Conquest over the French Fleet 108
Torringtonia; or, a New Copy of Verses on the Late Sea
Engagement 110
England’s Triumph at Sea (1691) 112
England’s Great Loss by a Storm of Wind 113
Naval Warfare of 1692 114
The Royal Triumph; or, the Unspeakable Joy of the Three
Kingdoms 117
Admiral Russell’s Scowering the French Fleet 119
A Merry New Ballad on the Great Victory over the French
Fleet 120
The Valiant Seamen’s Courage 125
England’s Glory in the Behaviour of Brave Killeygrove 126
An Excellent Song, Call’d The Frighted French; or, Russel
Scouring the Seas 128
The Cæsar’s Victory 129
A Copy of Verses, composed by Captain Henry Every 131
Villany Rewarded; or, The Pirate’s Last Farewel to the
World 133
Captain Kid’s Farewel to the Seas; or, The Famous Pirate’s
Lament 134
A Satyr on the Sea-Officers 137
The Sea-Martyrs; or, The Seamen’s Sad Lamentation for
their Faithful Service, Bad Pay, and Cruel Usage 140
Advice to Young Maidens in Chusing of Husbands 143
The Seamen’s Wives’ Vindication 145
Billy the Midshipman’s Welcome Home 146
Admiral Benbow 148
The Death of Admiral Benbow 149
The Sailors Account of the Action at Vigo 151
On the Sea Fight between Sir G. R. and Toulouse, 1704 153
A Song on the same 154
The Sailor’s Tragedy; or, The Last Farewel of Captain Smith 154
The Valliant Admiral; or, The Wonderful Success of Sir John
Leake 156
The Sea-Fight; or, The French Prize Taken 158
The Loss of the Edgar 160
The Sailor’s Complaint 162
Fair Sally Lov’d a Bonny Sailor 163
‘How Pleasant a Sailor’s Life Passes’ 164
The Boatswain’s Whistle 165
The Downfall of Piracy 166
Admiral Cavendish’s Distress on Board the Canterbury 168
The Pacifick Fleet 170
The English Sailor’s Resolution to Fight the Spaniards 172
England’s Glory in the Declaration of War 174
The Taking of the Princissa 175
English Courage Display’d; or, Brave News from Admiral
Vernon 177
Hosier’s Ghost 179
Vernon’s Glory; or, The Spaniards’ Defeat 181
The Saphirah (sic) in Triumph; or, British Valor Display’d 184
Admiral Matthews’ Engagement against the Combined Fleets
of France and Spain 186
A New Song in Praise of Brave Captain Hornsby 187
Captain Cobb’s Bravery 189
The Princess Royal’s Escape from the Goodwin Sands 190
The Loss of the Victory Man-of-War 192
Disconsolate Judy’s Lamentation for the Absence of her
True Love ... on Board the Victory ... now Missing 193
England’s Glory; or, The French King Stripped 194
The Lucky Sailor; or The Sailor’s invitation to go with
Admiral Anson 195
Tit for Tat: A Sea Kick for a Land Cuff 197
A New Song on Admiral Knowls taking Port Louis 199
A New Song sung by Hannah Snell, alias James Gray 200
The Lightermans Prentice Prest and Sent to Sea 201
Britain’s Resolution to Fight the French 203
The Terrible Privateer 204
Captain Death 205
A New Song (on Blakeney and Byng) 206
The Letter of a Certain Admiral 207
A Rueful Story: Admiral B----g’s Glory; or, Who Run
Away First 209
Admiral Byng and Brave West 210
A New Song Written on the Isle of Aix 211
Bold Sawyer 212
Captain Bartons Distress on Board the Lichfield 214
Gilchrist and Hotham’s Bravery 216
Hawke’s Engagement 217
Neptune’s Resignation 218
Hearts of Oak 220
Thurot’s Dream 220
A New Song on the Gallant Behaviour of Captain O’Brian
