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Athe 42 tothar syde, that a man myght se,

A large cloth yard and mare : Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Christiantė,

Then that day slain were ther.

An archar off Northomberlonde

Say slean was the lord Persè, He bar a bende-bow in his hande,

Was made off trusti tre :

An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang,

To th' hard stele haylde 43 he;
A dynt, that was both sad and sore,

He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and sar,

That he of Mongon-byrry 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 45 dyd stand, Heawying on yche othar, whyll the myght dre,

With many a bal-ful brande.

This battell begane in Chyviat

An owar 46 befor the none,
And when even song bell was rang

The battell was nat half done.

The tooke 'on' on ethar hand

Be the lyght off the mone;
Many hade no strength for to stande,

In Chyviat the hyllys aboun.47
Of fifteen hondrith archers of Ynglonde

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 un-borne,

It was the mor pittè.

Thear was slayne with the lord Perse

Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Roge the hinde Hartly,

Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.

2 At the

43 Hauled.

H Bore.

45 Fight.

46 Hour."

47 Above.

Sir Jorg the worthè Lovele

A knight of great renowen, Sir Raff the rych 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 Mongon-byrry,
Sir Davye Lwdale, that worthè was,

His sistars son was he:

Sir Charles 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 byrch, and hasell so ‘gray;' Many wedous with wepyng tears

Cam to fach 48 ther makys a-way..

49 off care,

Tivydale may carpe

Northombarlond may mayk grat mone,
For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear,

On the march perti shall never be none.

Wordeys commen to Edden burrowe,

To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches,

He lay slean Chyviot with-in.

His handdes did he weal 50 and wryng,

He sayd, Alas, and woe ys me!
Such another captayn Skotland within,

He sayd, y-feth shud never be.

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone

Till the fourth Harry our kyng,
That lord Persè, leyff-tennante of the Merchis,

He lay slayne Chyviat within.

God have merci on his soll, sayd kyng Harry,

Good lord, yf thy will it be!

48 Fetch.

19 Lament,

60 Wail.

I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde,

As good as ever was hee:
But Persè, and I brook 51 my lyffe,

Thy deth well quyte 52 shall be.

As our noble kyng made his a-vowe,

Lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Perse,

He dyd the battel of Hombyll-down:

Wher syx and thritte 53 Skottish 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 monnyn day:
Ther was the dougghtè Doglas slean,

The Persè never went away

Ther was never a tym on the march partes

Sen 54 the Doglas and the Persè met,
But yt was marvele, and the redde blude ronne not,

As the reane doys in the stret.

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This form of the Ballad was probably written not much later than the time of Queen Elizabeth. It is the one criticised by Addison in the ‘Spectator,' Nos. 70 and 74.

God prosper long our noble king,

Our lives and safetyes all;
A woefull hunting once there did

In Chevy-Chace befall;

To drive the deere with hound and horne,

Erle Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborne,

The hunting of that day.

The stout Erle of Northumberland

A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods

Three summers days to take;

The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace

To kill and beare away.
These tydings to Erle Douglas came,

In Scottland where he lay:

Who sent Erle Percy present word,

He wold prevent his sport.
The English Erle, not fearing that,

Did to the woods resort

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;

All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well in time of neede

To ayme their shafts arright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,

To chase the fallow deere :
On munday they began to hunt

Ere day-light did appeare;

And long before high noone they had

An hundred fat buckes slaine;
Then having dined, the drovyers went

To rouze the deare againe.

The bow-men mustered on the hills,

Well able to endure;
Theire backsides all, with speciall care,

That day were guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,

The nimble deere to take,
That with their cryes the hills and dales

An eccho shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went,

To view the slaughter'd deere: Quoth he, “ Erle Douglas promised

This day to meet me heere :

But if I thought he wold not come,

Noe longer wold I stay."
With that, a brave younge gentleman

Thus to the Erle did say:

“Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,

His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish speres

All marching in our sight;
All men of pleasant Tivydale,

Fast by the river Tweede:” O, cease your sports,” Erle Percy said,

“And take your bowes with speede:

And now with me, my countrymen,

Your courage forth advance;
For there was never champion yett,

In Scotland or in France,

That ever did on horsebacke come,

But if my hap it were,
I durst encounter man for man,

With him to break a spere.”

Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,

Most like a baron bold, Rode formost of his company,

Whose armour shone like gold.

"Show me,” sayd hee, “whose men you bee,

That hunt soe boldly heere,
That, without my consent, doe chase

And kill my fallow-deere."

The first man that did answer make,

Was noble Percy hee;
Who sayd, “Wee list not to declare,

Nor shew whose men wee bee :

Yet wee will spend our deerest blood,

Thy cheefest harts to slay.”
Then 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.

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