Chapter IV: Preface (4)

Thes worthé freckys for to fyght
Ther to the wear full fayne,
Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,
As ever dyd heal or ran.

‘Holde’ the, Persé, 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, sayd the lorde Persé,
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 myghtté wane,
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Doglas
In at the brest bane.

Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe
The sharpe arrowe ys gane,
That never after in all his lyffe days
He spayke mo wordes but ane,
That was, Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may,
For my lyff days ben gan.

The Persé leanyde on his brande,
And sawe the Doglas de;
He tooke the dede mane be the hande,
And sayd, Wo ys me for the!

To have savyde thy lyffe I wold have pertyde with
My landes for years thre;
For a better man of hart, nare of hande,
Was not in all the north contrè.

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght,
Was callyd sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry,
He sawe the Doglas to the deth was dyght;
He spendyd a spear a trusti tre:

He rod uppon a corsiare
Throughe a hondrith archery;
He never stynttyde, nar never blane,
Tyll he cam to the good lorde Persé.

He set uppone the lorde Persé
A dynte that was full soare;
With a suar spear of a myghtté tre
Clean thorow the body he the Persé ‘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 ther.

An archar of Northomberlonde
Say slean was the lord Persé,
He bar a bende bow in his hand,
Was made off trusti tre:

An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang,
Toth hard stele hayld he;
A dynt that was both sad and soar,
He sat on sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and sar,
That he of Monggonbyrry 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 balfull brande.

This battell begane in Chyviat,[40]
And owar before the none,
And when even-song bell was rang,
The battell was nat haff done.

The tooke on ethar hand,
Be the lyght off the mone;
Many had no strength for to stande,
In Chyviat the hillys 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.[41]

But all wear slayne Chyviat within:
The had no strengthe to stand on hy:
The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
It was the mor pitté.

Thear was slayne with the lord Persé,
Sir John of Agerstone,
Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly,
Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.

Sir Jorg the worthé Lovele,
A knyght of great renowen,
Sir Raff the ryche Rugbè,
With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharrynton my harte was wo,
That ever he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
Yet he knyled and fought on his kny.

Ther was slayne with the doughti Doglas,
Sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry,
Sir Davy Lwdale that worthè was,
His sisters 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 Doglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the mayde them byears
Off birch, and hasell so gray;
Many wedous, with wepyng tears,
Cam to fach ther makys away.

Tivydale may carpe off care,
Northombarlonde may mayke great mon,
For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear,
On the march perti shall never be non.

Word ys commyn to Eddenburrowe
To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,
That dougheti Doglas, lyff tenante of the merches,
He lay slean Chyviot within.

His handdes dyd he weal and wryng,
He says, Alas, and woe ys me!
Such another captayn Skotland within,
He sayd, yefeth shuld never be.

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone
Till the fourth Harry our kyng,
That lord Persé, ‘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 Ynglonde, he sayd,
As good as ever was he:
But, Persé, and I brook my lyffe,
Thy deth well quyte shall be.

As our noble kyng made his avowe,
Lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Persé,
He dyde the battel of Hombyll-down:[42]

Wher syx and thritté 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 Chyviat;
That tear begane this spurn:
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 doughté Doglas slean,
The Persé never went away.

Ther was never a tym on the march partes,
Sen the Doglas and the Persé met,
But yt was mervele, 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 Chyviat;
God send us all good endyng!

[40] The Cheviot, or Tiviot Hills, were formerly the boundary between England and Scotland.

[41] The English were the first who took the field, and the last to quit it. They brought only 1500 to the battle; and the Scotch 2000. The English kept the field with 53; the Scotch retiring with 55.

[42] The battle of Hombyll-down, or Humbledon, (a village near Wooler, in Northumberland) was fought September 14th, 1402, (anno 3, Hen. IV.) where the English, under the command of the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Hotspur, gained a complete victory over the Scots.

THE HUNTING IN CHEVY CHASE.

This favourite old ballad is founded on the celebrated battle of Otterbourne, as there never was a Percy engaged with a Douglas, but at that time; though the Percy, who commanded at that battle, was not earl of Northumberland, yet he was heir to that title, though he did not live to enjoy it. Ben Johnson used to say, he had rather have been the author of this ballad than of all his works. Sir Philip Sydney says, (in his Discourse of Poetry) “I never heard the old song of Piercy and Douglas, that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet; and yet it is sung by some blind crouder, with no rougher voice than rude style; which being so evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar?” Addison eulogizes it highly in Nos. 70 and 74 of the Spectator. And in the second volume of Dryden’s Miscellanies, there may be found a translation of Chevy Chase into Latin Rhymes, by Henry Bold, of New College.

God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all;
A woeful hunting once there did
In Chevy Chase befall.

To drive the deer with hound and horn,
Earl Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborn
The hunting of that day.

The stout earl of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summer’s days to take;

The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase
To kill and bear away:
These tidings to earl Douglas came,
In Scotland where he lay;

Who sent earl Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport:
The English earl, not fearing this,
Did to the woods resort,

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold;
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well, in time of need,
To aim their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,
To chase the fallow-deer;
On Monday they began to hunt,
When day-light did appear;

And, long before high-noon, they had
A hundred fat bucks slain;
Then, having din’d, the drovers went
To rouse them up again.

The bowmen muster’d on the hills,
Well able to endure;
Their backsides all, with special care,
That day were guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
The nimble deer to take,
And with their cries the hills and dales
An echo shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went,
To view the slaughter’d deer;
Quoth he, Earl Douglas promised,
This day to meet me here:

If that I thought he would not come,
No longer would I stay.
With that a brave young gentleman
Thus to the earl did say:

Lo! yonder doth earl Douglas come,
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears
All marching in our sight;

All men of pleasant Tividale,
Fast by the river Tweed.
Then cease your sport, earl Percy said,
And take your bows with speed.

