their Percy was no match for the terrible Douglas. Be that as it may, the interposition of Witherington was seconded by a flight of arrows:

"Our English archers bent their bows,

Their hearts were good and true :
At the first flight of arrows sent

Full fourscore Scots they slew."

This sudden discharge and severe execution did not dismay Douglas: "his men of pleasant Tiviot-dale" levelled their spears and rushed on the English archers, who, throwing aside their bows, engaged in close contest with sword and axe.

"The battle closed on every side,

No slackness there was found,
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.

O, but it was a grief to see,

And likewise for to hear

The cries of men lying in their gore,

And scatter'd here and there."

In the midst of the strife the two leaders met, and that single combat ensued which Witherington had laboured to prevent: they were both clad in complete mail, and the encounter was fierce :

"They fought until they both did sweat,
With swords of temper'd steel;
Until the blood, like drops of rain,
They trickling down did feel."

"Yield thee, Percy," exclaimed Douglas, who seems to have thought that he had the best of it: "Yield thee. I shall freely pay thy ransom, and thy advancement shall be high with our Scottish king." This was resented by the highsouled Englishman :

"No, Douglas, quoth Earl Percy then,
Thy proffer I do scorn:

I would not yield to any Scot

That ever yet was born."

During this brief parley the contest among their followers raged far and wide; nor had the peril of Percy been unobserved by one who had the power to avert it: as he uttered the heroic sentiment recorded in the last verse, an end-a not uncommon one in those days-was put to the combat between the two earls :

"With that there came an arrow keen

Out of an English bow,

Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart
A deep and deadly blow."

"Fight on, my merry men," exclaimed the expiring hero. Percy was deeply moved: he took the dead man by the hand, and said, "Earl Douglas, I would give all my lands to save thee a more redoubted knight never perished by such a chance." The fall of Douglas was seen from a distant part of the strife by a gallant knight of Scotland, who vowed instant vengeance :

"Sir Hugh Montgomery was he call'd,
Who with a spear most bright,
And mounted on a gallant steed,
Rode fiercely through the fight.

He pass'd the English archers all,
Without or dread or fear,
And through Earl Percy's fair bodie
He thrust his hateful spear.

With such a vehement force and might
He did his body gore,

The spear ran through the other side
A long cloth-yard and more."

The career of the Scot and the fall of the Englishman were observed and avenged. The Scottish spear, the national weapon of the north, was employed against Percy; the cloth-yard shaft, the national weapon of the south, was directed against Montgomery :

"Thus did those two bold nobles die,

Whose courage noue could stain.
An English archer soon perceived
His noble lord was slain :
He had a bow bent in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree;
An arrow of a cloth-yard length
Unto the head drew he.

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery there
So right his shaft he set;

The gray-goose wing that was thereon
In his heart's blood was wet."

"Of

With the fall of their chiefs and leaders the contest did not conclude the battle began at break of day: Douglas and Percy are supposed to have fallen in the afternoon; but squires and grooms carried on the contention till the sun was set; and even when the evening bell rung it was scarcely over. twenty hundred Scottish spears," says the English version of the ballad, "scarce fifty-five did flee." "Of fifteen hundred Scottish spears," says the northern edition, "went home but fifty-three." So both nations claim the victory; but in an older copy the minstrel leaves it undecided; though Froissart, in the account which he drew from knights of both lands, says the Scotch were the conquerors. On both sides the flower of the border chivalry was engaged. The warlike names of Lovel, Heron, Widdrington, Liddel, Ratcliffe, and Egerton, were sufferers on the side of the Percies; while with Douglas fell Montgomery, Scott, Swinton, Johnstone, Maxwell, and Stewart of Dalswinton. The pennon and spear of Percy were carried with Montgomery's body to the castle of Eglinton; and it is said that, when a late duke of Northumberland requested their restoration, the earl of Eglinton replied, "There is as good lea-land here as on Chevy Chace-let Percy come

and take them."

