Chapter 13

"In truth, my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure a more redoubted knight Mischance did never take."

A knight amongst the Scots there was Who saw Earl Douglas die, Who straight in wrath did vow avenge Upon the Earl Piercy.

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called, Who, with a spear full bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight;

And past the English archers all, Without a dread or fear; And through Earl Piercy's body then He thrust his hateful spear.

With such 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 die, Whose courage none could stain. An English archer then perceived The noble earl was slain.

He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long To the hard head haled he.

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery So right the shaft he set, The gray goose wing that was thereon In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening-bell The battle scarce was done.

With stout Earl Piercy there were slain Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold baron.

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account. Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington my heart is woe That ever he slain should be, For when his legs were hewn in two, He knelt and fought on his knee.

And with Earl Douglas there was slain Sir Hugh Mountgomery, Sir Charles Murray, that from the field One foot would never flee;

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too,-- His sister's son was he; Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, But saved he could not be.

And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Earl Douglas die: Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest in Chevy-Chace were slain, Under the greenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail; They washed their wounds in brinish tears. But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away; They kissed them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay.

The news was brought to Edinburgh, Where Scotland's king did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain:

"O heavy news," King James did say; "Scotland can witness be I have not any captain more Of such account as he."

Like tidings to King Henry came Within as short a, space, That Piercy of Northumberland Was slain in Chevy-Chace:

"Now God be with him," said our King, "Since 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he:

"Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say But I will vengeance take; I'll be revenged on them all For brave Earl Piercy's sake."

This vow full well the king performed After at Humbledown; In one day fifty knights were slain With lords of high renown;

And of the rest, of small account, Did many hundreds die: Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, Made by the Earl Piercy.

God save the king, and bless this land, With plenty, joy, and peace; And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

[A confused echo of the Scotch expedition which should have brought the Maid of Norway to Scotland, about 1285.]

The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine, "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, To sail this new ship of mine!"

O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee,-- "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, That ever sailed the sea."

Our king has written a braid letter, And sealed it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame."

The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud loud laughèd he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e.

"O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea?

"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame."

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway, Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say,--

"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, And a' our queenis fee." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lie.

"For I brought as much white monic, As gane[A] my men and me, And I brought a half-fou[B] o' gude red goud, Out o'er the sea wi' me.

"Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'! Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm!

"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And, if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm."

They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn.

"O where will I get a gude sailor, To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall top-mast, To see if I can spy land?"

"O here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall top-mast; But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely are, When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in.

"Gae, fetch a web o' silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let na the sea come in."

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang or a' the play was played, They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed, That flattered on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son, That never mair cam hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves; For them they'll see na mair.

O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see na mair.

O forty miles off Aberdeen, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

[Footnote A: Suffice.]

[Footnote B: The eighth part of a peck.]

ANONYMOUS BALLAD

* * * * *

THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.

[This ballad exists in Denmark, and in other European countries. The Scotch point out Blackhouse, on the wild Douglas Burn, a tributary of the Yarrow, as the scene of the tragedy.]

"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, "And put on your armor so bright; Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine Was married to a lord under night.

"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, And put on your armor so bright, And take better care of your youngest sister, For your eldest's awa the last night."

He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And lightly they rade away.

Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, To see what he could see, And there he spyed her seven brethren bold, Come riding over the lea.

"Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "And hold my steed in your hand, Until that against your seven brothers bold, And your father, I mak a stand."

She held his steed in her milk-white hand, And never shed one tear, Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.

"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, "For your strokes they are wond'rous sair; True lovers I can get many a ane, But a father I can never get mair."

O she's ta'en out her handkerchief, It was o' the holland sae fine, And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, That were redder than the wine.

"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "O whether will ye gang or bide?" "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, "For ye have left me no other guide."

He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they baith rade away.

O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they cam to yon wan water, And there they lighted down.

They lighted down to tak a drink Of the spring that ran sae clear; And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, And sair she gan to fear.

"Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, "For I fear that you are slain!" "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, That shines in the water sae plain."

O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they cam to his mother's ha' door, And there they lighted down.

"Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "Get up, and let me in!-- Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "For this night my fair ladye I've win.

"O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, "O mak it braid and deep! And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, And the sounder I will sleep."

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, Lady Marg'ret lang ere day-- And all true lovers that go thegither, May they have mair luck than they!

Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk, Lady Margaret in Mary's quire; Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And out o' the knight's a brier.

And they twa met, and they twa plat, And fain they wad be near; And a' the warld might ken right weel, They were twa lovers dear.

But bye and rade the Black Douglas, And wow but he was rough! For he pulled up the bonny brier, And flang 'tin St. Mary's loch.

ANONYMOUS BALLAD.

