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 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.
Throrowe ryche male and myneyeple,
Many sterne the stroke downe streght;
Many a freyke, that was full fre,
Ther undar foot dyd lyght.
At last the Duglas and the Persè met,
Lyk to captayns of myght and of 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.
"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 ranson fre,
I hight the hear this thinge,
For the manfullyste man yet art thowe,
That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng."
"Nay," sayd the lord Persè,
"I tolde it the beforne,
That I wolde never yeldyde be
To no man of woman born."
With that ther cam an arrowe hastely
Forthe off a myghtte 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."
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 wolde 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 Mongonbyrry;
He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght,
He spendyd a spear, a trust! tre:--
He rod uppon a corsiare
Throughe a hondrith archery:
He never styntyde, nar never blane,
Tyll he cam to the good lord Persè.
He set uppone the lord Persè
A dynte that was full soare;
With a suar spear of a myghttè tre
Clean thorow the body he the Persè bore,
A' the tother syde that a man myght se
A large cloth yard and mare:
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Christiantè,
Then that day slain wear ther.
An archar off Northomberlonde
Say slean was the lord Persè;
He bar a bende-bowe 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 Mongonbyrry.
The dynt yt was both sad and sar,
That he on Mongonberry 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 balful 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 ethar hand
Be the lyght off the mone;
Many hade no strenght for to stande,
In Chyviat the hillys aboun.
Of fifteen hondrith archars of Yonglonde
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 hie;
The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
It was the mor pittè.
Thear was slayne with the lord Persè
Sir John of Agerstone,
Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly,
Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.
Sir Jorg the worthè Lovele,
A knyght of great renowen,
Sir Raff the ryche Rugbè,
With dyntes wear beaten dowene.
For Wetharryngton 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 hys kne.
Ther was slayne with the dougheti Douglas,
Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry,
Sir Davye Lwdale, that worthè was,
His sistars son was he:
His Charls 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 birch and hasell so gray;
Many wedous with wepyng tears
Cam to fach ther makys away.
Tivydale may carpe off care,
Northombarlond may mayk grat mon,
For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear,
On the march perti shall never be non.
Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe,
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!
"Such an othar captayn Skotland within,"
He sayd, "y-feth shall never be."
Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone,
Till the fourth Harry our kyng,
That lord Persè, lyffe-tennante of the Merchis,
He lay slayne Chyviat within.
"God have merci on his soil," sayd kyng Harry,
"Good lord, yf thy will it be!
I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," 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 mayd his a-vowe,
Lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Persè
He dyde the battell of Hombyll-down:
Wher syx and thrittè Skottishe 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:
Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe,
Call it the Battell of Otterburn.
At Otterburn began this spurne
Uppon a monnynday:
Ther was the dougghtè 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 redde blude ronne not,
As the reane doys in the stret.
Jhesue Christ our balys bete,
And to the blys us brynge!
Thus was the Hountynge of the Chevyat:
God send us all good endyng.
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