We shall not attempt to vindicate our admiration of this ballad by quoting the praise of Sidney, the criticism of Addison, or the commendation of Scott: there are, we believe, few memories without a portion of it: we have heard it quoted by the dull as well as by the bright; by the learned as well as by the illiterate; nay, we once heard an accomplished lady sing it to the harp while the greatest genius of our isle since the days of Milton witnessed its beauty by his tears. Nor was it the heroism and chivalry of the ballad which called forth such testimony: it contains bits of tenderness which our painters as well as our poets have felt :

"Next day did many widows come,

Their husbands to bewail;

They wash'd their wounds in brinish tears,

But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bathed in purple gore,

They bore with them away;

And kiss'd them dead a thousand times
Ere they were clad in clay."

SIR ANDREW BARTON,

Let us turn from the heroic contest on land to the no less heroic strife at sea between England and Scotland: we shall find in the ballad of Sir Andrew Barton' actions as chivalrous, a devotion as unswerving, and poetic sentiment as bright and lofty, as are exhibited in the song of Chevy Chace.' The battle which this ballad celebrates was fought in the year 1511, between a gallant Scottish mariner, Sir Andrew Barton, and Sir Thomas Howard and Sir Edward his brother, sons to the earl of Surrey, afterwards duke of Norfolk. Barton, it appears, having suffered both insult and loss from the Portuguese, fitted out two ships of war, by permission of James IV. of Scotland, to make reprisals, and such was his success that he enriched himself and became the terror of the seas. Under pretence of searching for Portuguese merchandise, he stopped and, it is added, pillaged, some of the ships of England. This so exasperated Surrey, that he declared at the English councilboard that the narrow seas should not be so infested while he

had an estate to furnish a ship, and a son to command one. King Henry took Surrey at his word: two ships were fitted out at the earl's expense, and sent to sea under the command of his sons, with orders to intercept and capture Barton, which they were not the less willing to undertake, knowing that his ships were richly laden. The engagement which ensued was bloody and obstinate, and of long duration; but the fortune of the Howards prevailed: Barton fell fighting valiantly; his ships were carried into the Thames: the wealth obtained was large, and Sir Edward Howard was soon afterwards created Admiral of England. This act, committed in the time of peace, exasperated the Scots: Henry, to pacify them, liberated the crews, and offered to allow the aggrieved parties to prosecute their claims of restitution in the English courts of law.

The ballad begins by saying that one day, as King Henry rode out on the side of the Thames to take the air, no less than fourscore of the merchants of London came and knelt before him. "Welcome, welcome, rich merchants all," said the king, pleased with their humility. By the rood, sire," exclaimed the whole fourscore, "we are not rich merchants; how indeed can we be so, since a cruel rover, a proud Scot, attacks us, as we sail, and robs us of our merchandise?" The king frowned on lord and merchant, and swore by the true cross that he thought no one dared to do his land such wrong: then, fixing his eye on Howard, he added, "Have I never a lord in my realm who will fetch that proud Scot into my presence?" "I will attempt it, at least, my liege,” replied Howard. "Thou!" said Henry; 66 no, no; thou art very young, and yon Scot is an experienced mariner." I fail to conquer him,” replied Howard, “I will never again appear before you." "Go, then," answered Henry, "and choose two of my best ships, and man them with my ablest mariners." Howard, though young, selected ships and seamen with the skill of a veteran :

"The first man that Lord Howard chose
Was the ablest gunner in all the realm,
Though he was threescore years and ten;
Good Peter Simon was his name.
Peter, says he, I must to the sea,

To bring home a traitor live or dead; Before all gunners I have chosen thee,

Of a hundred gunners to be the head.

If you, my lord, have chosen me,

Of a hundred gunners to take the head; Then hang me up on yon mainmast-tree

If I miss my mark one shilling bread. My lord then chose a bowman rare,

Whose active hands had gained fame; In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne, And William Horseley was his name."

"If

thou seen Andrew Barton," inquired Howard," or canst thou tell me aught of him?" "Ah, but too well can I speak of that cruel Scotch rover," replied Henry Hunt; "he met me but yesterday, and robbed me of all I possessed; and now I go to lay my complaint at the throne of King Henry." "Thou shalt not need, man," said Howard; "return and show me Andrew Barton, and for every shilling lost I shall give thee three." Ah, ye little know whom ye seek," answered Henry

Hunt:

"He is brass within and steel without,

With beams on his top-castle strong, And eighteen pieces of ordinance

He carries on each side along.

And he hath a pinnace dight;

St. Andrew's cross that is his guideHis pinnace beareth ninescore men, And fifteen cannons on each side.