* * * * *

THE LAST HUNT.

Oh, it's twenty gallant gentlemen Rode out to hunt the deer, With mirth upon the silver horn And gleam upon the spear; They galloped through the meadow-grass, They sought the forest's gloom, And loudest rang Sir Morven's laugh, And lightest tost his plume. There's no delight by day or night Like hunting in the morn; So busk ye, gallant gentlemen, And sound the silver horn!

They rode into the dark greenwood By ferny dell and glade, And now and then upon their cloaks The yellow sunshine played; They heard the timid forest-birds Break off amid their glee, They saw the startled leveret, But not a stag did see. Wind, wind the horn, on summer morn! Though ne'er a buck appear, There's health for horse and gentleman A-hunting of the deer!

They panted up Ben Lomond's side Where thick the leafage grew, And when they bent the branches back The sunbeams darted through; Sir Morven in his saddle turned, And to his comrades spake, "Now quiet! we shall find a stag Beside the Brownies' Lake. Then sound not on the bugle-horn, Bend bush and do not break, Lest ye should start the timid hart A-drinking at the lake."

Now they have reached the Brownies' Lake,-- A blue eye in the wood,-- And on its brink a moment's space All motionless they stood; When, suddenly, the silence broke With fifty bowstrings' twang, And hurtling through the drowsy air Full fifty arrows sang. Ah, better for those gentlemen, Than horn and slender spear, Were morion and buckler true, A-hunting of the deer.

Not one of that brave company Shall hunt the deer again; Some fell beside the Brownies' Pool, Some dropt in dell or glen; An arrow pierced Sir Morven's breast, His horse plunged in the lake, And swimming to the farther bank He left a bloody wake. Ah, what avails the silver horn, And what the slender spear? There's other quarry in the wood Beside the fallow deer!

O'er ridge and hollow sped the horse Besprent with blood and foam, Nor slackened pace until at eve He brought his master home. How tenderly the Lady Ruth The cruel dart withdrew! "False Tirrell shot the bolt," she said, "That my Sir Morven slew!" Deep in the forest lurks the foe, While gayly shines the morn: Hang up the broken spear, and blow A dirge upon the horn.

WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER _(Paul Hermes_).

* * * * *

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.

[1415.]

Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Kause, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry,

And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marchèd towards Agincourt In happy hour,-- Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power,

Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending; Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet, with an angry smile, Their fall portending.

And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then: Though they to one be ten, Be not amazèd; Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raisèd.

And for myself, quoth he, This my full rest shall be; England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me, Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain; Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me.

Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen, Excester had the rear,-- A braver man not there: O Lord! how hot they were On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone; Armor on armor shone; Drum now to drum did groan,-- To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham! Which did the signal aim To our hid forces; When, from a meadow by, Like a storm, suddenly. The English archery Struck the French horses

With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And, like true English hearts, Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilboes drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent; Scalps to the teeth were rent; Down the French peasants went; Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruisèd his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade; Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up. Suffolk his axe did ply; Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry; O, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

* * * * *

THE KING TO HIS SOLDIERS BEFORE HARFLEUR.

[1415.]

FROM "KING HENRY V.," ACT III. SC. 1.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, As modest stillness, and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage: Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct; Let it pry through the portage of the head, Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it, As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide; Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height!--On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders, Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. Dishonor not your mothers; now attest, That those whom you called fathers, did beget you! Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war!--And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and, upon this charge, Cry--God for Harry! England! and Saint George!

SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

THE CAVALIER'S SONG.

A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed, A sword of metal keene! All else to noble heartes is drosse, All else on earth is meaue. The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; And oh! the thundering presse of knightes, Whenas their war-cryes swell, May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine; Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish feares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand-- Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye; Our business is like men to fight, And hero-like to die!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

* * * * *

GIVE A ROUSE.

King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles!

Who gave me the goods that went since? Who raised me the house that sank once? Who helped me to gold I spent since? Who found me in wine you drank once?

_(Chorus)_

_King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles_!

To whom used my boy George quaff else, By the old fool's side that begot him? For whom did he cheer and laugh else, While Noll's damned troopers shot him?

_(Chorus)_

_King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles!_

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

NASEBY.

[June, 1645.]

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH- LINKS-OF-IRON; SERGEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT.

O, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north, With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread?

O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod: For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine, And the man of blood was there, with his long essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us to the fight; When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For God! for the cause!--for the Church! for the laws! For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks! For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to fall.

They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last!

Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground: Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 'tis he, boys! Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here.

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; And he,--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war!

Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search secure; Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broadpieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate? And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths! Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the crown! With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope! There is woe in Oxford halls; there is wail in Durham's stalls; The Jesuit smites his bosom; the bishop rends his cope.