And now with me, my countrymen,
Your courage forth advance;
For never was there champion yet,
In Scotland or in France,

That ever did on horseback come,
But if mayhap it were,
I durst adventure, man for man,
With him to break a spear.

Earl Douglas, on a milk-white steed,
Most like a baron bold,
Rode foremost of the company,
Whose armour shone like gold.

Show me, said he, whose men you be,
That hunt so boldly here;
That, without my consent, do chase,
And kill my fallow deer.

The man that first did answer make,
Was noble Percy, he;
Who said, We list not to declare,
Nor show whose men we be:

Yet we will spend our dearest blood,
Thy chiefest hearts to slay.
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,
And thus in rage did say:

Ere thus I will outbraved be,
One of us two shall die;
I know thee well, an earl thou art,
Lord Percy, so am I.

But trust me, Percy, pity it were,
And great offence to kill
Any of these our harmless men,
For they have done no ill.

Let thou and I the battle try,
And set our men aside.
Accurs’d be he, lord Percy said,
By whom this is deny’d.

Then stepp’d a gallant ’squire forth,
Witherington was his name,
Who said, I would not have it told
To Henry our king, for shame,

That e’er my captain fought on foot,
And I stood looking on:
You be two earls, said Witherington,
And I a squire alone:

I’ll do the best that do I may,
While I have strength to stand;
While I have pow’r to wield my sword,
I’ll fight with heart and hand.

Our English archers bent their bows,
Their hearts were good and true;
At the first flight of arrows sent,
Full three-score Scots they slew.

To drive the deer with hound and horn
Earl Douglas had the bent;
A captain mov’d with mickle pride,
The spears to shivers sent.

They clos’d full fast on every side,
No slackness there was found;
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.

O Christ! it was a grief to see,
And likewise for to hear
The cries of men lying in their gore,
And scatter’d here and there.

At last these two stout earls did meet,
Like captains of great might;
Like lions mov’d, they laid on load,
And made a cruel fight.

They fought until they both did sweat,
With swords of temper’d steel;
Until the blood, like drops of rain,
They trickling down did feel.

Yield thee, lord Percy, Douglas said,
In faith I will thee bring,
Where thou shall high advanced be,
By James our Scotish king:

Thy ransom I will freely give,
And thus report of thee,
Thou art the most courageous knight
That ever I did see.

No, Douglas, quoth earl Percy then,
Thy proffer I do scorn;
I will not yield to any Scot
That ever yet was born.

With that there came an arrow keen,
Out of an English bow,
Which struck earl Douglas to the heart,
A deep and deadly blow:

Who never spoke more words than these,
“Fight on my merry men all;
For why, my life is at an end,
Lord Percy sees my fall.”

Then leaving life, earl Percy took
The dead man by the hand,
And said, “Earl Douglas, for thy life
Would I had lost my land!

O Christ! my very heart doth bleed,
With sorrow for thy sake;
For sure a more renowned knight
Mischance did never take.”

A knight amongst the Scots there was,
Which saw earl Douglas die,
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge
Upon the earl Percy:

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he call’d;
Who with a spear most bright,
Well mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the fight;

And pass’d the English archers all,
Without all dread or fear;
And through earl Percy’s body then
He thrust his hateful spear:

With such a vehement force and might
He did his body gore,
The spear went through the other side
A large cloth-yard, and more.

So thus did both these nobles die,
Whose courage none could stain:
An English archer then perceiv’d
The noble earl was slain:

He had a bow bent in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree;
An arrow of a cloth-yard long
Up to the head drew he:

Against sir Hugh Montgomery,
So right the shaft he set,
The grey-goose-wing that was thereon
In his heart-blood was wet.

This fight did last from break of day
Till setting of the sun;
For when they rung the evening-bell
The battle scarce was done.

With the earl Percy there was slain
Sir John of Ogerton,
Sir Robert Radclyffe, and sir John,
Sir James that bold baron:

And, with sir George, and good sir James,
Both knights of good account,
Good sir Ralph Raby there was slain,
Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wail,
As one in doleful dumps;
For when his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumps.

And with earl Douglas there was slain
Sir Hugh Montgomery,
Sir Charles Currel, that from the field
One foot would never fly;

Sir Charles Murrel of Ratcliffe too,
His sister’s son was he;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteem’d,
Yet saved could not be.

And the lord Maxwell, in likewise,
Did with earl Douglas die:
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears
Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three:
The rest were slain in Chevy Chase,
Under the greenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come,
Their husbands to bewail;
They wash’d their wounds in brinish tears
But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bath’d in purple blood,
They bore with them away;
They kiss’d them dead a thousand times,
When they were clad in clay.

This news was brought to Edinburgh,
Where Scotland’s king did reign,
That brave earl Douglas suddenly
Was with an arrow slain.

O heavy news! king James did say,
Scotland can witness be,
I have not any captain more
Of such account as he.

Like tidings to king Henry came,
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland
Was slain in Chevy Chase.

Now God be with him! said our king,
Sith ’twill no better be;
I trust I have within my realm
Five hundred as good as he.

Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say,
But I will vengeance take;
And be revenged on them all,
For brave lord Percy’s sake.

This vow full well the king perform’d,
After, on Humble-down;
In one day fifty knights were slain,
With lords of great renown;

And of the rest, of small account,
Did many hundreds die.
Thus ended the hunting of Chevy Chase,
Made by the earl Percy.

God save the king, and bless the land
In plenty, joy, and peace;
And grant, henceforth, that foul debate
’Twixt noblemen may cease.

AN OLD SONG ON THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN.