and Captain Taylor 222
A New Song on the Taking of Havannah 223
Lord Anson and Hawke 225
A New Song on the Blandford Privateer 226
The Sailors’ Dialogue 227
Distressed Men of War 228
The Sailor’s Complaint 230
The Sailor’s Garland; or, The Ticket Buyer’s Lamentation 231
The Saylor’s Complaint; or, The True Character of the
Purser of a Ship 233
The Sailor’s Resolution to Fight the Spaniards 234
Jack Tar 235
The Jolly Sailor’s True Description of a Man-of-War 236
New Sea Song (‘Our boatswain calls out for his bold
British heroes’) 239
The Humours of the Royal Billy 240
The Dolphin’s Return 243
The Brags of Washington 244
On the Late Engagement in Charles Town River 245
Sullivan’s Island 246
The Cruisers 247
On Board of the Arethusa 248
An Excellent New Song Composed by Eighteen Greenlandmen 249
Admiral Keppel Triumphant; or, Monsieurs in the Suds 252
Keppel and de Chartres. A New Song (‘Come, all ye valiant
seamen that plough the raging main’) 253
A New Song in Praise of Admiral Keppel’s Fleet 255
Admiral Keppel Triumphant 255
Keppel for Ever! 257
A New Song on Admiral Barrington 258
Paul Jones 259
Captain Farmer 260
The Bold Blades of Old England 261
The Royal Sailor 262
Hood’s Conquest over the Count de Grasse 263
The Loss of the Centaur 265
A New Sea Song called The Robin Hood 266
A New Song on the Battle Fought between the La Nymphe
and the Cleopatra 267
The Downfall of the French Fleet 268
A New Song on the Sea Engagement Fought the First of
June Last 270
A New Sea Song written by a Lieutenant of the Bellerophon 271
The Blanche Frigate 274
The Amazon Frigate 276
A New Song (The Seventeen Bright Stars) 277
The Genius of Britain 279
British Tars Rewarded 280
A New Song on Parker the Delegate 281
The Death of Parker 282
A New Song in Praise of Admiral Duncan 283
The Engagement between the Mars and La Hercule 285
Verses written on board H.M.S. Astræa 286
The Battle of the Nile 287
The Arrow Sloop of War 289
Copenhagen 290
Action off Copenhagen 295
A New Song on Lord Nelson’s Victory at Copenhagen 296
A New Song Composed by the Wounded Tars at the Siege of
Boulogne 297
France Cover’d with Glory 298
La Loire Frigate, or Yeo! Yeo! 300
Nelson’s Glorious Victory at Trafalgar 301
The Death of Lord Nelson 302
Admiral Strachan’s Victory 304
The Engagement between the Amethyst and Thetis 305
The Attempt of Destroying the French Fleet in Basque Roads 306
A Copy of Verses on Jefferys the Seaman 307
Ye Parliament of England 308
The Constitution and Guerrière 309
Shannon and Chesapeake 311
Battle of the Shannon and Chesapeake 312
The Endymion’s Triumph 313
The British Tars 316
The Fancy Frigate 316
The Saucy Scylla 319
The Vanguard 320
The Port Admiral 322
Oh! Cruel 324
The Answer to Oh! Cruel 325
The Female Lieutenant 326
Billy Taylor 327
Cawsand Bay 328
General Campbell 330
The Bold Adventures of Captain Ross 331
The Capture of St. Jean d’Acre 333
The Borneo Heroes 334
The Slave Chase 335
The Russians Won’t Come Out 336
Don’t Forget Your Old Shipmate 337
Notes 339
Index of First Lines 365
Index of Proper Names 370
Index of Ships 382
Index of Tunes 386
[Illustration]
SONGS AND BALLADS
_THE BATTLE OF SLUYS._
Lithes and the batail I sal bigyn
of Inglisch men and Normandes in the Swin.
