While I have power to wield my sword, Ile fight with heart and hand.'

THE BATTLE

Our English archers bent their bowes,
Their hearts were good and trew,
At the first flight of arrowes sent,
Full fourscore Scots they slew.

Yet bides Erle Douglas on the bent,
As Chieftain stout and good.
As valiant Captain, all unmoved
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 bowes away,
They grasped their swords so bright,
And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
On shields and helmets light.

They closed full fast on every side,
No slackness 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 lions wode, they laid on lode,
And made a cruel 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.

'Yield thee, Lord Percy,' Douglas said;
'In faith I will thee bringe,
Where thou shalt high advanced be
By James our Scottish king:

Thy ransome I will freely give,
And this report of thee,

Thou art the most courageous knight,
That ever I did see.'

'No, Douglas,' quoth Erle Percy then, "Thy proffer I do scorne;

I will not yield to any Scot,

That ever yet was borne.'

With that, there came an arrow keene
Out of an English bow,

Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,
A deep and deadly 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 life, 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 very heart doth bleed
With sorrow for thy sake,
For sure, a more redoubted knight
Mischance could never take.'

A knight amongst the Scots there was,
Which saw Erle Douglas dye,
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge
Upon the Lord Percye.

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called
Who, with a speare most bright,
Well-mounted on a gallant steed,

Ran fiercely through the fight,

And past the English archers all,
Without or dread or feare,
And through Erle Percy's body then
He thrust his hateful speare.

With such a vehement force and might

He did his body gore,

The staff 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 perceived
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 he;

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye
So right the shaft he set,

The grey goose-winge that was thereon
In his heart's bloode was wet.

This fight did last from breake of day
Till setting of the sun;

For when they rung the evening-bell,
The battle scarce was done.

THE SLAIN

With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine Sir John of Egerton,

Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,

Sir James, that bold baròn;

And with Sir George and stout Sir James,

Both knights of good account,
Good Sir Ralph Raby 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 field
One foote would never flee;

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
His sister's sonne was he;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,
Yet saved he could not be;

And the Lord Maxwell in like case
Did with Erle Douglas dye:
Of twenty hundred Scottish speares,
Scarce fifty-five did flye.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three:

The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,
Under the greene woode tree.

Next day did many widdowes come,
Their husbands to bewayle;

They washt their wounds in brinish teares,
But all wold not prevayle;

Their bodyes, bathed in purple gore,

They bore with them away;

They kist them dead a thousand times,

Ere they were clad in clay.

LIBA

OF TIT

NIVE