#A.# King Henry Eighth, having been informed by eighty Londo_The English and Scottish popular ballads, volume 3 (of 5)

that navigation is stopped by a Scot who would rob them were they twenty

ships to his one, asks if there is never a lord who will fetch him that

traitor, and Lord Charles Howard volunteers for the service, he to be

the only man. The king offers him six hundred fighting men, his choice

of all the realm. Howard engages two noble marksmen, Peter Simon to be

the head of a hundred gunners, and William Horsley to be the head of a

hundred bowmen, and sails, resolved to bring in Sir Andrew and his ship,

or never again come near his prince. On the third day he falls in with a

fine ship commanded by Henry Hunt, and asks whether they have heard of

Barton. Henry Hunt had been Barton’s prisoner the day before, and can

give the best intelligence and advice. Barton is a terrible fellow; his

ship is brass within and steel without; and although there is a

deficiency at #A# 36, there is enough to show that it was not less

magnificent than strong, 36^2, 75^2. He has a pinnace of thirty guns,

and the voluble and not too coherent Hunt makes it a main point to sink

this pinnace first. But above all, Barton carries beams in his

topcastle, and with these, if he can drop them, his own ship is a match

for twenty;[216] therefore, let no man go to his topcastle. Hunt borrows

some guns from Lord Howard, trusting to be forgiven for breaking the

oath upon which he had been released by his captor the day before, and

sets a ‘glass’ (lantern?) to guide Howard’s ship to Barton’s, which they

see the next day. Barton is lying at anchor, 45^3, 46^1; the English

ship, feigning to be a merchantman, passes him without striking topsails

or topmast, ‘stirring neither top nor mast.’ Sir Andrew has been admiral

on the sea for more than three years, and no Englishman or Portingal

passes without his leave: he orders his pinnace to bring the pedlars

back; they shall hang at his main-mast tree. The pinnace fires on Lord

Howard and brings down his foremast and fifteen of his men, but Simon

sinks the pinnace with one discharge, which, to be sure, includes nine

yards of chain besides other great shot, less and more. Sir Andrew cuts

his ropes to go for the pedlar himself. Lord Howard throws off disguise,

sounds drums and trumpets, and spreads his ensign. Simon’s son shoots

and kills sixty; the perjured Henry Hunt comes in on the other side,

brings down the foremast, and kills eighty. One wonders that Barton’s

guns do not reply; in fact he never fires a shot; but then he has that

wonderful apparatus of the beams, which, whether mechanically perfect or

not, is worked well by the poet, for not many better passages are met

with in ballad poetry than that which tells of the three gallant

attempts on the main-mast tree, 52–66. Sir Andrew had not taken the

English archery into his reckoning. Gordon, the first man to mount, is

struck through the brain; so is James Hamilton, Barton’s sister’s son.

Sir Andrew dons his armor of proof and goes up himself. Horsley hits him

under his arm; Barton will not loose his hold, but a second mortal wound

forces him to come down. He calls on his men to fight on; he will lie

and bleed awhile, and then rise and fight again; “fight on for Scotland

and St Andrew, while you hear my whistle blow!” Soon the whistle is

mute, and they know that Barton is dead; the English board; Howard

strikes off Sir Andrew’s head, while the Scots stand by weeping, and

throws the body over the side, with three hundred crowns about the

middle to secure it a burial. So Jon Rimaardssøn binds three bags about

his body when he jumps into the sea, saying, He shall not die poor that

will bury my body: Danske Viser, II, 225, st. 30. Lord Howard sails back

to England, and is royally welcomed. England before had but one ship of

war, and Sir Andrew’s made the second, says the ballad, but therein

seems to be less than historically accurate: see Southey’s Lives of the

British Admirals, 1833, II, 171, note. Hunt, Horsley, and Simon are

generously rewarded, and Howard is made Earl of Nottingham. When King

Henry sees Barton’s ghastly head, he exclaims that he would give a

hundred pounds if the man were alive as he is dead: ambiguous words,

which one would prefer not to interpret by the later version of the

ballad, in which Henry is eager himself to give the doom, #B# 58; nor

need we, for in the concluding stanza the king, in recognition of the

manful part that he hath played, both here and beyond the sea, says that

each of Barton’s men shall have half a crown a day to take them home.