I Have heard of a lilting, at our ewes’ milking,
Lasses a lilting, before the break of day;
But now there’s a moaning, on ilka green loaning,
That our braw forresters are a’ wede away.

At boughts, in the morning, nae blyth lads are scorning;
The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin, nae gabbin, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilka ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away.

At e’en at the gloming, nae swankies are roaming,
’Mong stacks, with the lasses, at bogle to play;
But ilka ane sits dreary, lamenting her deary,
The Flowers of the Forest that are a’ wede away.

At harrest, at the shearing, nae youngsters are jeering,
The bansters are runkled, lyart, and grey.
At a fair, or a preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching,
Since our braw forresters are a’ wede away.

O dool for the order, sent our lads to the border:
The English for anes by guile gat the day.
The Flowers of the Forrest, that ay shone the foremost,
The prime of our land, lies cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting, at our ewes’ milking,
The women and bairns are dowie, and wae.
Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning,
Since our braw forresters are a’ wede away.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST; _Or, Flodden Field_.

(Fought September 9th, 1513.)

This version is made up from various copies of this old ballad collated, and is of very unequal merit. The stanzas, from the 17th to the 22d inclusive, compose a dirge of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity. The circumstances are happily chosen and combined; and the language, to those who understand it, is so picturesquely expressive, that while we read the words, the scene is felt penciled on our imagination. And it is impossible to peruse it without feeling a high degree of that pleasing sombre tenderness, which it is the object of this sort of poetry to produce.

From Spey to the border,
Was peace and good order;
The sway of our monarch was mild as the May;
Peace he adored,
Whilk Soudrons abhorred,
Our marches they plunder, our wardens they slay.

’Gainst LOUIS, our ally,
Their HENRY did sally,
Tho’ JAMES, but in vain, did his herauld advance,
Renouncing alliance,
Denouncing defiance,
To Soudrons, if langer abiding in France.

Many were the omens,
Our ruin was coming,
E’er the flower of our nation was call’d to array:
Our king at devotion,
St Andrew did caution,
And sigh’d as with sorrow he to him did say,--

Sir, in this expedition,
You must have ambition;
From the company of women you shou’d keep away.
When the spectre this declar’d,
It quickly disappear’d;
But where it retired no man could espy.

The flowers of the nation
Were call’d to their station,
With valiant inclination their banners to display;
To Burrow-Muir resorting;
Their right for supporting,
And there rendevouzing, encamped did lay.

But another bad omen,
That vengeance was coming;
At midnight, in Edinburgh, a voice loud did cry,
As heraulds, in their station,
With loud proclamation,
Did name all our barons in England to die.

These words the demon spoke,
At the throne of Plotcock,
It charg’d their appearing, appointing the day:
The provost, in its hearing,
The summons greatly fearing,
Appeal’d to his Maker, the same did deny.

At this were many griev’d,
As many misbeliev’d;
But forward they march’d to their destiny:
From thence to the border,
They march’d in good order,
The Merse-men and Forrest they join’d the array.

England’s invasion,
It was their persuasion,
To make restitution for their cruelty;
But O fatal Flodoun!
There came the wo down;
And our royal nation was brought to decay.

After spoiling and burning,
Many hameward returning,
With our king still the nobles and vassals abide:
To SURREY’S proud vaunting,
He answers but daunting;
The king would await him whatever betide.

The English advanced
To where they were stanced;
Half-intrenched by nature, the field it so lay:
To fight the English fearing,
And sham’d their retiring;
But alas! unperceived was their subtilty.

Our Highland battalion,
So forward and valiant,
They broke from their ranks, and they rush’d on to slay:
With hacking and slashing,
And broad swords a-dashing,
Thro’ the front of the English they cut a full way.

But, alas! to their ruin,
An ambush pursuing,
They were surrounded with numbers too high:
The Merse-men and Forest,
They suff’red the sorest,
Upon the left wing were inclos’d the same way.

Our men into parties,
The battle in three quarters,
Upon our main body the marksmen did play:
The spearmen were surrounded.
And all were confounded;
The fatal devastation of that woful day!

Our nobles all ensnared,
Our king he was not spared;
For of that fate he shared, and would not run away;
The whole were intercepted,
That very few escaped
The fatal conflagration of that woful day.

This set the whole nation
Into grief and vexation:
The widows did weep, and the maidens did say,
Why tarries my lover?
The battle’s surely over?
Is there none left to tell us the fates of the day?

I’ve heard a lilting,
At our ewes’ milking,
Lasses a-lilting afore the break of day;
But now there’s a moaning,
On ilka green loaning,
Since our bra foresters are a’ wed away.

At boughts i’ the morning,
Nae blyth lads are scorning;
The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin, nae gabbin,
But sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away.

At e’en in the glomin,
Nae swankeys are roaming,
’Mang stacks, wi’ the lasses, at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits dreary,
Lamenting her deary,
The flowers of the Forest that are wed away.

In herst, at the shearing,
Nae younkers are jeering;
The bansters are lyart, runkled, and grey:
At fairs nor at preaching,
Nae wooing, nae fleeching,
Since our bra’ Foresters are a’ wed away.

O dool for the order,
Sent our lads to the border!
The English for anes by guile got the day:
The Flowers of the Forest,
That ay shone the foremost,
The prime of our land lies cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting,
At our ewes’ milking:
The women and bairns are dowie and wae,
Sighing and moaning,
On ilka green loaning,
Since our bra Foresters are a’ wed away.

I’ve seen the smiling
Of fortune beguiling;
I’ve felt all her favours, and found her decay:
Sweet is her blessing,
And kind her caressing;
But now it is fled, it is fled far away.

I’ve seen the forest
Adorned the foremost,
With flowers of the fairest both pleasant and gay:
Sae bonny was their blooming,
Their scent the air perfuming;
But now they are withered, and all gone away.

