Northumberlande:
Of knightly prowès the sworde pomel and hylt,
The myghty lyoun doutted by se and lande!
O dolorous chaunce of fortuns fruward hande!
What man remembring how shamfully he was slayne,
From bitter weepinge hymself kan restrayne?
O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war!
O dolorous teusday, dedicate to thy name,
When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar!
O grounde ungracious, unhappy be thy fame,
Whiche wert endyed with rede blode of the same!
Moste noble erle! O fowle mysuryd grounde
Whereon he gat his fynal dedely wounde!
O Atropos, of the fatall systers thre,
Goddes mooste cruell unto the lyf of man,
All merciles, in the ys no pitè!
O homycide, whiche sleest all that thou kan,
So forcibly upon this erle thow ran,
That with thy sworde enharpid of mortall drede,
Thou kit asonder his persight vitall threde!
My wordis unpullysht be nakide and playne,
Of aureat poems they want ellumynynge;
Bot by them to knoulege ye may attayne
Of this lordis dethe and of his murdrynge.
Which whils he lyvyd had fuyson of every thing,

100

Of knights, of squyers, chef lord of toure and toune,
Tyl fykkill fortune began on hym to frowne.
Paregall to dukis, with kings he myght compare,
Sourmountinge in honor all erls he did excede,
To all cuntreis aboute hym reporte me I dare.
Lyke to Eneas benygne in worde and dede,
Valiaunt as Hector in every marciall nede,
Provydent, discrete, circumspect, and wyse,
Tyll the chaunce ran agyne him of fortunes duble dyse.
What nedethe me for to extoll his fame
With my rude pen enkankerd all with rust?
Whos noble actis shew worsheply his name,
Transcendyng far myne homely muse, that must
Yet sumwhat wright supprisid with hartly lust,
Truly reportinge his right noble astate,
Immortally whiche is immaculate.
His noble blode never disteynyd was,
Trew to his prince for to defende his right,
Doublenes hatinge, fals maters to compas,
Treytory and treson he bannesht out of syght,
With trowth to medle was all his hole delyght,
As all his kuntrey kan testefy the same:
To slo suche a lord, alas, it was grete shame.
If the hole quere of the musis nyne
In me all onely wer sett and comprisyde,
Enbrethed with the blast of influence dyvyne,
As perfightly as could be thought or devysyd;
To me also allthouche it were promysyde

101

Of laureat Phebus holy the eloquence,
All were to litill for his magnyficence.
O yonge lyon, bot tender yet of age,
Grow and encrese, remembre thyn astate,
God the assyst unto thyn herytage,
And geve the grace to be more fortunate,
Agayne rebellyouns arme to make debate.
And, as the lyoune, whiche is of bestis kinge,
Unto thy subjectis be kurteis and benyngne.
I pray God sende the prosperous lyf and long,
Stabille thy mynde constant to be and fast,
Right to mayntein, and to resist all wronge,
All flattringe faytors abhor and from the cast,
Of foule detraction God kepe the from the blast,
Let double delinge in the have no place,
And be not light of credence in no case.
Wythe hevy chere, with dolorous hart and mynd,
Eche man may sorow in his inward thought,
Thys lords death, whose pere is hard to fynd
Allgyf Englond and Fraunce were thorow saught.
Al kings, all princes, all dukes, well they ought
Bothe temporall and spirituall for to complayne
This noble man, that crewelly was slayne.
More specially barons, and those knygtes bold,
And all other gentilmen with hym enterteynd
In fee, as menyall men of his housold,
Whom he as lord worsheply manteynd:
To sorowfull weping they ought to be constreynd,

