THE TOKEN MONGER. A SONG.

Come, haste to Newcastle, ye sons of fair Freedom,

You’ll there see a sight that will banish your fears;

A sight that would terrify Bonney, should he come,—

The sight I allude to’s our brave Volunteers.

Arrang’d in a row, with the brave Association;

The Gateshead, so gallant, are likewise in line;

Our Volunteers too, the defence of the nation,—

You likewise will see the bright Legion of Tyne.

The Sunderland too, with Artillery assemble;

The Shields and the Hexham with ardour appears;

The sight of these heroes would make Bonney tremble,

Could he get a peep at our brave Volunteers.

Ye fam’d Rifle corps, I must too praise your merit;

You’ll always be ready when glory does call;

The whole fir’d with freedom, with ardour and spirit,

When flank’d by the boys from the End of the Wall.[35]

You Patriots assembled on this grand occasion,

A sight that’s so noble each wounded mind cheers;

They’ll always be ready to repel invasion,

And merit the title of brave Volunteers.

May courage and candour still all your minds govern,—

Your zeal in the pages of history will shine;

Be true to your country and just to your Sovereign,

Ye sons of fair Freedom, of Wear and of Tyne.

The plaint of a mourner, deep sorrow oppress’d with,

Late, as thro’ Dean Street I pass’d, caught my ear;

’Twas a poor Token Monger, who prudence unbless’d with,

Had receiv’d for presumption, a trimming severe.

He gaz’d on the caution[36] with wonder dumb founded,

His dear self-importance severely was wounded,

At such a long list of opponents confounded:

The tokens he issued, were tokens of woe.

Ah well-a-day! said the poor Token Monger,

My project is scouted, my Mint’s at a stand;

Alas! the sweet hope, I must cherish no longer,

Of Jehu-like driving four in hand.

Oh why! e’er in day dreams illusive exulting,

Why did I my neighbours ne’er think of consulting!

Now grief from their fiat so hostile resulting,

Compels me to issue the tokens of woe!

I’ve sported rare logic, I’ve stuck not at bouncing,

I’ve prov’d myself rich as a crœsus in brass;

I’ve amus’d the whole town with my vaunting and flouncing;

But vain are my labours, the tokens won’t pass!

Vain too is thy friendship, dear Butterfly Billy,

Of all my supporters, most noisy and silly;

Wilt thou still take my tokens? sweet daffa-down-dilly:

Oh! those which I issue are tokens of woe!

Vanity whisper’d me, “John thou art clever,

“Thy neighbours beyond their own noses can’t see;”

I foolishly thought so, but never, oh never,

Was mortal more sadly mistaken than me.

Down from your windows, my friends, snatch your papers,

The ridicule now of all starers and gapers;

Some wag I am fearful will give you the vapours,

By offering you payment in tokens of woe.

Join, O ye pay clerks, my loud lamentations,

Come my ill luck sympathetic deplore:

On discount you reckon’d, but such expectations,

Alas! my good friends, you must cherish no more.

Tokens! God help me! why, why should I make them!

Neither will Pitmen or Keelmen now take them;

E’en in their wagers, they scruple to stake them,

Oh! none must I issue but tokens of woe!

No more of his sorrows the muse hath recorded,

Tho’ tunefully still he bewail’d his sad fate;

For listning no longer enjoyment afforded;

The evening was chilly, the hour it was late.

Ah, thought I, as quick homeward I now was repairing,

’Tis just with all wrong-heads, presumptious and daring,

In their projects, the end with the means never squaring,

Still baffled, they issue the tokens of woe.

“Hey, Jacky, ma honey, hae ye seen the new money,

The money, that’s made, mun, at Newcastle town?

It’s bonie an’ breet, man, an’ tho’ it’s but leet, man,

Folks like it sae weel, that the notes are off flown.

“I frae the chap got, man, a score for a note, man;

An’ smash me! I thought him a thick headed feul;

T’ gie siller for paper, is sure a queer caper:

We knaw which is better, Jack, we were at skeul.”

“But, Will, I’ve a notion, you han’t seen the caution,[37]

The grocer folks up i’ their windows hae put;

They say they’ll be broken, if they take a token;

An’ seun that their shops they will hae for to shut.”

“Why, Jack, sure they’re feulish, to refuse them is cullish,

Why siller, man’s, siller, and paper’s but rags;

And as lang as we knaw that, there’s nane o’ them a’ that

Will make us put paper stead sill i’ wor bags.