The variations of #B#, as to the story, are of slight importance. There

is no pinnace in #B#. Horsley’s shots are somewhat better arranged:

Gordon is shot under the collar-bone, the nephew through the heart; the

first arrow rebounds from Barton’s armor, the second smites him to the

heart. ‘Until you hear my whistle blow,’ in 53^4, is a misconception,

coming from not understanding that till (as in #A# 66^4) may mean while.

The copy in Percy’s Reliques is translated by Von Marées, p. 88.

Percy MS., p. 490; Hales and Furnivall, III, 399.

As itt beffell in m[i]dsumer-time,

When burds singe sweetlye on euery tree,

Our noble k_ing_, K_ing_ Henery the Eighth,

Ouer the riuer of Thames past hee.

Hee was no sooner ouer the riuer,

Downe in a fforrest to take the ayre,

But eighty merchants of London cittye

Came kneeling before K_ing_ 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 ffor a ffalse robber _tha_t lyes on the seas,

And robb[s] vs of our merchants-ware.’

K_ing_ Henery was stout, and he turned him about,

And swore by the Lord _tha_t was mickle of might,

‘I thought he had not beene in the world throughout

_Tha_t durst haue wrought England such vnright.’

But euer they sighed, and said, alas!

Vnto K_ing_ Harry this answere againe:

‘He is a proud Scott _tha_t will robb vs all

If wee were twenty shipps and hee but one.’

The k_ing_ looket ouer his left shoulder,

Amongst his lords and barrons soe ffree:

‘Haue I neuer lo_rd_ in all my realme

Will ffeitch yond traitor vnto mee?’

‘Yes, _tha_t dare I!’ sayes my lo_rd_ Chareles Howard,

Neere to the k_ing_ wheras hee did stand;

‘If _tha_t Yo_u_r Grace will giue me leaue,

My selfe wilbe the only man.’

‘Thou shalt haue six hundred men,’ saith our k_ing_,

‘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 w_i_th S_i_r Andrew,’ sais Ch_arles_, my lo_rd_

Haward;

‘Vpon the sea, if hee be there;

I will bring him and his shipp to shore,

Or before my prince I will neu_er_ come neere.’

The ffirst of all my lo_rd_ 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 haue chosen thee;

Of a hundred guners thoust be my head.’

‘My lo_rd_,’ sais hee, ‘if you haue chosen mee

Of a hundred gunners to be the head,

Hange me att yo_u_r maine-mast tree

If I misse my marke past three pence bread.’

The next of all my lo_rd_ he did call,

A noble bowman hee was one;

In Yorekeshire 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 haue chosen thee;

Of a hundred bowemen thoust be my head.’

‘My lo_rd_,’ sais hee, ‘if you haue chosen mee

Of a hundred bowemen to be the head,

Hang me att yo_u_r mainemast-tree

If I misse my marke past twelue pence bread.’

W_i_th pikes, and gunnes, and bowemen bold,

This noble Howard is gone to the sea

On the day before midsummer-euen,

And out att Thames mouth sayled they.

They had not sayled dayes three

Vpon their iourney they tooke in hand,

But there they mett w_i_th a noble shipp,

And stoutely made itt both stay and stand.

‘Thou must tell me thy name,’ sais Ch_arles_, my lo_rd_ 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,

W_i_th a pure hart and a penitent mind;

I and my shipp they doe belong

Vnto the New-castle _tha_t stands vpon 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 S_i_r Andrew Bartton, k_nigh_t.’

But euer he sighed, and sayd, Alas!

Ffull well, my lo_rd_, I know _tha_t wight;

He robd me of my merchants ware,

And I was his prisoner but yesternight.

As I was sayling vppon 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 euery man will haue his owne of me,

And I am bound towards London to ffare,

To complaine to my prince Henerye.

‘_Tha_t shall not need,’ sais my lo_rd_ Haward;

‘If thou canst lett me this robber see,

Ffor euery peny he hath taken thee ffroe,

Thou shalt be rewarded a shilling,’ q_uo_th hee.

‘Now God fforefend,’ saies Henery Hunt,

‘My lo_rd_, you shold worke soe ffarr amisse!