102

As oft as thei call to ther remembraunce,
Of ther good lord the fate and dedely chaunce.
O perlese prince of hevyn emperyalle,
That with one worde formed al thing of noughte;
Hevyn, hell, and erth obey unto thi kall;
Which to thy resemblance wondersly hast wrought
All mankynd, whom thou full dere hast boght,
With thy blode precious our finaunce thou dyd pay,
And us redemed, from the fendys pray:
To the pray we, as prince incomperable,
As thou art of mercy and pite the well,
Thou bringe unto thy joye etermynable
The sowle of this lorde from all daunger of hell,
In endles blis with the to byde and dwell
In thy palace above the orient,
Where thou art lorde, and God omnipotent.
O quene of mercy, O lady full of grace,
Maiden moste pure, and goddis moder dere,
To sorowfull harts chef comfort and solace,
Of all women O floure withouten pere,
Pray to thy son above the starris clere,
He to vouchesaf by thy mediatioun
To pardon thy servant, and bringe to salvacion.
In joy triumphaunt the hevenly yerarchy,
With all the hole sorte of that glorious place,
His soule mot receyve into ther company

103

Thorowe bounte of hym that formed all solace:
Well of pite, of mercy, and of grace,
The father, the son, and the holy goste
In Trinitate one God of myghts moste.
[_]

I have placed the foregoing poem of Skelton's before the following extract from Hawes, not only because it was written first, but because I think Skelton is in general to be considered as the earlier poet; many of his poems being written long before Hawes's Graunde Amour.

 

Henry, first E. of Northumberland, was born of Mary daughter to Henry E. of Lancaster, second son of K. Henry III.—He was also lineally descended from the Emperour Charlemagne and the ancient Kings of France, by his ancestor Josceline de Lovain, (son of Godfrey Duke of Brabant,) who took the name of Percy on marrying the heiress of that house in the reign of Hen. II. Vid. Camden. Britan. Edmondson, &c.

X. THE TOWER OF DOCTRINE.

[_]

The reader has here a specimen of the descriptive powers of Stephen Hawes, a celebrated poet in the reign of Hen. VII. tho' now little known. It is extracted from an allegorical poem of his (written in 1505.) intitled, “The Hist. of Graunde Amoure & La Belle Pucel, called the Palace of Pleasure, &c.” 4to. 1555.

See more of Hawes in Ath. Ox. v. 1. p. 6. and Warton's Observ. v. 2. p. 105.

The following Stanzas are taken from Chap. III. and IV. “How Fame departed from Graunde Amour and left him with Governaunce and Grace, and howe he went to the Tower of Doctrine, &c.”—As we are able to give no small lyric piece of Hawes's, the reader will excuse the insertion of this extract.


104

I loked about and saw a craggy roche,
Farre in the west neare to the element,
And as I dyd then unto it approche,
Upon the toppe I sawe refulgent
The royal tower of Morall Document,
Made of fine copper with turrettes fayre and hye,
Which against Phebus shone soe marveylously,
That for the very perfect bryghtnes
What of the tower, and of the cleare sunne,
I could nothyng behold the goodlines
Of that palaice, whereas Doctrine did wonne:
Tyll at the last, with mysty wyndes donne,
The radiant brightnes of golden Phebus
Auster gan cover with clowde tenebrus.
Then to the tower I drewe nere and nere,
And often mused of the great hyghnes
Of the craggy rocke, which quadrant did appeare:
But the fayre tower, (so much of ryches
Was all about,) sexangled doubtles;
Gargeyld with grayhoundes, and with many lyons,
Made of fyne golde; with divers sundry dragons.
The little ‘turrett’ with ymages of golde
About was set, whiche with the wynde aye moved
With propre vices, that I did well beholde
About the tower, in sundry wyse they hoved
With goodly pypes, in their mouthes ituned,
That with the wynd they pyped a daunce
Iclipped Amour de la hault plesaunce.