Minot with mowth had menid to make
Suth sawes and sad for sum mens sake;
The wordes of sir Edward makes me to wake,
Wald he salue vs sone mi sorow suld slake;
War mi sorow slaked sune wald I sing:
When God will sir Edward sal vs bute bring.
Sir Philip the Valas cast was in care;
And said sir Hugh Kyret to Flandres suld fare,
And haue Normondes inogh to leue on his lare,
All Flandres to brin and mak it all bare;
Bot, vnkind coward, wo was him thare:
When he sailed in the Swin it sowed him sare;
Sare it tham smerted that ferd out of ffrance;
Thare lered Inglis men tham a new daunce.
The buriase of Bruge ne war noght to blame;
I pray Ihesu saue tham fro sin and fro schame,
For thai war sone at the Sluse all by a name,
Whare many of the Normandes tok mekill grame.
When Bruges and Ipyre hereof herd tell,
Thai sent Edward to wit that was in Arwell;
Than had he no liking langer to dwell,
He hasted him to the Swin with sergantes snell,
To mete with the Normandes that fals war and fell,
That had ment if thai might al Flandres to quell.
King Edward vnto sail was ful sune dight
With erles and barons and many kene knight:
Thai come byfor Blankebergh on Saint Ions night;
That was to the Normondes a well sary sight,
Yit trumped thai and daunced with torches ful bright,
In the wilde waniand was thaire hertes light.
Opon the morn efter, if I suth say,
A meri man, sir Robard out of Morlay,
At half eb in the Swin soght he the way;
Thare lered men the Normandes at bukler to play;
Helpid tham no prayer that thai might pray;
The wreches er wonnen thaire wapin es oway.
The Erle of Norhamton helpid at that nede,
Als wise man of wordes and worthli in wede,
Sir Walter the Mawnay, God gif him mede,
Was bold of body in batayl to bede.
The duc of Lankaster was dight for to driue,
With mani mody man that thoght for to thriue,
Wele and stalworthly stint he that striue,
That few of the Normandes left thai oliue;
Fone left thai oliue bot did tham to lepe;
Men may find by the flode a ·C· on hepe.
Sir William of Klinton was eth for to knaw;
Mani stout bachilere broght he on raw.
It semid with thaire schoting als it was snaw;
The bost of the Normandes broght thai ful law;
Thaire bost was abated and thaire mekil pride,
Fer might thai noght fle bot thare bud tham bide.
The gude Erle of Glowcester, God mot him glade,
Broght many bold men with bowes ful brade;
To biker with the Normandes baldely thai bade
And in middes the flode did them to wade;
To wade war tho wretches casten in the brim;
The kaitefs come out of France at lere tham to swim.
I prays Iohn Badding als one of the best;
Faire come he sayland out of the suthwest,
To proue of tha Normandes was he ful prest,
Till he had foghten his fill he had neuer rest.
Iohn of Aile of the Sluys with scheltron ful schene
Was comen into Cagent, cantly and kene,
Bot sone was his trumping turned to tene;
Of him had sir Edward his will als I wene.
The schipmen of Ingland sailed ful swith,
That none of the Normandes fro tham might skrith.
Who so kouth wele his craft thare might it kith:
Of al the gude that thai gat gaf thai no tithe.
Two hundreth and mo schippes on the sandes
Had oure Inglis men won with thaire handes;
The kogges of Ingland war broght out of bandes,
And also the Cristofir that in the streme standes;
In that stound thai stode, with stremers ful still
Til thai wist full wele sir Edwardes will.
Sir Edward, oure gude king wurthi in wall
Faght wele on that flude, faire mot him fall;
Als it es custom of king to confort tham all
So thanked he gudely the grete and the small,
He thanked them gudely, God gif him mede,
Thus come oure king in the Swin till that gude dede
This was the bataile that fell in the Swin,
Whare many Normandes made mekill din;
Wele war thai armed vp to the chin;
But God and sir Edward gert thaire boste blin,
Thus blinned thaire boste, als we wele ken:
God assoyle thaire sawls, sais all, Amen.
