Book of Old English Ballads | Page 7

Douglas swore a solempne oathe,
And thus in rage did say;
"Ere thus I will out-braved bee,
One of us two shall dye:
I know
thee well, an erle thou art;
Lord Percy, soe am I.
"But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,
And great offence, to kill
Any
of these our guiltlesse men,
For they have done no ill.
"Let thou and I the battell trye,
And set our men aside."
"Accurst
bee he," Erle Percy sayd,
"By whome this is denyed."
Then stept a gallant squier forth,
Witherington was his name,
Who
said, "I wold not have it told
To Henry our king for shame,
"That ere my captaine fought on foote,
And I stood looking on:
You
bee two erles," sayd Witherington,
"And I a squier alone.
"Ile doe the best that doe I may,
While I have power to stand;
While

I have power to weeld my sword,
Ile fight with hart and hand."
Our English archers bent their bowes,
Their harts were good and trew;

Att the first flight of arrowes sent,
Full four-score Scots they slew.
[Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent,
As Chieftain stout and good,

As valiant Captain, all unmov'd
The shock he firmly stood.
His host he parted had in three,
As Leader ware and try'd,
And soon
his spearmen on their foes
Bare down on every side.
Throughout the English archery
They dealt full many a wound;
But
still our valiant Englishmen
All firmly kept their ground.
And throwing strait their bows away,
They grasp'd their swords so
bright:
And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
On shields and
helmets light.]
They clos'd full fast on everye side,
Noe slacknes there was found;

And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.
O Christ! it was a griefe to see,
And likewise for to heare,
The cries
of men lying in their gore,
And scattered here and there.
At last these two stout erles did meet,
Like captaines of great might;

Like lyons wood they layd on lode,
And made a cruell fight.
They fought, untill they both did sweat,
With swords of tempered
steele;
Until the blood, like drops of rain,
They trickling downe did
feele.
"Yeeld thee, Lord Percy," Douglas sayd
"In faith I will thee bringe,

Where thou shalt high advanced bee
By James our Scottish king.
"Thy ransom I will freely give,
And thus report of thee,
Thou art
the most couragious knight
That ever I did see."

"Noe, Douglas," quoth Erle Percy then,
"Thy proffer I doe scorne
I
will not yeelde to any Scott,
That ever yett was borne."
With that, there came an arrow keene
Out of an English bow,

Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,
A deepe and deadlye blow:
Who never spake 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 liffe, Erle Percy tooke
The dead man by the hand;

And said, "Erle Douglas, for thy life
Wold I had lost my land!
"O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed
With sorrow for thy sake;
For
sure, a more renowned knight
Mischance cold never take."
A knight amongst the Scotts there was,
Which saw Erle Douglas dye,

Who streight in wrath did vow revenge
Upon the Lord Percye;
Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he call'd,
Who, with a spere most bright,

Well-mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the fight;
And past the English archers all,
Without all dread or feare,
And
through Earl Percyes body then
He thrust his hatefull spere
With such a vehement force and might
He did his body gore,
The
speare ran through the other side
A large cloth-yard, and more.
So thus did both these nobles dye,
Whose courage none could staine;

An English archer then perceiv'd
The noble erle was slaine.
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 hee.
Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,
So right the shaft he sett,
The
grey goose-wing that was thereon
In his harts bloode was wett.

This fight did last from breake of day
Till setting of the sun;
For
when they rung the evening bell,
The battel scarce was done.
With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine,
Sir John of Egerton,
Sir
Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
Sir James, that bold Bar n.
And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
Both knights of good
account,
Good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slaine,
Whose prowesse
did surmount.
For Witherington needs must I wayle,
As one in doleful dumpes;

For when his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumpes.
And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine
Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,

Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld
One foote wold never flee.
Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too,
His sisters sonne was hee;
Sir
David Lamb, so well esteem'd,
Yet saved cold not bee.
And the Lord Maxwell in like case
Did with Erle Douglas dye;
Of
twenty hundred Scottish speres,
Scarce fifty-five did flye.
Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three;
The rest
were slaine in Chevy-Chace,
Under the greene wood tree.
Next day did many widowes come,
Their husbands to bewayle;

They washt their wounds in brinish teares,
But all wold not prevayle.
Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple blood,
They bore with them away:

They kist them dead a thousand times,
Ere they were cladd in clay.
This newes