105

The toure was great of marveylous wydnes,
To whyche ther was no way to passe but one,
Into the toure for to have an intres:
A grece there was ychesyld all of stone
Out of the rocke, on whyche men dyd gone
Up to the toure, and in lykewyse dyd I
Wyth bothe the Grayhoundes in my company :
Tyll that I came unto a ryall gate,
Where I sawe stondynge the goodly Portres,
Whyche axed me, from whence I came a-late;
To whome I gan in every thynge expresse
All myne adventure, chaunce, and busynesse,
And eke my name; I tolde her every dell:
Whan she herde this she lyked me right well.
Her name, she sayd, was called Countenaunce;
Into the ‘base’ courte she dyd me then lede,
Where was a fountayne depured of pleasance,
A noble sprynge, a ryall conduyte-hede,
Made of fyne golde enameled with reed;
And on the toppe four dragons blewe and stoute
Thys dulcet water in four partes dyd spoute.
Of whyche there flowed foure ryvers ryght clere,
Sweter than Nylus or Ganges was ther odoure;
Tygrys or Eufrates unto them no pere:

106

I dyd than taste the aromatyke lycoure,
Fragraunt of fume, and swete as any floure;
And in my mouthe it had a marveylous scent
Of divers spyces, I knewe not what it ment.
And after thys further forth me brought
Dame Countenaunce into a goodly Hall,
Of jasper stones it was wonderly wrought:
The wyndowes cleare depured all of crystall,
And in the rouse on hye over all
Of golde was made a ryght crafty vyne;
Instede of grapes the rubies there did shyne.
The flore was paved with berall clarified,
With pillers made of stones precious,
Like a place of pleasure so gayely glorified,
It myght be called a palaice glorious,
So muche delectable and solacious;
The hall was hanged hye and circuler
With cloth of arras in the rychest maner.
That treated well of a ful noble story,
Of the doubty waye to the Tower Perillous;
Howe a noble knyght should wynne the victory
Of many a serpente foule and odious.
 

turrets. PC.

towers. PC.

This alludes to a former part of the Poem.

besy courte. PC.

partyes. PC.

Nysus. PC.

The story of the poem.


107

XI. THE CHILD OF ELLE

[_]

—is given from a fragment in the Editor's folio MS: which tho' extremely defective and mutilated appeared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong desire to attempt a completion of the story. The Reader will easily discover the supplemental stanzas by their inferiority, and at the same time be inclined to pardon it, when he considers how difficult it must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless beauties of the original.

Child was a title sometimes given to a knight. See Gloss.

On yonder hill a castle standes,
With walles and towres bedight,
And yonder lives the Child of Elle,
A younge and comely knighte.
The Child of Elle to his garden wente,
And stood at his garden pale,
Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page
Come trippinge downe the dale.
The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,
Y-wis he stoode not stille,
And soone he mette faire Emmelines page
Come climbing up the hille.

108

Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page,
Now Christe thee save and see!
Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,
And what may thy tydinges bee?
My lady shee is all woe-begone,
And the teares they falle from her eyne;
And aye she laments the deadlye feude
Betweene her house and thine.
And here shee sends thee a silken scarse
Bedewde with many a teare,
And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,
Who loved thee so deare.
And here shee sends thee a ring of golde
The last boone thou mayst have,
And biddes thee weare it for her sake,
Whan she is layde in grave.
For, ah! her gentle heart is broke,
And in grave soone must shee bee,
Sith her father hath chose her a new new love,
And forbidde her to think of thee.
Her father hath brought her a carlish knight,
Sir John of the north countràye,
And within three dayes shee must him wedde,
Or he vowes he will her slaye.

109

Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
And greet thy ladye from mee,
And telle her that I her owne true love
Will dye, or sette her free.
Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
And let thy fair ladye know
This night will I bee at her bowre-windòwe,
Betide me weale or woe.
The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,
He neither stint ne stayd
Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre,
Whan kneeling downe he sayd,
O ladye, Ive been with thy own true love,
And he greets thee well by mee;
This night will he bee at thy bowre-windòwe,
And dye or sette thee free.
Nowe daye was gone, and night was come,
And all were fast asleepe,
All save the ladye Emmeline,
Who sate in her bowre to weepe:
And soone shee heard her true loves voice
Lowe whispering at the walle,
Awake, awake, my deare ladyè,
Tis I thy true love call.