" and

"Take in your pennons," said Howard to his men, put up a peeled wiliow-wand, and let us look like merchants on a voyage of profit." As they did this they passed Barton's ship without notice or salute: the Scot was incensed. Now, by the rood," he exclaimed, "I have ruled the sea these full three years and more, and never saw churles so scant of courtesy before. Go," he said to the captain of his pinnace, "fetch yond pedlers back; I swear they shall be all hanged at my mainmast." Now was the counsel of Henry Hunt of use to Lord Howard: the first broadside from the pinnace having struck down his foremast and killed fourteen of his men, he called Simon his gunner and threatened to hang him if he failed to sink the pinnace :-

"Simon was old, but his heart it was bold,
His ordinance he laid right low;

He put in a chain full nine yards long,
With other great shot, less or mo.
And he let go his great gun-shot;

So well he settled it with his ee,
The first sight that Sir Andrew saw
Was his pinnace sinking in the sea."

When Sir Andrew saw this, he cried, "I will fetch yond pedlers back myself." "Now spread your pennons and beat your drums," exclaimed Lord Howard, "and let the Scot know who we are." "Fight on, my gallant men," said Sir Andrew, not at all alarmed; "this is the high admiral of England come to seek me on the sea." As he said this he was assailed on both sides; threescore of his men fell by one shot from old Simon, and fourscore fell by another from Henry Hunt. "Ah!" cried he, "that last deadly shot came from the merchant who was my prisoner but yesterday. Now, Gordon, thou wert ever good and true; three hundred marks are thine to go aloft and let my beams fall." Gordon went aloft in a moment, but as he swerved the mainmast-tree" an arrow from Horseley pierced his brain, and he fell lifeless on the deck; Hamilton, the sister's son of Sir Andrew, went next aloft, but as he began to sway the beams another shaft from the same dread archer sent him the same way as Gordon. A sad man was Sir Andrew when he saw this. Go, fetch me my armour of proof," he exclaimed; "I will go myself and lower the beams." He clothed himself in his armour of proof, and brave and noble, says the minstrel, he looked, and went aloft dauntlessly. "Now, Horseley," said Lord Howard, “I will make thee a knight if thy shot is good; but if bad, I will hang thee." "Your honour shall judge," whispered the archer; "but I have only two arrows left."

"Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree,
With right good will he swarved then ;
Right on his breast did Horseley hit,
But the arrow bounded back again.

Then Horseley spied a privy place,
With a perfect eye, in a secret part;
All under the spole of his right arm

He smote Sir Andrew to the heart.

Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew says,

A little I'm hurt, but not yet slain;
I'll but lay me down and bleed awhile,
And then I'll rise and fight again.
Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew says,
And never flinch before the foe,
And stand fast by St. Andrew's cross
my

Until you hear whistle blow.
They never heard his whistle blow,

Which made their hearts wax sore adred;
Then Horseley said, Aboard, my lord,

For well I wot Sir Andrew's dead.
They boarded then his noble ship,

They boarded it with might and main-
Eighteen score Scots alive they found,

The rest were either maim'd or slain."

Howard struck off Sir Andrew's head, saying, "Hadst thou been alive, I must not have looked on England for many a day."-When King Henry saw the pale face, the hollow eyes, and the noble countenance, "I would give," he said, "a thousand marks were that man alive as he is dead." Henry Hunt was advanced; Peter Simon received five hundred marks; and Horseley was knighted. Such was the end of Sir Andrew Barton: his invention of letting down beams from his mainmast, to the discomfiture of his enemy, has perished with him, for no one has explained it scientifically or satisfactorily.

KING HENRY AND THE MILLER OF MANSFIELD.

That the ballads of Henry the Second and the Miller of Mansfield,' and Edward the Fourth and the Tanner of Tamworth,' are records of real events is a belief common to the shepherd, the husbandman, and the mechanic, if not countenanced by the strict and scrupulous antiquary. They are true to the character of the people as well as to the characters of the two monarchs; they are remarkable for their jolly humour, their lively manners, and hearty and homely old English feelings.