_LES ESPAGNOLS SUR MER._
How King Edward and his menye
Met with the Spaniardes in the see
I wald noght spare for to speke, wist I to spede,
Of wight men with wapin and worthly in wede,
That now er driven to dale and ded all thaire dede,
Thai sail in the see-gronde fissches to fede;
Fele fissches thai fede for all thaire grete fare
It was in the waniand that thai come thare.
Thai sailed furth in the Swin in a somers tyde,
With trompes and taburns and mekill other pride;
The word of tho weremen walked full wide;
The gudes that thai robbed in holl gan thai it hide,
In holl than thai hided grete welthes, als I wene,
Of gold and of silver of skarlet and grene.
When thai sailed westward, tho wight men in were,
Thaire hurdis, thaire ankers hanged thai on here;
Wight men of the west neghed tham nerr.
And gert tham snaper in the snare, might thai no ferr,
ffer might thai noght flit bot thare most thai fine,
And that thai bifore reved than most thai tyne.
Boy with thi blac berd, I rede that thou blin,
And sone set the to schrive with sorow of thi syn;
If thou were on Ingland noght saltou win,
Cum thou more on that coste thi bale sall bigin;
Thare kindels thi care kene men sall the kepe,
And do the dye on a day and domp in the depe.
Ye broght out of Bretayne yowre custom with care,
Ye met with the marchandes and made tham ful bare;
It es gude reson and right that ye evill misfare,
When ye wald in Ingland lere of a new lare,
New lare sall ye lere, sir Edward to lout:
For when ye stode in yowre strenkith ye war all to stout.
_THE PILGRIMS SEA VOYAGE._
Men may leue alle gamys,
That saylen to seynt Jamys!
Ffor many a men hit gramys,
When they begyn to sayle.
Ffor when they haue take the see,
At Sandwyche, or at Wynchylsee.
At Brystow, or where that hit bee.
Theyr hertes begyn to fayle.
Anone the mastyr commaundeth fast
To hys shyp-men in alle the hast,
To dresse hem sone about the mast,
Theyr takelyng to make.
With “howe! hissa!” then they cry,
“What, howe, mate! thow stondyst to ny,
Thy felow may nat hale the by;”
Thus they begyn to crake.
A boy or tweyn anone up styen,
And ouerthwart the sayle-yerde lyen;--
“Y how! taylia!” the remenaunt cryen,
And pulle with alle theyr myght.
“Bestowe the boote, bote-swayne, anon,
That our pylgryms may pley theron;
For som ar lyle to cowgh and grone
Or hit be full mydnyght.
“Hale the bowelyne! now, vere the shete!--
Cooke, make redy anoon our mete,
Our pylgryms haue no lust to ete,
I pray god yeue hem rest!”
“Go to the helm! what, howe! no nere?
Steward, felow! A pot of bere!”
“Ye shalle haue, sir, with good chere,
Anon alle of the best.”
“Y howe! trussa! hale in the brayles!
Thou halyst nat, be god, thow fayles!
O se howe welle owre good shyp sayles!”
And thus they say among.
“Hale in the wartake!” “hit shal be done.”
“Steward! couer the boorde anone,
And set bred and salt therone,
And tary nat to long.”
Then cometh oone and seyth, “be mery;
Ye shall haue a storme or a pery.”
“Holde thow thy pese! thow canst no whery
Thow medlyst wondyr sore.”
Thys mene whyle the pylgryms ly,
And haue theyr bowlys fast theym by,
And cry aftyr hote maluesy,
“Thow helpe for to restore.”
And som wold haue a saltyd tost,
Ffor they myght ete neyther sode ne rost;
A man myght sone pay for theyr cost,
As for oo day or twayne.
