Ballad Book Part 11

But Percy wi' his gude braid-sword, That could sae sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, That he fell to the ground.

And then he called his little foot-page, And said--"Run speedilie, And fetch my ae dear sister's son, Sir Hugh Montgomerie.

"My nephew gude!" the Douglas said, "What recks the death of ane?

Last night I dreamed a dreary dream, And ken the day's thy ain!

"My wound is deep; I fain wad sleep!

Tak' thou the vanguard o' the three, And bury me by the bracken bush, That grows on yonder lily lea.

"O bury me by the bracken bush, Beneath the blumin' brier; Let never living mortal ken That a kindly Scot lies here!"

He lifted up that n.o.ble lord, Wi' the saut tear in his e'e; And he hid him by the bracken bush, That his merry men might not see.

The moon was clear, the day drew near, The spears in flinders flew; And many a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew.

The Gordons gay, in English blude They wat their hose and shoon; The Lindsays flew like fire about, Till a' the fray was dune.

The Percy and Montgomery met, That either of other was fain; They swakkit swords, and sair they swat, And the blude ran down between.

"Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy!" he said, Or else I will lay thee low!"

"To whom maun I yield," Earl Percy said, "Since I see that it maun be so?"

"Thou shalt not yield to lord or loun, Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; But yield thee to the bracken-bush That grows on yonder lily lea!"

This deed was done at the Otterburne About the breaking o' the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the bracken bush, And the Percy led captive away.

THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT.

THE FIRST FIT.

The Perse owt off Northombarlande, And a vowe to G.o.d mayd he, That he wold hunte in the mountayns Off Chyviat within days thre, In the mauger of doughte 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."

Then the Perse owt of Banborowe cam, With him a myghtye meany; With fifteen hondrith archares bold; The wear chosen owt 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 pitte.

The dryvars thorowe the woodes went, For to reas the dear; Bomen byckarte uppone the bent With ther browd aras cleare.

Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went, On every syde shear; Grea-hondes thorowe the grevis glent, For to kyll thear dear.

The begane in Chyviat the hyls above, Yerly on a monnynday; 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 Perse 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 Perse 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 myghte meany;

Both with spear, byll, and brande; Yt was a myghti sight to se; Hardyar men both off hart nar hande Wear not in Christiante.

The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good, Withowte any fayle; The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, Yth bowndes of Tividale.

"Leave off the brytlyng of the dear," he sayde, "And to your bowys lock ye 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 aft 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 Perse: 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 spyt 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 doughte Dogglas agayn, "Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day."

Then sayd the doughte Doglas Unto the lord Perse: "To kyll all thes giltles men, Alas, it were great pitte!

"But, Perse, 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 Perse, "Whosoever ther-to says nay; Be my troth, doughte 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, Richard Wytharynton was him nam; "It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde," he says, "To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.

"I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, I am a poor squyar of lande; I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, And stande myselffe, and looke on, But whyll I may my weppone welde, I wyll not ffayll both hart and hande."

That day, that day, that dredfull day!

The first fit here I fynde; And youe wyll here any mor a' the hountyng a'

the Chyviat, Yet ys ther mor behynd.

THE SECOND FIT.

The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, Ther hartes were good yenoughe; The first off arros that the shote off, Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.

Yet byddys 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, With suar speares off myghtte tre, The c.u.m 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.

Throrowe ryche male and myneyeple, Many sterne the stroke downe streght; Many a freyke, that was full fre, Ther undar foot dyd lyght.