God keepe you out of _tha_t traitors hands!

For you wott ffull litle what a man hee is.

‘Hee is brasse w_i_thin, and steele w_i_thout,

And beames hee beares in his topcastle stronge;

His shipp hath ordinance cleane round about;

Besids, my lo_rd_, hee is verry well mand.

‘He hath a pinnace, is deerlye dight,

S_ain_t Andrews crosse, _tha_t is his guide;

His pinnace beares nine score men and more,

Besids fifteen cannons on euery side.

‘If you were twenty shippes, and he but one,

Either in archbord or in hall,

He wold ouercome you euerye 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 lo_rd_,

_Tha_t can sett well w_i_th his eye,

And sinke his pinnace into the sea,

And soone then ou_er_come will hee bee.

‘And when _tha_t you haue done this,

If you chance S_i_r Andrew for to bord,

Lett no man to his topcastle goe;

And I will giue 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 seuen of the clocke,

You shall meete w_i_th S_i_r Andrew Bartton, k_night_.

‘I was his prisoner but yester night,

And he hath taken mee sworne,’ q_uo_th hee;

‘I trust my L[ord] God will me fforgiue

And if _tha_t oath then broken bee.

‘You must lend me sixe peeces, my l_ord_,’ q_uo_th hee,

‘Into my shipp, to sayle the sea,

And to-morrow, by nine of the clocke,

Yo_u_r Hono_u_r againe then will I see.’

* * * * *

And the hache-bord where S_i_r Andrew lay

Is hached w_i_th gold deerlye dight:

‘Now by my ffaith,’ sais Ch_arles_, my lo_rd_ Haward,

‘Then yonder Scott is a worthye wight!

‘Take in yo_u_r ancyents and yo_u_r standards,

Yea _tha_t no man shall them see,

And put me fforth a white willow wand,

As merchants vse to sayle the sea.’

But they stirred neither top nor mast,

But S_i_r Andrew they passed by:

‘Whatt English are yonder,’ said S_i_r Andrew,

‘_Tha_t can so litle curtesye?

‘I haue beene admirall ouer the sea

More then these yeeres three;

There is neu_er_ an English dog, nor Portingall,

Can passe this way w_i_thout leaue of mee.

‘But now yonder pedlers, they are past,

_Whi_ch is no litle greffe to me:

Ffeich them backe,’ sayes S_i_r Andrew Bartton,

‘They shall all hang att my maine-mast tree.’

W_i_th _tha_t the pinnace itt shott of,

_Tha_t my Lo_rd_ Haward might itt well ken;

Itt stroke downe my lords fforemast,

And killed fourteen of my lo_rd_ his men.

‘Come hither, Simon!’ sayes my lo_rd_ Haward,

‘Looke _tha_t thy words be true thou sayd;

I’le hang thee att my maine-mast tree

If thou misse thy marke past twelue pence bread.’

Simon was old, but his hart itt was bold;

Hee tooke downe a peece, and layd itt ffull lowe;

He put in chaine yeards nine,

Besids other great shott lesse and more.

W_i_th _tha_t hee lett his gun-shott goe;

Soe well hee settled itt w_i_th his eye,

The ffirst sight _tha_t S_i_r 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 lo_rd_ Haward saw S_i_r Andrew loose,

Lord! in his hart _tha_t hee was ffaine:

‘Strike on yo_u_r drummes! spread out yo_u_r ancyents!

Sound out yo_u_r trumpetts! sound out amaine!’

‘Ffight on, my men!’ sais S_i_r Andrew Bartton;

‘Weate, howsoeu_er_ this geere will sway,

Itt is my lo_rd_ Adm[i]rall of England

Is come to seeke mee on the sea.’

Simon had a sonne; w_i_th shott of a gunn—

Well S_i_r Andrew might itt ken—

He shott itt in att a priuye place,

And killed sixty more of S_i_r Andrews men.

Harry Hunt came in att the other syde,

And att S_i_r Andrew hee shott then;

He droue downe his fformast-tree,

And killed eighty more of S_i_r Andriwes men.