I’ve seen the morning,
With gold the hills adorning,
And loud tempests storming before mid-day:
I’ve seen Tweed’s silver streams
Shining i’ the sunny beams,
Grow drumly and dark as it roll’d on the way.

O fickle fortune!
Why this cruel sporting?
Why this perplexing poor sons of a day?
Thy frowns cannot fear me,
Nor smiles cannot chear me,
Since the Flowers of the Forest are a’ wed away.

VERSES _ON JAMES THE IVth, OF SCOTLAND_. Who fell at the Battle of Flodden.

Among the various antiquities preserved in the Heralds College, London, there are the Sword, Dagger, and Turquois Ring, of James the IVth, of Scotland, slain at the battle of Flodden.

’Twas he that rul’d his Country’s heart
With more than Royal sway--
But Scotland saw her James depart,
And sadden’d at his stay.

She heard his fate--she wept her grief--
That James, her own, her darling Chief,
Was gone for evermore.
But this she learnt, that e’er he fell,
(Oh, Men! Oh, Patriots! mark it well)
His Fellow Soldiers round his fall,
Enclos’d him like a living wall,
Mixing their friendly gore.

Nor was the day of Flodden done,
’Till they were slaughter’d, one by one,
And this may serve to shew--
When Kings are Patriots none will fly:
When such a King was doom’d to die,
Oh, who would Death forego?

THE BATTLE OF REID SQUAIR.

(Fought July 7th, 1576.)

On July seventh, the suthe to say,
At the Reid Squair the tryst was set.
Our wardens they affixt the day,
And as they promist, sae they met:
Allace! that day I’ll neir forzet,
Was sure sae feir’d, and then sae fain,
They cam thair justice for to get,
Will nevir grein to cum again.

CARMICHAEL was our warden then,
He causit the countrey to convene,
And the laird WATT, that worthy man,
Brocht in his surname weil be sene:
The ARMSTRANGS that ay haif bene
A hardy house, but not a hail;
The ELLIOTTS honours to mentain,
Brought in the laif of LIDDISDALE.

Then TWIDAIL came to with speid,
The Scheriff brocht the DOUGLAS doun,
With CRANSTANE, GLADSTANE, gude at neid,
Baith Rewls-water and Hawick Town.
BEANGEDDERT bauldly maid him boun,
With all the TRUMBLES strang and stout;
The RUTHIRFUIRDS, with grit renoun,
Convoyit the town of Jedbruch out.

With other Clanns I can nocht tell,
Because our wairning was nocht wyde,
Be this our folk hes tane the fell,
And plantit pallions thair to byde:
We lukit down the uther syde,
And saw cum briesting owr the brae,
And Sir GEORGE FOSTER was thair gyde,
With fyftene hundrid men and mae.

It greivt him sair that day I trow,
With Sir JOHN HINROME of Schipsydehouse,
Because we were not men enow,
He counted us not worth a souse;
Sir GEORGE was gentil, meik, and douse,
But he was hail and het as fyre:
But zit for all his cracking crouse,
He rewd the raid of the Reid Squyre.

To deil with proud men is but pain,
For ether ze maun ficht or flie,
Or els nae answer mack again,
But play the beist, and let him be.
It was nae wondir tho’ he was hie,
Had TYNDALL, REDSDAILE at his hand,
With CUCKSDAILE, GLADSDAILE on the lie,
Auld HEBSRIME and NORTHUMBERLAND.

Zit was our meeting meik enough,
Begun with mirriness and mows,
And at the brae abune the heugh
The clerk sat doun to call the rows,
And sum for ky and sum for ewis,
Callit in of DANDRIE HOB and JOCK,
I saw cum merching owre the knows,
Fyve hundred FENNICKS in a flock.

With jack and speir, and bowis all bent,
And warlike weaponis at their will;
Howbeit they wer not weil content,
Zit be me trouth we feird nae ill:
Sum zeid to drink, and sum stude still,
And sum to cards and dyce them sped,
Quhyle on ane Farstein they fyld a bill,
And he was fugitive that fled.

CARMICHAEL bad them speik out plainly,
And cloke nae cause for ill nor gude,
The uther answering him full vainly,
Begouth to reckon kin and blude,
He raise and rax’d him quhair he stude,
And bade him match him with his marrows;
Then TYNDAL hard these reseuns rude,
And they lute aff a flight of arrows.

Then was ther nocht but bow and speir,
And ilka man pullit out a brand,
A SCHAFTAN and a FENNICK their,
Gude SYMINGTON was slain frae hand.
The Scotismen cryd on uther to stand,
Frae tyme they saw JOHN ROBSON slain:
Quhat suld they cry! The King’s command
Culd cause nae cowards turn again.

Up raise the laird to red the cumber,
Quhilk wald not be for all his boist,
Quhat suld we do with sic a number,
Fyve thousand men into an hoist?
Then HENRIE PURDIE proud hes cost,
And verie narrowlie had mischiefd him,
And ther we had our WARDEN lost,
Wart not the grit GOD he relievd him.

Ane uther throw the breiks him bair,
Quhyle flatlines to the ground he fell:
Then thocht I, we had lost him thair,
Into my heart it struck a knell;
Zit up he raise, the truth to tell,
And laid about him dunts full dour,
His horsemen they faucht stout and snell,
And stude about him in the stour.

Then raisd the slogan with an schout,
Fy, TYNDALL to it, JEDBRUGH heir;
I trow he was not half sae stout,
But anes his stomach was a steir,
With gun and genzie, bow and spier,
He micht se mony a crakit crown,
But up amang the merchant gier,
They bussie were as we wer doun.