To Henry II., one of the best and most generous of our monarchs, many romantic adventures are ascribed: his love passages with the Fair Rosamond employed the pens of our early poets; his troubles, occasioned by his rebellious children, have called down the sympathy of all historians; while his encounter with the merry Miller of Mansfield not only furnished a theme for "a metre ballad-monger,” but seems to have supplied Chaucer with a hint for his inimitable story of the Miller of Trompington.' Percy, indeed, seeks the original of the Miller of Mansfield,' in John the Reeve, a poem on an adventure between Edward I. and one of his royal bailiffs. The resemblance is strong, but balladmakers may say with the rural proverb, "Like is a bad mark among your neighbours' sheep" it is impossible to settle originality by the aid of resemblance. The story was popular, and one poet reckoned he had as good a right to it as another. The ballad is very old, the humour genuine, and the incidents diverting.

King Henry, says the minstrel, rode on a time to Sherwood to hunt the hart and the buck, which he did with such goodwill that he left all his lords far behind, and lost both his game and his way; the more he sought for a road, the more astray he went :

"Wandering thus wearily, all alone, up and down,
With a rude Miller he met at the last:

Asking the ready way unto fair Nottingham;
Sir, quoth the Miller, I mean not to jest,

Yet I think, what I think, the sooth for to say,

You do not lightly ride out of your way.

Why, what dost thou think me, quoth our King merrily,
Passing thy judgment upon me so brief?,

Good faith, said the Miller, I mean not to flatter thee,
I guess thee to be but some gentleman thief:
Stand thee back in the dark, and light not adown,
Lest that I presently crack thy knave's crown."

The king smiled, and said, "I am not a thief, but a true gentleman. I have lost my way, and seek for a lodging.""Thou a gentleman!" exclaimed the Miller; "why, all thy estate hangs on thy back, and hast not one penny in thy purse. Yet thou mayest be a true man; and if thou art, I will give thee a lodging."-" A true man," said his majesty," I have ever been, and there's my hand on it."-" Nay, friend," observed the Miller, "I shake no hands in the dark; I must know thee better before we cross palms: but, come on, we are now close at my house." At the house the king soon arrived; it smelled strongly of puddings and seething souse, and was full of smoke; yet for all the smoke there was light enough for the Miller to peruse the monarch's face by :

"I like well thy countenance, thou hast an honest face;
With my son Richard this night shalt thou lie;
Quoth his wife, By my troth it is a handsome youth,
Yet it is best, husband, to deal warilye.

Art thou no runaway, prithee youth tell?
Show me thy passport, and all shall be well."'

The young monarch bowed as the wife urged her scruples. "I am but a poor courtier," he said, "and have ridden out of my way; any kindness you can show me will be amply requited." "Then to the Miller his wife whisper'd secretly,

Saying, It seemeth this youth's of good kin,
Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners;

To turn him out certainly were a great sin.
Yea, quoth he, you may see he hath some grace,
When he doth speak to his betters in place."

The wife then said to King Henry-" Young man, thou art welcome; and as thou art welcome, thy lodging shall be of the best; I will give fresh straw to thy bed, and spread good brown hempen sheets upon it."

"Then to their supper were they set orderlye,

With hot bag-puddings and good apple-pyes,
Nappy ale, good and stale, in a brown bowl,
Which did about the board merrylye trowl."

"I drink to thee, good fellow, and to all who are ruled by petticoats, wherever they be," said the Miller, taking an enormous pull at the bowl: "And I pledge thee faithfully, host," replied the king," and thank thee for this welcome; but let me mind manners and drink to thy son."-" Prithee, friend," said Richard, "talk less and drink more; you detain the bowl." The good ale opened more fully the social Miller's heart.

"Wife, quoth the Miller, fetch me forth Lightfoot,
And of his sweetness a little we 'll taste.

A fair venison-pasty brought she out presently:
Eat, quoth the Miller; but, mind me, no waste!
Here's dainty Lightfoot, in faith, said the King,

I never before ate of so dainty a thing."

"It is no dainty at all here, sir," said Richard, 'the son, "we eat of it every day!"-"Indeed! answered the king; "and in what town may it be bought?"-"Bought!" exclaimed the other; "why we never pay a penny for it; we find it running beside us in merry Sherwood."

"Then I think, said our King, that it is venison.