‘I haue done a good turne,’ sayes Harry Hunt;

‘S_i_r Andrew is not our k_ing_s ffreind;

He hoped to haue vndone me yesternight,

But I hope I haue quitt him well in the end.’

‘Euer alas!’ sayd S_i_r 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 giue thee three hundred pound

If thou wilt lett my beames downe ffall.’

W_i_th _tha_t hee swarued the maine-mast tree,

Soe did he itt w_i_th might and maine;

Horseley, w_i_th a bearing arrow,

Stroke the Gourden through the braine.

And he ffell into the haches againe,

And sore of this wound _tha_t he did bleed;

Then word went throug S_i_r Andrews men,

_Tha_t the Gourden hee was dead.

‘Come hither to me, Iames Hambliton,

Thou art my sisters sonne, I haue no more;

I will giue [thee] six hundred pound

If thou will lett my beames downe ffall.’

With _tha_t hee swarued the maine-mast tree,

Soe did hee itt w_i_th might and maine:

Horseley, w_i_th another broad arrow,

Strake the yeaman through the braine.

_Tha_t hee ffell downe to the haches againe;

Sore of his wound _tha_t hee did bleed;

Couetousness getts no gaine,

Itt is verry true, as the Welchman sayd.

But when hee saw his sisters sonne slaine,

Lo_rd_! in his heart hee was not well:

‘Goe ffeitch me downe my armour of proue,

Ffor I will to the topcastle my-selfe.

‘Goe ffeitch me downe my armour of prooffe,

For itt is guilded w_i_th gold soe cleere;

God be w_i_th 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,

Euery man _tha_t looked att him

Sayd, Gunn nor arrow hee neede feare none.

‘Come hither, Horsley!’ sayes my lo_rd_ Haward,

‘And looke yo_u_r shaft _tha_t itt goe right;

Shoot a good shoote in the time of need,

And ffor thy shooting thoust be made a k_nigh_t.’

‘I’le doe my best,’ sayes Horslay then,

‘Yo_u_r Honor shall see beffore I goe;

If I shold be hanged att yo_u_r mainemast,

I haue in my shipp but arrowes tow.’

But att S_i_r Andrew hee shott then;

Hee made sure to hitt his marke;

Vnder the spole of his right arme

Hee smote S_i_r Andrew quite throw the hart.

Yett ffrom the tree hee wold not start,

But hee clinged to itt w_i_th might and maine;

Vnder the coller then of his iacke,

He stroke S_i_r Andrew thorrow the braine.

‘Ffight on my men,’ sayes Sir Andrew Bartton,

‘I am hurt, but I am not slaine;

I’le lay mee downe and bleed a-while,

And then I’le rise and ffight againe.

‘Ffight on my men,’ sayes S_i_r Andrew Bartton,

‘These English doggs they bite soe lowe;

Ffight on ffor Scottland and S_ain_t Andrew

Till you heare my whistle blowe!’

But when the cold not heare his whistle blow,

Sayes Harry Hunt, I’le lay my head

You may bord yonder noble shipp, my lo_rd_,

For I know S_i_r Andrew hee is dead.

W_i_th _tha_t they borded this noble shipp,

Soe did they itt w_i_th might and maine;

The ffound eighteen score Scotts aliue,

Besids the rest were maimed and slaine.

My lo_rd_ Haward tooke a sword in his hand,

And smote of S_i_r Andrews head;

The Scotts stood by did weepe and mourne,

But neu_er_ a word durst speake or say.

He caused his body to be taken downe,

And ou_er_ the hatch-bord cast into the sea,

And about his middle three hundred crownes:

‘Whersoeuer thou lands, itt will bury thee.’

W_i_th his head they sayled into England againe,

W_i_th right good will, and fforce and main,

And the day beffore Newyeeres euen

Into Thames mouth they came againe.

My lo_rd_ Haward wrote to K_ing_ Heneryes grace,

W_i_th all the newes hee cold him bring:

‘Such a Newyeeres gifft I haue brought to yo_u_r Gr[ace]

As neu_er_ did subiect to any king.

‘Ffor merchandyes and manhood,

The like is nott to be ffound;

The sight of these wold doe you good,

Ffor you haue not the like in yo_u_r English ground.’