The swallow-tails frae teckles flew,
Fyve hundred slain into the flicht,
But we had pestellets anew,
And schot amang them as we micht.
With help of GOD the game gade richt,
Frae tyme the foremost of them fell;
Hynd owre the know, without gude-nicht,
They ran with mony a schout and zell.

And after they had turnd again,
Zit TYNDALL men they turnd again,
And had not bene the merchant packs,
There had bene mae of Scotland slain:
But JESU gif the folk was fain
No put the bussing on thair theis,
And sae they fled with all thair main,
Doun owre the brae lyke clogged beis.

Sir FRANCIS RUSSEL tane was thair,
And hurt, as we heir men reherse;
Proud WALLINGTOUN was wounded sair,
Albeit he was a Fennick ferss,
But gif ze wald a souldier serche
Amang them all was tane that night,
Was nane sae wordie of our verse
As COLINGWOOD that courteous knight.

Zung HENRY skapit hame, is hurt,
A souldier schot him with a bow,
Scotland has cause to make great sturt,
For laiming of the Laird of Mow.
The Laird WATT did weil indeid,
His friends stude stoutly by himsell,
With little GLADSTONE, gude in neid,
For GRETEIN kend not gude be ill.

The SCHERIFF wantit not gude-will,
Howbeit he might not ficht sae fast:
BENJEADERT, HUNDLIE and HUNTHILL,
Three, on they laid well at the last
Except the horsemen of the gaird:
If I could put men to avail,
Nane stoutlier stude out for their laird,
Nor did the lads of LIDDISDALE.

But little harness had we thair,
But auld BADRULE had on a jack,
And did richt weil, I zou declair,
With all the TRUMBULLS at his back.
Gude EDERSTANE was not to lack,
With KIRTOUN, NEWTOUN, nobill-men.
Thir is ail the specials I haif spack,
Forby them that I could nocht ken.

Qhua did invent that day of play,
We neid nocht feir to find him sune,
For Sir JOHN FOSTER, I dare weil say,
Maid us that noysome afternune:
Not that I speik precisely out,
That he supposd it wald be perill,
But pryde and breaking out, but dout,
Gart TYNDALL lads begin the quarrell.

FAIR ‘MABEL’ OF WALLINGTON.

When we were silly sisters seven, sisters [we] were so fair.
Five of us were brave knights wives, and died in child-bed sair,
Up then spake fair ‘Mabel’, marry would she nane.
If ever she came in man’s bed the same gate wad she gang.
Make no vows, fair ‘Mabel’, for fear they broken be,
Here’s been the knight of Wallington asking good-will of thee.
Here’s been the knight [of Wallington] mother, asking good-will of me;
Within three-quarters of a year you may come bury me.

When she came to Wallington, and into Wallington-hall,
There she spy’d her mother dear walking about the wall.
You’re welcome, daughter dear, to thy castle and thy bower.
I thank you kindly, mother, I hope they’ll soon be your’s.
She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a day,
Till upon the ground she could not walk, she was a weary prey;
She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a night,
Till on the ground she cou’d not walk, she was a weary ‘wight.’

Is there ne’er a boy in this town who’ll win hose and shun,
That will run to fair Pudlington, and bid my mother come?
Up then spake a little boy, near unto [her] a-kin,
Full oft I have your errands gone, but now I will it run.
Then she call’d her waiting-maid to bring up bread and wine:
Eat and drink, thou bonny boy, thou’ll ne’er eat more of mine:
Give my respects to my mother, as [she] ‘sits’ in her chair of stone,
And ask her how she likes the news of seven to have but one.

Give my love to my brother William, Ralph, and John;
And to my sister Betty fair, and to her white as bone,
And bid her keep her maidenhead, be sure to make much on’t,
For if e’er she come in man’s bed, the same gate will she gang.
Away this little boy is gone as fast as he could run,
When he came where brigs were broke, he lay down and ‘swum.’
When he saw the lady, he said, Lord may your keeper be!
What news, my pretty boy, ‘hast’ thou to tell to me?

Your daughter ‘Mabel’ orders me, as you sit in a chair of stone,
To ask you how you like the news of seven to have but one;
Your daughter gives commands as you sit in a chair of ‘state,’
And bids you come to her sickening, her ‘weary’ lake-wake:
She gives command to her brother William, Ralph, and John;
To her sister Betty fair, and to her white [as] bone,
She bids her keep her maidenhead, besure make much on’t,
For if e’er she come in man’s bed the same gate wou’d she gang.

She kickt the table with her foot, she kickt it with her knee,
The silver plate into the fire so far she made it flee:
Then she call’d her waiting-maid to bring her riding-hood,
So did she on her stable-groom to bring her ‘stead so good:’
Go saddle to me the black, go saddle to me the brown,
Go saddle to me the swiftest steed that e’er rid Wallington,
When she came to Wallington, and into Wallington-hall,
There she espy’d her son Fenwick walking about the wall.

God save you, dear son, Lord may your keeper be!
Where is my daughter fair, that used to walk with thee?
He turn’d his head round about, the tears did fill his eye;
’Tis a month, he said, since she took her chambers from me.
She went on, and there were in the hall
Four and twenty ladies letting the tears down fall:
Her daughter had a scope into her chest, and into her chin,
All to keep her life till her dear mother came therein.

Come take the rings off my finger, the skin it is so white,
And give them to my mother dear, for she was all the ‘weight;’
Come take the rings off my fingers, the veins are so red,
Give them to sir William Fenwick, I’m sure his heart will bleed.
She took out a razor, that was sharp and fine,
And out of her left side she has taken the heir of Wallington,
There is a race in Wallington, and that I rue full sare,
Tho’ the cradle it be full spread up, the bride-bed is left bare.