Each fool, quoth Richard, full well may know that;
Never are we without two or three in the house,
Very well fleshed and excellent fat:

But prithee say nothing wherever thou go;

We would not for two-pence the king should it know.” "Doubt me not," replied Henry, "the king shall never know more on it for me;" and after a mighty draught of that provincial compound of ale and wine called lamb's-wool, his majesty went to repose on his fresh straw and sheets of brown hemp. His courtiers, who had lost him at night, found him in the morning at the Miller's door ready to mount and begone. They dropped on their knees and called him "Sire," which

made the Miller's heart start—he thought at once of his rough welcome, the perilous secret of the venison-pasty, and of the gallows.

"The King, perceiving him fearfully trembling,

Drew forth his sword, but nothing he sed;

The Miller down did fall, crying before them all,
Doubting the King would have cut off his head.
But he, his courtesie for to requite,

Gave him great living, and dubb'd him a knight." When King Henry reached Westminster, and with his courtiers talked over all their sports and pastimes, he declared that the Miller of Mansfield's sport was the best, and vowed that he should not be satisfied till he had him with his wife and son to court. No sooner had the messenger delivered the royal order than the Miller exclaimed, "I don't understand the jest; what are we to do at court?"-"To be hanged at least," said the comforter Richard, remembering his own tattle in the matter of Lightfoot. "Not so, indeed," replied the messenger; "the king loves you, and provides a great feast for your sake."

"Then, said the Miller, by my troth, messenger,

Thou hast contented my worship full well;
Hold, here are three farthings to quit thy gentleness
For these happy tidings which thou dost tell.
Let me see; hear thou me; tell to our king
We'll wait on his mastership in everything."

No sooner was the royal messenger gone than the Miller and his household began to meditate on the expense as well as equipment suitable for this journey and visit. "Here come outlay and charges indeed," exclaimed the Miller; "but we must appear with dignity, though all we have gathered should go: we have need of new garments, of horses, and servant-men, of bridles and saddles; this will be a salt matter." The wit of his lady came to the help of the new-made knight of Mansfield :

Tush, Sir John, quoth his wife, why should you fret or
frown?

You shall ne'er be at no charges for me,
For I will turn and trim up my old russet gown,
With everything else as fine as may be:

And on our mill-horses swift we will ride,
With pillows and pannels as we shall provide.

In this most stately sort rode they unto the court, Their jolly son Richard rode foremost of all, Who set up, for good hap, a cock's feather in his cap, And so they jetted down to the King's hall; The merry old Miller with hands on his side, His wife, like Maid Marian, did mince at that tide." Now there can be no question that the Miller and his household played off on this visit a little of the art and wit of the clouted shoe-appearing before Henry and his courtiers in rough country trim, abating no jot of rustic manners or dress. The contrast was to his majesty's liking, and the game was kept up with much spirit. "Welcome, Sir Knight," said the King courteously, " and welcome to your gay lady; and welcome to thee, too, young squire."-" A bots on you; and do you know me?" said Richard. "How should I forget thee?" replied his majesty, gravely, " for thou wert my bedfellow, well I wot."—" Ay!" answered Dick, "and by this token thou didst air the sheets royally."-" Ah! knave," said the Knight of Mansfield, "thou hast no more manners than The coming of the queen interrupted this discourse; she spoke kindly and graciously, and gravely enjoyed the embarrassment of the Miller's dame, who stood as stiff before her as the queen of spades, while she dropped a courtesy at every word. The dianer-scene was the crowning glory of this visit; the Miller ate all and drank all that was offered, wine, ale, and beer, without a word: he spoke at last :

"Thou sayest true, Richard," said the King; "but be not angry; let us have a cup of wine together."-" Stay till I have dined; stay till I have dined," exclaimed the Miller's son; "I make but small way among these twatling dishes of thine; a black pudding were worth them all.”—“ Ay, marry would it, man," replied the monarch, remembering his hearty supper at the Miller's house; " and I wish we had one here." have one," said Dick, pulling a large pudding out from his huge hose, to the great increase of merriment at the royal table. The King, observing the young rustic to be a vigorous lout, said, "If thou wishest to wed, look round among my ladies there, and choose thee a wife." Dick surveyed with some disdain the plumed groups of mincing and bridling madams, and exclaimed, "Why, my own love, Jugg Grumball, with the red head, is worth them all!"