Som layde theyr bookys on theyr kne,
And rad so long they myght nat se;
“Allas! myne hede wolle cleue on thre!”
Thus seyth another certayne.
Then commeth owre owner lyke a lorde,
And speketh many a Royall worde,
And dresseth hym to the hygh borde,
To see alle thyng be welle.
Anone he calleth a carpentere,
And byddyth hym bryng with hym hys gere,
To make the cabans here and there,
With many a febylle celle.
A sak of strawe were there ryght good,
Ffor som must lyg theym in theyr hood;
I had as lefe be in the wood,
Without mete or drynk;
For when that we shall go to bedde,
The pumpe was nygh oure beddes hede,
A man were as good to be dede
As smell therof the stynk!
_SIR ANDREW BARTON._
As itt beffell in m[i]dsumer-time,
When burds singe sweetlye on every tree,
Our noble king, King Henery the Eighth,
Over the river of Thames past hee.
Hee was no sooner over the river,
Downe in a fforrest to take the ayre,
But eighty merchants of London cittye
Came kneeling before King Henery there.
‘O yee are welcome, rich merchants,
[Good saylers, welcome unto me!’]
They swore by the rood the were saylers good,
But rich merchants they cold not bee.
‘To Ffrance nor Fflanders dare we nott passe,
Nor Burdeaux voyage wee dare not ffare,
And all for a ffalse robber that lyes on the seas,
And robb[s] us of our merchants-ware.’
King Henery was stout, and he turned him about,
And swore by the Lord that was mickle of might,
‘I thought he had not been in the world throughout
That durst have wrought England such unright.’
But ever they sighed, and said, alas!
Unto King Harry this answere againe:
‘He is a proud Scott that will robb us all
If wee were twenty shipps and hee but one.’
The king looket over his left shoulder,
Amongst his lords and barrons soe ffree:
‘Have I never lord in all my realme
Will ffeitch yond traitor unto mee?’
‘Yes, that dare I!’ sayes my lord Chareles Howard,
Neere to the king wheras hee did stand;
‘If that Your Grace will give me leave,
My selfe wilbe the only man.’
‘Thou shalt have six hundred men,’ saith our king
‘And chuse them out of my realme soe ffree;
Besids marriners and boyes,
To guide the great shipp on the sea.’
‘I’le goe speake with Sir Andrew,’ sais Charles, my lord Haward;
‘Upon the sea, if hee be there;
I will bring him and his shipp to shore,
Or before my prince I will never come neere.’
The ffirst of all my lord did call,
A noble gunner hee was one;
This man was three score yeeres and ten,
And Peeter Simon was his name.
‘Peeter,’ sais hee, ‘I must sayle to the sea,
To seeke out an enemye; God be my speed!
Before all others I have chosen thee;
Of a hundred guners thoust be my head.’
‘My lord,’ sais hee, ‘if you have chosen mee
Of a hundred gunners to be the head,
Hange mee att your maine-mast tree
If I misse my marke past three pence bread.’
The next of all my lord he did call,
A noble bowman hee was one;
In Yorekshire was this gentleman borne,
And William Horsley was his name.
‘Horsley,’ sayes hee, ‘I must sayle to the sea,
To seeke out an enemye; God be my speede!
Before all others I have chosen thee;
Of a hundred bowemen thoust be my head.’
‘My lord,’ sais hee, ‘if you have chosen mee
Of a hundred bowemen to be the head,
Hang me att your maine-mast tree
If I misse my marke past twelve pence bread.’
With pikes, and gunnes, and bowemen bold,
This noble Howard is gone to the sea
On the day before midsummer-even,
And out at Thames mouth sayled they.
They had not sayled dayes three
Upon their iourney they tooke in hand,
But there they mett with a noble shipp,
And stoutely made itt both stay and stand.
‘Thou must tell me thy name,’ sais Charles, my lord Haward,
Or who thou art, or ffrom whence thou came,
Yea, and where thy dwelling is,
To whom and where thy shipp does belong.’