But when hee heard tell _tha_t they were come,

Full royally hee welcomed them home;

S_i_r Andrews shipp was the k_ing_s Newyeeres guifft;

A brauer shipp you neu_er_ saw none.

Now hath our k_ing_ S_i_r Andrews shipp,

Besett w_i_th pearles and p_re_cyous stones;

Now hath England two shipps of warr,

Two shipps of warr, before but one.

‘Who holpe to this?’ sayes K_ing_ Henerye,

‘_Tha_t I may reward him ffor his paine:’

‘Harry Hunt, and Peeter Simon,

William Horseleay, and I the same.’

‘Harry Hunt shall haue his whistle and chaine,

And all his iewells, whatsoeuer they bee,

And other rich giffts _tha_t I will not name,

For his good service he hath done mee.

‘Horslay, right thoust be a k_nigh_t,

Lands and liuings thou shalt haue store;

Howard shalbe erle of Nottingham,

And soe was neuer Haward before.

‘Now, Peeter Simon, thou art old;

I will maintaine thee and thy sonne;

Thou shalt haue fiue hundred pound all in gold

Ffor the good service _tha_t thou hast done.’

Then K_ing_ Henerye shiffted his roome;

In came the Queene and ladyes bright;

Other arrands they had none

But to see S_i_r Andrew Bartton, k_nigh_t.

But when they see his deadly fface,

His eyes were hollow in his head;

‘I wold giue a hundred pound,’ sais K_ing_ Henerye,

‘The man were aliue as hee is dead!

‘Yett ffor the manfull p_ar_t _tha_t hee hath playd,

Both heere and beyond the sea,

His men shall haue halfe a crowne a day

To bring them to my brother, K_ing_ Iamye.’

#a.# Douce Ballads, I, 18 b. #b.# Pepys Ballads, I, 484, No 249.

#c.# Wood Ballads, 401, 55. #d.# Roxburghe Ballads, I, 2. #e.#

Bagford Ballads, 643, m. 9 (61). #f.# Bagford Ballads, 643, m. 10

(77). #g.# Wood Ballads, 402, 37. #h.# Glenriddell MSS, XI, 20.

When Flora, with her fragrant flowers,

Bedeckt the earth so trim and gay,

And Neptune, with his dainty showers,

Came to present the month of May,

King Henry would a progress ride;

Over the river of Thames past he,

Unto a mountain-top also

Did walk, some pleasure for to see.

Where forty merchants he espy’d,

With fifty sail, come towards him,

Who then no sooner were arriv’d,

But on their knees did thus complain.

‘An’t please Your Grace, we cannot sail

To France no voyage, to be sure,

But Sir Andrew Barton makes us quail,

And robs us of our merchant-ware.’

Vext was the king, and turned him,

Said to the lords of high degree,

Have I ner a lord within my realm

Dare fetch that traytor unto me?

To him repli’d Lord Charles Howard:

I will, my liege, with heart and hand;

If it please you grant me leave, he said,

I will perform what you command.

To him then spake King Henry:

I fear, my lord, you are too young.

‘No whit at all, my liege,’ quoth he;

‘I hope to prove in valour strong.

‘The Scottish knight I vow to seek,

In what place soever he be,

And bring a shore, with all his might,

Or into Scotland he shall carry me.’

‘A hundred men,’ the king then said,

‘Out of my realm shall chosen be,

Besides saylors and ship-boys

To guide a great ship on the sea.

‘Bow-men and gunners of good skill

Shall for this service chosen be,

And they at thy command and will

In all affairs shall wait on thee.’

Lord Howard calld a gunner then

Who was the best in all the realm;

His age was threescore years and ten,

And Peter Simon was his name.

My lord calld then a bow-man rare,

Whose active hands had gained fame,

A gentleman born in Yorkshire,

And William Horsly was his name.

‘Horsly,’ quoth he, ‘I must to sea,

To seek a traytor, with great speed;

Of a hundred bow-men brave,’ quoth he,

‘I have chosen thee to be the head.’

‘If you, my lord, have chosen me

Of a hundred men to be the head,

Upon the main-mast I’le hanged be,

If twelve-score I miss one shillings breadth.’