"Then Sir John Cockle the King called unto him,

And of merry Sherwood made him o'erseer,
And gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearly.
Take heed now you steal no more of my deer;
And once a quarter let's here have your view;
And now, Sir John Cockle, I bid you adieu."

KING EDWARD AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH.

The ballad of King Edward and the Tanner of Tamworth' was long in high fame with our ancestors. It exhibits not only the free manners of the people, but contains a clever specimen of their oblique humour, their mingled seriousness and drollery, and their love of jests approaching to the practical. The King acquits himself as well in the war of words as he did when he battled for his crown; and it must be owned that the Tanner is all but his match: his rough tumble from the monarch's horse is but an acquittal for his saucy wit in telling the King that his best way was by the next gibbet. The ballad is alluded to by several of our early writers, and quoted as a signal instance of a drolling quaint humour common to the peasantry: the title of the copy in the Bodleian Library is of itself curious- A merrie, pleasant, and delectable History between King Edward the Fourth and the Tanner of Tamworth;' London, 1596.

The poem begins in the usual way of minstrel stories. In the summer, when leaves are green and the air pleasant, King Edward took with him hawk and horn, and hound and bow, and also a supply of courtiers, and went to rouse the deer of Drayton Basset:-

"And he had ridden o'er dale and down

By eight o'clock in the day,
When he was ware of a bold Tanner
Come riding along the way.

A fair russet coat the Tanner had on,
Fast button'd below his chin;
And under him a good cow-hide,
And a mare of four shillin."

"Now one and all of you," said the King to his train, "stay under the green wood, till I hold some talk with yond fellow who rides so boldly."

"God speed thee, God speed thee, said our King, Thou art welcome, sir, said he ;

The readiest way to Drayton Basset

I pray thee show to me.

To Drayton Basset wouldst thou go,

Fro' the place where thou dost stand,

The next pair of gallows thou comest unto,

Turn in on thy right hand."

Nay, that is an unready road," replied the King, "and I see thou dost but jest; pray tell me the nearest way; and, now I think upon it, thou mayest as well go with me and show it.' "Show it!" exclaimed the Tanner; "away, with a vengeance; art out of thy wits? dost not know that I have ridden all day on my mare Brocke, and that I am fasting yet?"

"Go with me down to Drayton Basset,
No dainties we will spare;

All day shalt thou eat and drink of the best,
And I will pay thy fare,

Gramercy for nothing, the Tanner replied,

Thou payest no fare of mine;

I trow I've more nobles in my purse
Than thou hast pence in thine.

God give you joy of them, said the King,
And send them well to prief;
The Tanner would fain have been away,
He weened he was with a thief."

This suspicion no sooner crossed the Tanner's brain than he turned to the King and inquired, "Come, now, fine fellow, tell me what thou art? Why, the clothes on thy back are fit for a lord; I doubt thee much, I promise thee." "I never stole them, quoth our King,

I tell you, sir, by the rood;

Then thou playest as many an unthrift doth,
And stands in midst of thy good.

What tidings hear you, inquired the King,
As you ride far and near?

I hear no tidings, sir, by the mass,

But that cow-hides are dear.

Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? I marvel what they be!

Why, art thou a fool? the Tanner replied;

I carry one under me."

The King inwardly smiled as he cast his eye on the Tanner's unsavoury saddle, and said, "I pray thee, tell me what craft thou art of?" "I am a tanner, man," replied the other; "what may your trade be?" "Even a poor courtier," answered Edward; a poor courtier, and out of place, who fain would learn an honest trade; wilt thou take me as an appren tice?" Nay, Heaven above keep me from such a 'prentice," said the Tanner; "thou wouldst spend more than all thy winnings, by at least forty shillings a year:"

66

"Yet one thing would I, said our King,
If thou wilt not seem strange;
Though my horse be better than thy mare,
Yet with thee I fain would change.
Why, if with me thou fain would change,
As change full well may we,

By the faith of my body, thou proud fellow,
I will have some boot of thee.

For, sir, my Brocke is gentle and mild,
And softly will she fare;

Thy horse is unruly and wild, I wis,

Aye stepping here and there."