‘My name,’ sayes hee, ‘is Henery Hunt,
With a pure hart and a penitent mind;
I and my shipp they doe belong
Unto the New-castle that stands upon Tine.’
Now thou must tell me, Harry Hunt,
As thou hast sayled by day and by night,
Hast thou not heard of a stout robber?
Men calls him Sir Andrew Bartton, knight.’
But ever he sighed, and sayd, ‘Alas!
Ffull well, my lord, I know that wight;
He robd me of my merchants ware,
And I was his prisoner but yester-night.
As I was sayling upon the sea,
And [a] Burdeaux voyage as I did ffare,
He clasped me to his archborde,
And robd me of all my merchants-ware.
And I am a man both poore and bare,
And every man will have his owne of me,
And I am bound towards London to ffare,
To complaine to my prince Henerye.’
‘That shall not need,’ sais my lord Haward;
‘If thou canst lett me this robber see,
Ffor every peny he hath taken thee ffroe,
Thou shalt be rewarded a shilling,’ quoth hee.
‘Now God fforefend,’ saies Henery Hunt,
‘My lord, you shold worke soe ffarr amisse!
God keepe you out of that traitors hands!
For you wott ffull little what a man hee is.
‘Hee is brasse within, and steele without,
And beames hee beares in his topcastle stronge;
His shipp hath ordinance cleane round about;
Besids, my lord, hee is verry well mand.
‘He hath a pinnace is deerlye dight,
Saint Andrews crosse, that is his guide;
His pinnace beares nine score men and more,
Besids fifteen cannons on every side.
‘If you were twenty shippes, and he but one,
Either in archbord or in hall,
He wold overcome you everye one,
And if his beames they doe downe ffall.’
‘This is cold comfort,’ sais my Lord Haward,
‘To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea;
I’le bring him and his shipp to shore,
Or else into Scottland hee shall carrye mee.’
‘Then you must gett a noble gunner, my lord,
That can sett well with his eye,
And sinke his pinnace into the sea,
And soone then overcome will hee bee.
‘And when that you have done this,
If you chance Sir Andrew for to bord,
Lett no man to his topcastle goe;
And I will give you a glasse, my lord,
‘And then you need to ffeare no Scott,
Whether you sayle by day or by night;
And to-morrow, by seven of the clocke,
You shall meete with Sir Andrew Bartton, knight.
‘I was his prisoner but yester night,
And he hath taken mee sworne,’ quoth hee;
‘I trust my L[ord] God will me fforgive
And if that oath then broken bee.
‘You must lend me sixe peeces, my lord,’ quoth hee,
‘Into my shipp to sayle the sea,
And to-morrow, by nine of the clocke,
Your Honour againe then will I see.’
* * * * *
And the hache-bord where Sir Andrew lay
Is hached with gold deerlye dight:
‘Now by my ffaith,’ sais Charles, my lord Haward,
‘Then yonder Scott is a worthye wight!
‘Take in your ancyents and your standards,
Yea that no man shall them see,
And put me fforth a white willow wand,
As merchants use to sayle the sea.’
But they stirred neither top nor mast,
But Sir Andrew they passed by:
‘Whatt English are yonder,’ said Sir Andrew,
‘That can so little curtesye?
‘I have beene admirall over the sea
More then these yeeres three;
There is never an English dog, nor Portingall,
Can passe this way without leave of mee.
‘But now yonder pedlers, they are past,
Which is no little greffe to me:
Ffeitch them backe,’ sayes Sir Andrew Bartton,
‘They shall all hang att my maine-mast tree.’
With that the pinnace itt shott of,
That my Lord Haward might itt well ken;
Itt stroke downe my lords fforemast,
And killed fourteen of my lord his men.