“The bank there of Surtees, ye knaw how it hurt hus;

And, for the five score pund I’d laid by for’t lass,

They’re now off’ring twenty, an thinking it plenty;

Tho’ years ago, Jack, I was starving for’t brass.

“An Jack i’ the raw, ye very weel knaw,

The loss he cam too, when his house it was brunt:

His kistful of paper, went up in a vapour,

An of his sixscore pund he heard na mair on’t.

“No, no more their notes, shall they cram down our throats,

When we siller can get, man, to put i’ wour kists:

A f——t for their signing, an cautions sae whining,

Let them who won’t take them, wey, do it that lists.”

Fra Benton Bank, to Benton town,

There’s not a Pitman’s raw:

So when ye get to the Moor Yate,

Play footy again the wa’.

Then hie footy, and how footy,

And footy again the wa’;

And when ye get to the Moor Yate,

Play footy again the wa’.

The wife went down the Moor Lonnin,

And let her basket fa’;

For when she gat to the Moor Yate,

Play’d footy again the wa’.

Then hie, &c.

The stoby road’s a stoby place,

And some o’ the stobs are la’;

But still there’s some that’s high enough,

For footy again the wa’.

Then hie, &c.

The Holy Stone’s a holy place,

The trees are thick and la’;

But they are nought to the Moor Yate,

For footy again the wa’.

Then hie, &c.

Wapping Square is a bonny place,

The houses are but sma’:

But in them yet there’s room enough,

For footy again the wa’.

Then hie, &c.

The lady did not like the house,

For the air it was raw;

It was sweeter far at the Moor Yate,

For footy again the wa’.

Then hie, &c.

Young Cuddy is a bonny lad,

And Robin’s tall and sma’;

But if you come to wour town end,

They’ll footy again the wa’.

Then hie, &c.

Yt fell abowght the Lamasse tyde,

Whan husbondes wynne ther haye,

The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd him to ryde,

In Ynglond to take a praye:

The yerlle of Fyffe, withowghten stryffe,

He bowynd him over Sulway:

The grete wolde ever together ryde,

That raysse they may rewe for aye.

Over ‘Ottercap’ hyll they cam in,

And so dowyn by Rodelyffe crage,

Upon Grene ‘Leyton’ they lyghted dowyn,

’Styrande many a’ stage:

And boldely brente Northomberlonde,

And haryed many a towyn;

They dyd owr Ynglysh men grete wrange,

To battell that were not bowyn.

Than spake a berne upon the bent,

Of comforte that was not colde,

And sayd, we have brente Northomberlonde,

We have all welth in holde.

Now we have haryed all Bamboroweschyre,

All the welth in the worlde have wee,

I rede we ryde to Newe Castell,

So styll and stalwurthlye.

Upon the morrowe, when it was day,

The standerdes schone fulle bryght;

To the Newe Castell the toke the waye,

And thether they cam fulle ryght.

Syr Henry Perssye laye at the Newe Castell,[38]

I tell yow withowtten drede;

He had byn a march-man all hys dayes,

And kept Barwyke upon Twede.

To the Newe Castell when they cam,

The Skottes they cryde on hyght,

Syr Harye Perssye, and thow byste within,

Com to the fylde, and fyght:

For we have brente Northomberlonde,

Thy erytage good and ryght;

And syne my logeyng I have take,

With my brande dubbyd many a knyght.

Syr Harye Perssye cam to the walles,

The Skottysh oste for to se;

And sayd, And thou hast brente Northomberlonde,

Full sore it rewyeth me.

Yf thow hast haryed all Bamboroweschyre,

Thow hast done me grete envye;

For the trespasse thow hast me done,

The tone of us schall dye.

Where schall I byde the, sayd the Dowglasse,

Or where wylte thow com to me?

“At Otterborne in the hygh way,

Ther mast thow well looged be.

The roo full rekeless ther sche runnes,

To make the game and glee:

The fawken and the fesaunt both,

Among the holtes on hye.

Ther mast thow have thy welth at wyll,

Well looged ther mast be;

Yt schall not be long, or I com the tyll,”

Sayd syr Harye Perssye.

Ther schall I byde the, said the Dowglasse,

By the fayth of my bodye.

Thether schall I com, sayd syr Harye Perssye;

My trowth I plyght to the.

A pype of wyne he gave them over the walles,

For soth, as I yow saye,

Ther he myed the Dowglasse drynke,

And all hys ost that daye.