VERSES

_On a View of Roadley Castle, not far from Wallington, in Northumberland, built by the late worthy Sir Walter Blackett, Bart, with a small Description of its Situation, comprehending Codgy Fort, the Lake, the noted Greenlighton Hill, &c. by Thomas Oliver, of Hallington, Northumberland, taken before the Deer were destroyed in the Park, wherein the Castle stands, soon after the Death of Sir Walter Blackett._

Hutchinson, in his History of Northumberland, appears not to have liked Roadley or Rothley Castle: he finishes his description of it by saying, it would be “pretty enough for the reception of Thomas of Hick-a-thrift, or Jack the Giant Killer.”

There’s Roadley’s ‘cloud capt’ lofty hill,
With humble dales below;
The mighty crags its front do fill,
White as if flect with snow.

These rugged rocks rough Boreas scorn,
Nor blust’ring Æolus dread:
Some as by Noah’s deluge torn,
From their huge massy bed.

Upon its airy summit high,
An antique tower appears,
Who to the stranger passing by,
Seems ag’d a thousand years.

Thus in its melancholy state,
A Windsor’s view commands;
And to defend the brazen gate,
Cæsar and Pompey stands.

Within the compass of an eye,
Sweet rising scenes appear:
There fleecy flocks a feeding by,
With stately herds of deer.

But when with more extended rays,
Your circling eyes you guide:
Nature fresh beauties still displays,
From Blyth to Symmon Side.[43]

Nor far from hence stands Codgy Fort,
Built on a craggy hill;
Where hawks, and daws, and owls resort,
And wild blue pigeons bill.

Bordering, a sloping raggy brake,
Spreading, appears in sight;
A deep extensive, warping lake,[44]
With water birds on flight.

While numbers on the surface float,
Down diving o’er and o’er:
With bumpkins in the pleasure boat,
Launching from shore to shore.

Grey game, and Grouse in num’rous broods,
About Greenlighton Hill;
Where piping Pan his flocks he feeds,
Around that humble vill.

By dawn of day, Mary and Bett,
Hies to the birney knows;
Where blithsome many a morn we’ve met,
At milking of the ewes.

By Maria’s mean courtesy taught,
When flocks did chance to roam;
I wore them to the milking Bought,
And bore her leglin home.

[43] The view is extensive, from here may be seen the Symon Side Hills on one side, to the town of Blyth on the other.

[44] At the foot of the hill on which the castle stands, near the north-west corner of the park, are two fine sheets of water, communicating with each other, called _Rothly Ponds_. Formerly they were tastefully ornamented by a shrubbery, which was disposed round the margin of the water. A boat and fishing tackling were formerly kept here, and a tent was pitched in the summer near the lakes, where visitants were plentifully regaled by the late generous proprietor, who frequently amused himself at this place. _Vide_ p. 105, v. 2, of Northumberland, 1811.

THE BATTLE OF HUMBLEDOWN HILL.

(_By E.W. August 5th, 1791._)

The author of this suggested the idea from reading the verse of Chevy Chace:--

“This vow full well the King perform’d
After, on Humbledown,
In one day fifty Knights were slain
With Lords of great renown.”

In the second volume of Guthrie’s History of Scotland, the battle is fully described.

Sir Swinton was a doughty knight
As ever Scotland bred;
Than Gordon none more brave in fight,
Did ever cross the Tweed.

But deidly feuds subsisted long
Between these valiant twain,
They never met--but straight they fought
With all their martial train.

At last they hied with ilk his band
To Brae of Humbledown,
Where Douglas and his army lay
Wi’ Knights of great renown.

Now baith afore the Douglas stood,
And glowr’d wi’ hatefu’ spite,
And half unsheath’d their shining blades,
And quak’d and burn’d to fight.

Then mighty Douglas leap’d between
To redd the foul debate,
“O Sirs!” he cries, “thrust in your glaives
And quell this rising state.

“For, look you! where the English lies
On yonder tented field,
To morrow’s morn, if right I ween,
We’ll need both sword and sheild.

“Gin we to Scotland mean to go,
Our road lies thro’ yon host;
First spend your fury on the foe,
Then fight--if fight ye must.”

He spake--in sullens baith withdrew,
Now all prepare for fight,
And arms and armour clattering brake
The silence of the night.

In bluid red clouds the Sun arose,
Which saw that fatal day,
Where bretheless on the green hill side
Fu’ many a bra’ Scot lay.

For sair--the English bowmen gall’d
The van--the ungear’d stood,
Nae thirsty shaft e’er reach’d the earth
Unstain’d wi’ Scottish bluid.

Then Sir John Swinton loudly cries
“Bra’ lads! gif we must die,
Follow our cheif, and syne our foes
Shall bear us companie.”

These words when Adam Gordon heard,
He hastens to the place,
“When our dear country claims our aid
Let all our quarrels cease.

“For, mine are gone--most valiant Knight!
And now a boon I crave--
That frae thy noble arm--the meed
Of Knighthood I must have.”

“And mine for aye!”--replies Sir John,
And to his breast him drew;
Then dubb’d him Knight, while deidly flight
Of arrows round them flew.

Then wi’ their men, these valiant twain
Rush’d down the green hill’s side,
And ’mongst their foes, wi’ mortal blows
Their hands in bluid they dy’d.

Like two huge rocks on Bramor’s brow,
When loossen’d fra’ their bed,
That thunder down and overthrow
The pines which crown the glade.

Thus they, thro’ ranks, the Earl of March
And the bold Percies fought,
And bluid and carnage mark’d their path
Where’er they step’d and fought.

At length they’re wi’ their gallant train
By numbers compass’d round,
And fighting fall on heaps of slain,
And stain with gore the ground.