Lord Howard then, of courage bold,

Went to the sea with pleasant chear,

Not curbd with winters piercing cold,

Though it was the stormy time of the year.

Not long he had been on the sea,

No more in days then number three,

Till one Henry Hunt he there espied,

A merchant of Newcastle was he.

To him Lord Howard cald out amain,

And strictly charged him to stand;

Demanding then from whence he came,

Or where he did intend to land.

The merchant then made him answer soon,

With heavy heart and careful mind,

‘My lord, my ship it doth belong

Unto Newcastle upon Tine.’

‘Canst thou shew me,’ the lord did say,

‘As thou didst sail by day and night,

A Scottish rover on the sea,

His name is Andrew Barton, knight? ’

Then to him the merchant sighd and said,

With grieved mind and well a way,

‘But over well I know that wight,

I was his prisoner but yesterday.

‘As I, my lord, did pass from France,

A Burdeaux voyage to take so far,

I met with Sir Andrew Barton thence,

Who robd me of my merchant-ware.

‘And mickle debts, God knows, I owe,

And every man did crave his own;

And I am bound to London now,

Of our gracious king to beg a boon.’

‘Shew me him,’ said [Lord] Howard then,

‘Let me but once the villain see,

And one penny he hath from the tane,

I’le double the same with shillings three.’

‘Now, God forbid,’ the merchant said;

‘I fear your aim that you will miss;

God bless you from his tyranny,

For little you know what man he is.

‘He is brass within and steel without,

His ship most huge and mighty strong,

With eighteen pieces strong and stout,

He carrieth on each side along.

‘With beams for his top-castle,

As also being huge and high,

That neither English nor Portugal

Can pass Sir Andrew Barton by.’

‘Hard news thou shewst,’ then said the lord,

‘To welcome strangers to the sea;

But, as I said, I’le bring him aboard,

Or into Scotland he shall carry me.’

The merchant said, If you will do so,

Take counsel, then, I pray withal:

Let no man to his top-castle go,

Nor strive to let his beam[s] down fall.

‘Lend me seven pieces of ordnance then,

Of each side of my ship,’ quoth he,

‘And to-morrow, my lord, twixt six and seven,

Again I will Your Honour see.

‘A glass I’le set that may be seen

Whether you sail by day or night;

And to-morrow, be sure, before seven,

You shall see Sir Andrew Barton, knight.’

The merchant set my lord a glass,

So well apparent in his sight

That on the morrow, as his promise was,

He saw Sir Andrew Barton, knight.

The lord then swore a mighty oath,

‘Now by the heavens that be of might,

By faith, believe me, and by troth,

I think he is a worthy knight.

‘Fetch me my lyon out of hand,’

Saith the lord, ‘with rose and streamer high;

Set up withal a willow-wand,

That merchant-like I [may] pass by.’

Thus bravely did Lord Howard pass,

And did on anchor rise so high;

No top-sail at all he cast,

But as his foe he did him defie.

Sir Andrew Barton seeing him

Thus scornfully to pass by,

As though he cared not a pin

For him and all his company,

Then called he his men amain,

‘Fetch back yon pedler now,’ quoth he,

‘And against this way he comes again

I’le teach him well his courtesie.’

A piece of ordnance soon was shot

By this proud pirate fiercely then

Into Lord Howards middle deck,

Which cruel shot killd fourteen men.

He calld then Peter Simon, he:

‘Look now thy word do stand in stead,

For thou shalt be hanged on main-mast

If thou miss twelve score one penny breadth.’

Then Peter Simon gave a shot

Which did Sir Andrew mickle scare,

In at his deck it came so hot,

Killd fifteen of his men of war.

‘Alas!’ then said the pyrate stout,

‘I am in danger now, I see;

This is some lord, I greatly doubt,

That is set on to conquer me.’

Then Henry Hunt, with rigor hot,

Came bravely on the other side,

Who likewise shot in at his deck,

And kild fifty of his men beside.

Then ‘Out, alas!’ Sir Andrew cri’d,

‘What may a man now think or say!

Yon merchant thief that pierceth me,

He was my prisoner yesterday.’

Then did he on Gordion call,

Unto top-castle for to go,

And bid his beams he should let fall,

‘For I greatly fear an overthrow.’