110

Awake, awake, my ladye deare,
Come, mount this faire palfràye:
This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe,
Ile carrye thee hence awaye.
Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight,
Now nay, this may not bee;
For aye should I tint my maiden fame,
If alone I should wend with thee.
O ladye, thou with a knighte so true
Mayst safelye wend alone,
To my ladye mother I will thee bringe,
Where marriage shall make us one.
“My father he is a baron bolde,
Of lynage proude and hye;
And what would he saye if his daughtèr
Awaye with a knight should fly?
Ah! well I wot, he never would rest,
Nor his meate should doe him no goode,
Till he had slayne thee, Child of Elle,
And seene thy deare hearts bloode.”
O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
And a little space him fro,
I would not care for thy cruel fathèr,
Nor the worst that he could doe.

111

O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
And once without this walle,
I would not care for thy cruel fathèr,
Nor the worst that might befalle.
Faire Emmeline sighde, fair Emmeline wept,
And aye her heart was woe:
At length he seizde her lilly-white hand,
And downe the ladder he drewe:
And thrice he claspde her to his breste,
And kist her tenderlìe:
The teares that fell from her fair eyes,
Ranne like the fountayne free.
Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle,
And her on a faire palfràye,
And slung his bugle about his necke,
And roundlye they rode awaye.
All this beheard her owne damsèlle,
In her bed whereas shee ley,
Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this,
Soe I shall have golde and fee.
Awake, awake, thou baron bolde!
Awake, my noble dame!
Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle,
To doe the deede of shame.

112

The baron he woke, the baron he rose,
And callde his merrye men all:
“And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte,
The ladye is carried to thrall.”
Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile,
A mile forth of the towne,
When she was aware of her fathers men
Come galloping over the downe:
And foremost came the carlish knight,
Sir John of the north countràye:
“Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false taitòure,
Nor carry that ladye awaye.
For she is come of hye lynàge,
And was of a ladye borne,
And ill it beseems thee a false churles sonne
To carrye her hence to scorne.”
Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight,
Nowe thou doest lye of mee;
A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore,
Soe never did none by thee.
But light nowe downe, my ladye faire,
Light downe, and hold my steed,
While I and this discourteous knighte
Doe trye this arduous deede.

113

But light now downe, my deare ladyè,
Light downe, and hold and horse;
While I and this discourteous knight
Doe trye our valours force.
Fair Emmeline sighde, fair Emmeline wept,
And aye her heart was woe,
While twixt her love and the carlish knight
Past many a baleful blowe.
The Child of Elle hee fought soe well,
As his weapon he wavde amaine,
That soone he had slaine the carlish knight,
And layde him upon the plaine.
And nowe the baron, and all his men
Full fast approached nye:
Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe?
Twere nowe no boote to flye.
Her lover he put his horne to his mouth,
And blew both loud and shrill,
And soone he saw his owne merry men
Come ryding over the hill.
“Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn,
I pray thee, hold thy hand,
Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts,
Fast knit in true loves band.

114

Thy daughter I have dearly lovde
Full long and many a day;
But with such love as holy kirke
Hath freelye sayd wee may.
O give consent, shee may be mine,
And blesse a faithfull paire:
My lands and livings are not small,
My house and lynage faire:
My mother she was an erles daughtèr,
And a noble knyght my sire—
The baron he frownde, and turnde away
With mickle dole and ire.
Fair Emmeline sighde, faire Emmeline wept,
And did all tremblinge stand:
At lengthe she sprange upon her knee,
And held his lifted hand.
Pardon, my lorde and father deare,
This faire yong knyght and mee:
Trust me, but for the carlish knyght,
I never had fled from thee.
Oft have you callde your Emmeline
Your darling and your joye;
O let not then your harsh resolves
Your Emmeline destroye.