Thus did these valiant cheiftains fall
Who liv’d in mortal strife,
But lock’d in one another’s arms,
Dear friendship clos’d their life.

And now the Scottish lines were broke
Wi’ rout and disarray,
And many a man was lost in [Tweed]
That strove to flee that day.

The mighty Douglas too was ta’en
For ne’er a foot he’d flee,
But first five greevous wounds he got
And also lost an eye.

With Gordon and with Swinton fell
Sir John of Callender,
Sir Ramsay of Dalhousie too,
And Sir Walter Sinclair.

And Roger Gordon likewise died,
Wi’ Walter Scot sae brave,
And many more of note beside
Whom valour cou’d not save.

But past all count, the pris’ners were
Wi’ doughty Douglas ta’en,
Fife, Murray, Angus, Orkney Earls,
Lord Graham and Erskine.

With eighty Knights and many more
Than can ee’ now be told,
All captives led, for ransome sett
By Harry Hotspur bold.

Fra’ Forth to Tweed, a swankie blade
Was then a sight to see,
The co’uter left in half plough’d lidge
Lay rusting in the lee.

God prosper Scotland, let us say,
And grant our wars be done,
And may we ne’er see sic a day
As that of Humbledown.[45]

[45] In the plain beneath the hill and village of Humbledown or Humbleton is a stone pillar, denoting the ground where 10,000 of the Scots, under Earl Douglas, in the reign of King Henry IV, on Holyrood-day, 1402, had a great overthrow, by Henry Lord Percy and George Earl of March. Douglas had entered England about the middle of August, and destroyed and plundered the country as far as Newcastle. On his return to Scotland he was intercepted by Earl Percy, and was obliged to engage on this plain: the battle was so bloody that the lands gained the name of Redriggs, from the slaughter with which they were stained. Among the prisoners were the Earls of Fife, Murray, Angus, Athol, Orkney, and Monteath, the Lords Montgomery and Erskine, and about 80 knights. Douglas received five wounds and lost an eye. Being hotly pursued, in the flight 500 Scots were drowned in the Tweed, the most of their army on this fatal day were left dead, or taken prisoners.

THE LAIDLEY WORM _OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH_.

_Virgo jam serpens sinuosa volumina versat,_
_Mille trahens varios adverso sole colores,_
_Arrectis horret squamis et sibilat ore;_
_Arduaque insurgens navem de littore pulsat._

A Song about 550 Years old, made by the old Mountain-bard, Duncan Frasier, living on Cheviot, A.D. 1270.

_First printed from an ancient MSS._

BY MR ROBERT LAMBE, VICAR OF NORHAM.

The king is gone from Bambrough Castle,
Long may the princess mourn,
Long may she stand on the castle wall,
Looking for his return.

She has knotted the keys upon a string,
And with her she has them ta’en,
She has cast them o’er her left shoulder,
And to the gate she is gane.

She tripped out, she tripped in,
She tript into the yard;
But it was more for the king’s sake,
Than for the queen’s regard.

It fell out on a day, the king
Brought the queen with him home;
And all the lords, in our country,
To welcome them did come.

Oh! welcome father, the lady cries,
Unto your halls and bowers;
And so are you, my step-mother,
For all that’s here is yours.

A lord said, wond’ring while she spake,
This princess of the North
Surpasses all of female kind
In beauty, and in worth.

The envious queen replied, at least,
You might have excepted me;
In a few hours, I will her bring
Down to a low degree.

I will her liken to a Laidley worm,
That warps about the stone,
And not, till Childly Wynd comes back,
Shall she again be won.

The princess stood at the bower door
Laughing, who could her blame?
But e’er the next day’s sun went down,
A long worm she became.

For seven miles east, for seven miles west,
And seven miles north, and south,
No blade of grass or corn could grow,
So venomous was her mouth.

The milk of seven stately cows,
It was costly her to keep,
Was brought her daily, which she drank
Before she went to sleep.

At this day may be seen the cave,
Which held her folded up,
And the stone trough, the very same
Out of which she did sup.

Word went east, and word went west,
And word is gone over the sea,
That a Laidley worm in Spindleston-Heughs
Would ruin the North Country.

Word went east, and word went west,
And over the sea did go;
The Child de Wynd got wit of it,
Which filled his heart with woe.

He called straight his merry men all,
They thirty were and three:
I wish I were at Spindleston,
This desperate worm to see.

We have no time now here to waste,
Hence quickly let us sail:
My only sister Margaret,
Something, I fear, doth ail.

They built a ship without delay,
With masts of the rown tree,
With flut’ring sails of silk so fine,
And set her on the sea.

They went on board. The wind with speed
Blew them along the deep,
At length they spied an huge square tower
On a rock high and steep.

The sea was smooth, the weather clear,
When they approached nigher,
King Ida’s castle they well knew,
And the banks of Bambroughshire.

The queen look’d out at her bower window,
To see what she could see;
There she espied a gallant ship
Sailing upon the sea.

When she beheld the silken sails,
Full glancing in the sun,
To sink the ship she sent away
Her witch wives every one.

The spells were vain; the hags returned
To the queen in sorrowful mood,
Crying that witches have no power,
Where there is rown-tree wood.

Her last effort, she sent a boat,
Which in the haven lay,
With armed men to board the ship,
But they were driven away.

The worm lept up, the worm lept down,
She plaited round the stone;
And ay as she came to the land
She banged it off again.

The child then ran out of her reach
The ship on Budley-sand;
And jumping into the shallow sea,
Securely got to land.

And now he drew his berry-broad sword,
And laid it on her head;
And swore if she did harm to him
That he would strike her dead.

O! quit thy sword and bend thy bow,
And give me kisses three;
For though I am a poisonous worm,
No hurt I’ll do to thee.