The lord cald Horsly now in hast:

‘Look that thy word stand now in stead,

For thou shalt be hanged on main-mast

If thou miss twelve score one shillings breadth.’

Then up [the] mast-tree swarved he,

This stout and mighty Gordion;

But Horsly, he most happily

Shot him under the collar-bone.

Then calld he on his nephew then,

Said, Sisters sons I have no mo;

Three hundred pound I will give thee,

If thou wilt to top-castle go.

Then stoutly he began to climb,

From off the mast scornd to depart;

But Horsly soon prevented him,

And deadly piercd him to the heart.

His men being slain, then up amain

Did this proud pyrate climb with speed,

For armour of proof he had put on,

And did not dint of arrow dread.

‘Come hither, Horsly,’ said the lord,

‘See thine arrow aim aright;

Great means to thee I will afford,

And if you speed, I’le make you a knight.’

Sir Andrew did climb up the tree,

With right good will and all his main;

Then upon the breast hit Horsly he,

Till the arrow did return again.

Then Horsly spied a private place,

With a perfect eye, in a secret part;

His arrow swiftly flew apace,

And smote Sir Andrew to the heart.

‘Fight on, fight on, my merry men all,

A little I am hurt, yet not slain;

I’le but lie down and bleed a while,

And come and fight with you again.

‘And do not,’ he said, ‘fear English rogues,

And of your foes stand not in awe,

But stand fast by St Andrews cross,

Until you hear my whistle blow.’

They never heard his whistle blow,

Which made them [all] sore afraid:

Then Horsly said, My lord, aboard,

For now Sir Andrew Barton’s dead.

Thus boarded they this gallant ship,

With right good will and all their main,

Eighteen score Scots alive in it,

Besides as many more were slain.

The lord went where Sir Andrew lay,

And quickly thence cut off his head:

‘I should forsake England many a day,

If thou wert alive as thou art dead.’

Thus from the wars Lord Howard came,

With mickle joy and triumphing;

The pyrates head he brought along

For to present unto our king:

Who briefly then to him did say,

Before he knew well what was done,

‘Where is the knight and pyrate gay?

That I my self may give the doom.’

You may thank God,’ then said the lord,

‘And four men in the ship,’ quoth he,

‘That we are safely come ashore,

Sith you had never such an enemy:

‘That is Henry Hunt, and Peter Simon,

William Horsly, and Peters son;

Therefore reward them for their pains,

For they did service at their turn.’

To the merchant then the king did say,

‘In lue of what he hath from the tane,

I give to the a noble a day,

Sir Andrews whistle and his chain:

‘To Peter Simon a crown a day,

And half-a-crown a day to Peters son,

And that was for a shot so gay,

Which bravely brought Sir Andrew down.

‘Horsly, I will make thee a knight,

And in Yorkshire thou shalt dwell:

Lord Howard shall Earl Bury hight,

For this title he deserveth well.

‘Seven shillings to our English men,

Who in this fight did stoutly stand,

And twelve pence a-day to the Scots, till they

Come to my brother kings high land.’

* * * * *

_All the copies in stanzas of eight lines._

#A.#

1^3. 8[th .].

2^3. 80.

3^2. _MS. pared away. From the Reliques. Percy’s marginal reading

is_ For sailors good are welcome to me. _The tops of letters

left do not suit either of Percy’s lines, says Furnivall._

3^3. swore: _MS. pared away. Percy’s reading._

6^4. 20.

9^1. 600.

11^3. 60: #B#, three score.

12^4, 13^2, 15^4, 16^2. 100^ḍ, 100.

13^4, 18^1. 3.

16^2. they _for_ the.

16^4, 42^4. 12^[d:].

15^1. sayes, _a letter blotted out before_ a: _Furnivall._

20^2. poor _would read better than_ pure (_cf._ #B#, 18^2, heavy

heart), _but is not satisfactory_.

23^3. archborde _for_ hachborde?: _cf._ 36^1, 70^2.

27^2, 29^4, 52^4, 55^4. beanes, _or_ beaues.

28^3. 9.

28^4. 15.

29^1. 20.

#A.# King Henry Eighth, having been informed by eighty London merchants