115

The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke,
And turnde his heade asyde
To whipe awaye the starting teare,
He proudly strave to hyde.
In deepe revolving thought he stoode,
And musde a little space;
Then raisde faire Emmeline from the grounde,
With many a fond embrace.
Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd,
And gave her lillye hand;
Here take my deare and only child,
And with her half my land:
Thy father once mine honour wrongde
In dayes of youthful pride;
Do thou the injurye repayre
In fondnesse for thy bride.
And as thou love her, and hold her deare,
Heaven prosper thee and thine:
And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee,
My lovelye Emmeline.

116

XII. ADAM O' GORDON,

A Scottish Ballad

[_]

—was printed at Glasgow, by Robert and Andrew Foulis, MDCCLV. 8vo. 12 pages.—We are indebted for its publication (with many other valuable things in those volumes) to Sir David Dalrymple, Bart. who gave it as it was preserved in the memory of a lady, that is now dead.

The reader will here find it improved, and enlarged with several fine stanzas, recovered from a fragment of the same ballad, in the Editor's folio MS. It is remarkable that the latter is intitled Captain Adam Carre, and is in the English idiom. But whether the author was English or Scotch, the difference originally was not great. The English Ballads are generally of the North of England, the Scottish are of the South of Scotland, and of consequence the country of Ballad-singers was sometimes subject to one crown, and sometimes to the other, and most frequently to neither. Most of the finest old Scotch songs have the scene laid within 20 miles of England; which is indeed all poetic ground, green hills, remains of woods, clear brooks. The pastoral scenes remain: Of the rude chivalry of former ages happily nothing remains, but the ruins of the castles, where the more daring and successful robbers resided. The House, or Castle of the Rodes, stood about a measured mile south from Duns in Berwickshire: some of the ruins of it may be seen to this day. The Gordons were anciently seated in the same county: the two villages of East and West Gordon lie


117

about 10 miles from the castle of the Rodes . Whether this ballad hath any foundation in fact, we have not been able to discover. It contains however but too just a picture of the violences practised in the feudal times all over Europe.

From the different titles of this ballad, it should seem that the old strolling bards or minstrels (who gained a livelihood by reciting these poems) made no scruple of changing the names of the personages they introduced, to humour their hearers. For instance, if a Gordon's conduct was blame-worthy in the opinion of that age, the obsequious minstrel would, when among Gordons, change the name to Car, whose clan or sept lay further west, and vice versâ. In the third volume the reader will find a similar instance. See the song of Gil Morris, the hero of which had different names given him, perhaps from the same cause.

It may be proper to mention, that in the English copy, instead of the “Castle of the Rodes,” it is the “Castle of Bittons-borrow,” (or “Diactours-borrow,” for it is very obscurely written), and “Capt. Adam Carre” is called the “Lord of Westerton-town.” Uniformity required that the additional stanzas supplied from that copy should be clothed in the Scottish orthography and idiom: this has therefore been attempted, though perhaps imperfectly.

It fell about the Martinmas,
Quhen the wind blew schril and cauld,
Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
We maun draw to a hauld.

118

And quhat a hauld sall we draw to,
My mirry men and me?
We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes,
To see that fair ladìe.
The lady stude on hir castle wa',
Beheld baith dale and down:
There she was ware of a host of men
Cum ryding towards the toun.
O see ze nat, my mirry men a'?
O see ze nat quhat I see?
Methinks I see a host of men:
I marveil quha they be.
She weend it had been hir luvely lord,
As he cam ryding hame;
It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,
Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.
She had nae sooner buskit hirsel,
And putten on hir goun,
Till Edom o' Gordon and his men
Were round about the toun.
They had nae sooner supper sett,
Nae sooner said the grace,
Till Edom o' Gordon and his men,
Were light about the place.