‘Come hither, Simon!’ sayes my lord Haward,
‘Looke that thy words be true thou sayd;
I’le hang thee att my maine-mast tree
If thou misse thy marke past twelve pence bread.’
Simon was old, but his hart itt was bold;
Hee tooke downe a peece, and layd itt full lowe;
He put in chaine yards nine,
Besids other great shott lesse and more.
With that hee lett his gun-shott goe;
Soe hee well settled itt with his eye,
The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe,
Hee see his pinnace sunke in the sea.
When hee saw his pinace sunke,
Lord! in his hart hee was not well:
‘Cutt my ropes! itt is time to be gon!
I’le goe ffeitch yond pedlers backe my selfe!
‘When my lord Haward saw Sir Andrew loose,
Lord! in his hart that hee was ffaine:
‘Strike on your drummes! spread out your ancyents!
Sound out your trumpetts! sound out amaine!’
‘Fight on, my men!’ sais Sir Andrew Bartton;
‘Weate, howsoever this geere will sway,
Itt is my lord Adm[i]rall of England
Is come to seeke mee on the sea.’
Simon had a sonne; with shott of a gunne--
Well Sir Andrew might itt ken--
He shott itt in att a privye place,
And killed sixty more of Sir Andrews men.
Harry Hunt came in att the other syde,
And att Sir Andrew hee shott then;
He drove downe his fformast-tree,
And killed eighty more of Sir Andriwes men.
‘I have done a good turne,’ sayes Harry Hunt;
‘Sir Andrew is not our kings ffreind;
He hoped to have undone me yester-night,
But I hope I have quitt him well in the end.’
‘Ever alas!’ sayd Sir Andrew Barton,
‘What shold a man either thinke or say?
Yonder ffalse theeffe is my strongest enemye,
Who was my prisoner but yesterday.
‘Come hither to me, thou Gourden good,
And be thou readye att my call,
And I will give thee three hundred pound
If thou wilt lett my beames downe ffall.’
With that he swarved the maine-mast tree,
Soe did he itt with might and maine;
Horseley, with a bearing arrow,
Stroke the Gourden through the braine,
And he ffell into the haches againe,
And sore of this wound that he did bleed;
Then word went throug Sir Andrews men,
That the Gourden he was dead.
‘Come hither to me, Iames Hambliton,
Thou art my sisters sonne, I have no more;
I will give [thee] six hundred pound
If thou wilt lett my beames downe fall.’
With that hee swarved the maine-mast tree,
Soe did hee itt with might and maine
Horseley, with another broad arrow,
Strake the yeaman through the braine
That hee ffell downe to the haches againe;
Sore of his wound that hee did bleed.
Covetousness getts no gaine,
Itt is verry true, as the Welchman sayd.
But when hee saw his sisters sonne slaine,
Lord! in his heart hee was not well:
‘Goe ffeitch me downe my armour of prove,
For I will to the topcastle my-selfe.
‘Goe ffeitch me downe my armour of prooffe,
For itt is gilded with gold soe cleere;
God be with my brother, Iohn of Bartton!
Amongst the Portingalls hee did itt weare.’
But when hee had his armour of prooffe,
And on his body hee had itt on,
Every man that looked att him
Sayd, Gunn nor arrow hee neede feare none.
‘Come hither, Horsley!’ sayes my lord Haward,
‘And looke your shaft that itt goe right;
Shoot a good shoote in the time of need,
And ffor thy shooting thoust be made a knight.’
‘I’le doe my best,’ sayes Horslay then,
‘Your Honor shall see beffore I goe;
If I shold be hanged att your maine-mast,
I have in my shipp but arrowes tow.’
But att Sir Andrew hee shott then;
Hee made sure to hitt his marke;
Under the spole of his right arme
Hee smote Sir Andrew quite throw the hart.
Yett ffrom the tree hee wold not start,
But hee clinged to itt with might and maine;
Under the coller then of his iacke,
He stroke Sir Andrew thorrow the braine.