Well, what boot dost thou ask?" inquired the King. "Oh, little, a mere trifle," said the Tanner; "only a gold noble." "Here are twenty silver groats, and that is as good," answered Edward, "as a gold noble." "Ha! I could have sworn," said the Tanner, "thou wert not worth a single penny; but hark ye! though thou hast got Brocke, my mare, thou shalt not have my cow-hide." 'Keep it, man,” replied the monarch, "I would not sit on a thing so foul."

"The Tanner he took his good cow-hide
That of the cow was hilt,

And threw it upon the king's saddle

That was so fairlie gilt.

Now help me up, thou fine fellow,

'Tis time that I were gone;

When I come home to Gillian, my wife,

She'll say I am a gentlemon."

The good-natured monarch took his subject by the leg to give him a lift. The Tanner, glad at having twenty silver groats in his pocket, and a better horse than Brocke, his mare, under him, took his seat gaily, yet marvelling whether the stirrups were gold or brass, and started for home; but on this he had neglected to consult his horse:

"For when the steed saw the cow's tail wag,
And eke the black cow-horn,

He stamp'd and stared, and away he rau,
As the devil had him born.

The Tanner he pull'd, the Tanner he swet,
And held by the pommel fast;

At length the Tanner came tumbling down,
His neck he well nigh brast."

"Take thy horse, with a vengeance," cried the Tanner, rising uneasily; "such a wild devil shall not abide with me." "Well," replied Edward, "if thou wilt change, as change we may if we choose, by my faith, my jolly Tanner, I must have some boot to the bargain." "Boot!" exclaimed the other, "what boot dost thou ask?" "Neither pence nor halfpence,"

man,

was the reply, "hut twenty good pounds." "Be reasonable, for once," said the Tanner; "I had twenty groats out of thy purse, here's twenty out of mine, and I have one yet left, which I would willingly lay out in wine on thee at the next change-house."

"The King set a bugle-horn to his mouth,

And blew both loud and shrill;

And soon came lords, and soon came knights,

Fast riding over the hill.

Now out and alas, the Tanner he cried,

That ever I saw this day;

Thou art a strong thief, yond come thy fellows

To take my cow-hide away.

They are no thieves, the King replied,

I swear so mote I thee;

But they are all lords of this north land,

Come hither to hunt with me."

Wide stared the eyes of the Tanner, and his heart throbbed in alarm, when he saw all the courtiers and lords come crowding in and fall on their knees to one whom he had used so saucily: he wished himself elsewhere.

"A collar, a collar here, said our King,
A collar, he loud 'gan cry;

The Tanner would lever than twenty pound
He had not been so nigh.

A collar, a collar, the Tanner he said,

I trow it will breed sorrow;

After a collar there cometh a halter,

And I shall be hang'd to-morrow."

"I mean thee no such exaltation," said the King; "I shall only make thee an esquire; one of the best in all this north country, for I bestow Plympton Park with all its tenements on thee, with three hundred pounds a-year to maintain thy good cow-hide."

"Gramercy, my liege, the Tanner replied,
And I swear by sun and moon

That, when thou comest to merry Tamworth,
Leather shall clout thy shoon !"

Thus ends the merry story of the King and the Tanner of Tamworth;' and though we have store of adventures, such as 'Henry VIII. and the Cobbler,' 'James I. and the Tinker,' William III. and the Forester,' we shall conclude these regal rhymes once and away.

LORD WILLOUGHBY.

We turn from royal or rustic drolleries at home to heroic actions abroad; nor shall we find higher or happier instances of England's fortitude and daring than in the once popular ballads of Lord Willoughby' and 'Mary Ambree,' both of which picture real characters and chronicle true events. Peregrine Bertie, Lord Willoughby, lived in the days of Elizabeth, and was distinguished for his handsome person, his skill with the sword, his bravery in war, and his utter scorn of that creeping obsequiousness by which inferior men rose at court. He slighted great courtiers, paid little attention to the queen, and rejoiced, it is said, when sent to the Low Country wars, where he distinguished himself greatly at the siege of Zutphen: he also commanded the English auxiliaries on the recal of the Earl of Leicester, and worsted the Spaniards in various hardy and heady encounters. On one of these exploits the ballad is founded; it has always been a favourite with the people, from its triumphing over the Spaniards, and its encomiums on the unyielding valour of the English. Lord Willoughby died in 1601 one of his captains and comrades was Sir John Norris, who, with a thousand men, forced his way for three miles