119

The lady ran up to hir towir head,
Sa fast as she could drie,
To see if by hir fair speechès
She could wi' him agree.
But quhan he see this lady saif,
And hir yates all locked fast,
He fell into a rage of wrath,
And his hart was all aghast.
Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,
Cum doun, cum doun to me:
This night sall ye lig within mine armes,
To-morrow my bride sall be.
I winnae cum doun, ze fals Gordòn,
I winnae cum doun to thee;
I winnae forsake my ain dear lord,
That is sae far frae me.
Give owre zour house, ze lady fair,
Give owre zour house to me,
Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
Bot and zour babies three.
I winnae give owre, ze false Gordòn,
To nae sik traitor as zee;
And if ze brenn my ain dear babes,
My lord sall make ze drie.

120

But reach my pistol, Glaud, my man,
And charge ze weil my gun:
For, but if I pierce that bluidy butcher,
My babes we been undone.
She stude upon hir castle wa',
And let twa bullets flee:
She mist that bluidy butchers hart,
And only raz'd his knee.
Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordòn,
All wood wi' dule and ire:
Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid,
As ze brenn in the fire.
Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man,
I paid ze weil zour fee;
Quhy pow ze out the ground-wa stane,
Lets in the reek to me?
And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man,
I paid ze weil zour hire;
Quhy pow ze out the ground-wa stane,
To me lets in the fire?

121

Ze paid me weil my hire, lady;
Ze paid me weil my see:
But now Ime Edom o' Gordons man,
Maun either doe or die.
O than bespaik hir little son,
Sate on the nourice' knee:
Sayes, Mither deare, gi owre this house,
For the reek it smithers me.
I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe,
Sae wad I a' my fee,
For ane blast o' the westlin wind,
To blaw the reek frae thee.
O then bespaik hir dochter dear,
She was baith jimp and sma:
O row me in a pair o' sheits,
And tow me owre the wa.
They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits,
And towd hir owre the wa:
But on the point of Gordons spear,
She gat a deadly fa.
O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth,
And cherry were hir cheiks,
And clear clear was hir zellow hair,
Whereon the reid bluid dreips.

122

Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre,
O gin hir face was wan!
He sayd, Ze are the first that eir
I wisht alive again.
He turnd hir owre and owre again,
O gin hir skin was whyte!
I might ha spared that bonnie face
To hae been sum mans delyte.
Busk and boun, my merry men a',
For ill dooms I doe guess;
I cannae luik in that bonnie face,
As it lyes on the grass.
Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir,
Then freits wil follow thame:
Let it neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon
Was daunted by a dame.
But quhen the ladye see the fire
Cum flaming owre hir head,
She wept and kist her children twain,
Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead.

123

The Gordon then his bougill blew,
And said, Awa', awa';
This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame,
I hauld it time to ga'.
O then bespyed hir ain dear lord,
As hee cam owre the lee;
He sied his castle all in blaze
Sa far as he could see.
Then sair, O sair his mind misgave,
And all his hart was wae:
Put on, put on, my wighty men,
So fast as ze can gae.
Put on, put on, my wighty men,
Sa fast as ze can drie;
For he that is hindmost of the thrang,
Sall neir get guid o' me.
Than sum they rade, and sum they rin,
Fou fast out-owre the bent;
But eir the foremost could get up,
Baith lady and babes were brent.
He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,
And wept in teenefu' muid:
O traitors, for this cruel deid
Ze sall weip teirs o' bluid.

124

And after the Gordon he is gane,
Sa fast as he micht drie;
And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid,
He's wroken his dear ladìe.
 

This ballad is well known in that neighbourhood, where it is intitled Adam o' Gordon. It may be observed, that the famous freebooter, whom Edward I. fought with, hand to hand, near Farmham, was named Adam Gordon.

The two foregoing stanzas have been apparently modernized.

a Scottish idiom to express great admiration.

a Scottish idiom to express great admiration.

i.e. Them that look after omens of ill luck, ill luck will follow.

i.e. Them that look after omens of ill luck, ill luck will follow.

THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.