Oh! quit thy sword, and bend thy bow
And give me kisses three;
If I’m not won, e’er the sun go down,
Won I shall never be.

He quitted his sword and bent his bow,
He gave her kisses three;
She crept into a hole a worm,
But out stept a lady.

No cloathing had this lady fine,
To keep her from the cold;
He took his mantle from him about,
And round her did it fold.

He has taken his mantle from him about,
And in it he wrapt her in,
And they are up to Bambrough castle,
As fast as they can win.

His absence and her serpent shape,
The king had long deplored,
He now rejoiced to see them both
Again to him restored.

The queen they wanted, whom they found
All pale, and sore afraid;
Because she knew her power must yield
To Childy Wynd’s, who said,

Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch,
An ill death mayest thou dee;
As thou my sister hast lik’ned,
So lik’ned shalt thou be.

I will turn you into a toad,
That on the ground doth wend;
And won, won, shall thou never be,
Till this world hath an end.

Now on the sand near Ida’s tower,
She crawls a loathsome toad,
And venom spits on every maid
She meets upon her road.

The virgins all of Bambrough town,
Will swear that they have seen
This spiteful toad, of monstrous size,
Whilst walking they have been.

All folks believe within the shire
The story to be true,
And they all run to Spindleston,
The cave and trough to view.

This fact now Duncan Frasier
Of Cheviot, sings in rhyme;
Lest Bambrough-shire-men should forget
Some part of it in time.

THE FISHER LADDIE.

On Bamboroughshire’s rocky shore,
Just as you enter _Bowmer_ Raw,
There lives the bonny fisher lad,
The fisher lad that bangs them a’.
O the bonny fisher lad,
That brings the fishes fra’ the sea;
O the bonny fisher lad,
The fisher lad gat had of me.

My mother sent me out one day,
To gather cockles fra’ the sea;
But I had not been long away,
When the fisher lad gat had of me.
O the bonny, &c.

A sailor I will never marry,
Nor soldier, for he’s got no _brass_;
But I will have a fisher lad
Because I am a fisher’s lass.
O the bonny, &c.

THE KYE’s COME HOME.

The kye are come hame,
But I see not my hinny,
The kye are come hame,
But I see not my bairn:
I’d rather lose all the kye
Than lose my hinny,
I’d rather lose all the kye
Than lose my bairn.

Fair fac’d is my hinny,
His blue eyes are bonny,
His hair in curl’d ringlets
Hang sweet to the sight;
O mount the old poney,
Seek after my hinny,
And bring to his mammy
Her only delight.

SONG.

_A lamentable Ditty made upon the death of a worthy gentleman, named GEORGE STOOLE, dwelling sometime on Gate-side Moor, and sometime at Newcastle, in Northumberland: with his penitent end._ [c. 1610.]

To a delicate Scottish Tune.

Come you lusty Northerne lads,
That are so blith and bonny,
Prepare your hearts to be full sad,
To heare the end of Georgy.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my honny;
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my owne deare love,
And God be with my Georgie.

When Georgie to his triall came,
A thousand hearts were sorry,
A thousand lasses wept full sore,
And all for love of Georgie.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love,
Heigh-ho, &c.

Some did say he would escape,
Some at his fall did glory:
But these were clownes and fickle friends,
And none that loved Georgy.
Heigh-ho, &c.

Might friends have satisfied the law,
Then Georgie would find many:
Yet bravely did he plead for life,
If mercy might be any.
Heigh-ho, &c.

But when this doughty carle was cast,
He was full sad and sorry:
Yet boldly did he take his death,
So patiently dyde Georgie.
Heigh-ho, &c.

As Georgie went up to the gate,
He tooke his leave of many:
He tooke his leave of his laird’s wife,
Whom he lov’d best of any.
Heigh-ho, &c.

With thousand sighs and heavy looks,
Away from thence he parted,
Where he so often blithe had beene,
Though now so heavy hearted.
Heigh-ho, &c.

He writ a letter with his owne hand,
He thought he writ it bravely:
He sent it to New-castle towne,
To his beloved lady.
Heigh-ho, &c.

Wherein he did at large bewaile,
The occasion of his folly:
Bequeathing life unto the law,
His soule to heaven holy.
Heigh-ho, &c.

Why, lady, leave to weepe for me,
Let not my ending grieve ye:
Prove constant to the man you love,
For I cannot relieve yee.
Heigh-ho, &c.

Out upon thee, Withrington,
And fie upon thee, Phoenix:
Thou hast put downe the doughty one,
That stole the sheepe from Anix.
Heigh-ho, &c.

And fie on all such cruell carles,
Whose crueltie’s so fickle,
To cast away a gentleman
In hatred for so little.
Heigh-ho, &c.

I would I were on yonder hill,
Where I have beene full merry:
My sword and buckeler by my side
To fight till I be weary.
Heigh-ho, &c.

They well should know that tooke me first,
Though whoops be now forsaken:
Had I but freedome, armes, and health,
I’de dye ere I’de be taken.
Heigh-ho, &c.

But law condemns me to my grave,
They have me in their power;
There’s none but Christ that can me save,
At this my dying houre.
Heigh-ho, &c.

He call’d his dearest love to him,
When as his heart was sorry:
And speaking thus with manly heart,
Deare sweeting, pray for Georgie.
Heigh-ho, &c.

He gave to her a piece of gold,
And bade her give’t her bairns:
And oft he kist her rosie lips,
And laid him into her armes.
Heigh-ho, &c.

And coming to the place of death,
He never changed colour,
The more he thought he would look pale,
The more his veines were fuller.
Heigh-ho, &c.

And with a cheereful countenance,
(Being at that time entreated
For to confesse his former life)
These words he straight repeated.
Heigh-ho, &c.