The Dowglasse turnyd hym homewarde agayne,

For soth withowghten naye,

He took hys logeynge at Otterborne

Upon a Wedynsday:

And ther he pyght hys standerd dowyn,

Hys gettyng more and lesse,

And syne he warned hys men to goo,

To chose ther geldynges gresse.

A Skottyshe knyght hoved upon the bent,

A wache I dare well saye:

So was he ware on the noble Perssy,

In the dawnyng of the daye.

He prycked to his pavyleon dore,

As fast as he myght ronne,

Awaken, Dowglasse, cryed the knyght,

For hys love that syttes in trone.

Awaken, Dowglasse, cryed the knyght,

For thow maste waken wyth wynne;

Yender have I spyed the prowde Perssye,

And seven standardes wyth hym.

Nay, by my trowth, the Dowglasse sayed,

Yt ys but a fayned taylle:

He durst not loke on my brede banner,

For all Ynglonde so haylle.

Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell,

That stondes so fayre on Tyne?

For all the men the Perssye had,

He cowde not garr me ones to dyne.

He stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore,

To loke and yt were lesse;

“Araye yow, lordynges, one and all,

For here bygynnes no peysse.

The yerlle of Mentaye, thow art my erne,

The fowarde I gyve to thee:

The yerlle of Huntley cawte and kene,

He schall ‘wyth the be.’

The lorde of Bowghan in armure bryght,

On the other hand he schall be:

Lorde Jhonstone, and lorde Maxwell,

They to schall be wyth me.

Swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde,

To batell make yow bowen:

Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde,

Syr Jhon of Agurstone.”

The Perssye came byfore hys oste,

Whych was ever a gentyll knyght,

Upon the Dowglasse lowde can he crye,

I wyll holde that I have hyght:

For thou haste brente Northomberlonde,

And done me grete envye;

For thys trespasse thow haste me done,

The tone of us schall dye.

The Dowglasse answerde him agayne,

With grete wurdes upon hye,

And sayd, I have twenty agaynst ‘thy’ one.

Byholde and thow maste see.

Wyth that the Perssye was grevyd sore,

For soth, as I yow saye:

He lyghted dowyn upon hys foote,

And schoote his horsse clene away.

Every man sawe that he dyd soo,

That rall was ever in rowght;

Every man schoote hys horsse hym froo,

And lyght hym rowynde abowght.

This syr Harye Perssye toke the fylde,

For soth, as I yow saye:

Jesu Cryste in heven on hyght

Dyd helpe hym well that daye.

But nyne thowsande, ther was no moo;

The cronykle wyll not layne:

Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre

That day fowght them agayne.

But when the battell byganne to joyne,

In hast ther cam a knyght,

The letters fayr furth hath he tayne,

And thus he sayd full ryght:

My lorde, your father he gretes yow well,

Wyth many a noble knyght;

He desyres yow to byde

That he may see thys fyght.

The baron of Grastoke ys com owt of the west,

Wyth hym a noble companye;

All they loge at your fathers thys nyght,

And the battell fayne wolde they see.

For Jesus love, sayd syr Harye Perssye,

That dyed for yow and me,

Wende to my lorde my father agayne,

And saye thow sawe me not wyth yee.

My trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh knyght,

Yt nedes me not to layne,

That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent,

And I have hys trowth agayne:

And yf that I wynde off thys growende,

For soth onfowghten awaye,

He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght

Yn hys londe another daye.

Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente,

By Mary that mykell maye,

Then ever my manhood schulde be reprovyd,

Wyth a Skotte another daye.

Wherfore, schote, archars, for my sake,

And let scharpe arowes flee:

Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson,

And well quyt yt schall be.

Every man thynke on hys trewe love,

And marke hym to the Trenite:

For to God I make myne avowe

This daye wyll I not fle.

The blodye harte yn the Dowglas armes,[39]

Hys standerde stode on hye;

That every man myght full well knowe,

By syde stode starres thre.

The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte,

Forsoth as I yow sayne;

The lucettes and the ‘cressawntes’ both;

The Skottes fowght them agayne.

Upon sent Andrewe lowde can they crye,

And thrysse they schowte on ayght,

And syne marked them one owr Ynglysshe men,

As I have tolde yow ryght.

Sent George the bryght, owr ladyes knyght,

To name they were full fayne;

Owr Ynglisshe men they cryde on hyght,

And thrysse the schowtte agayne.

Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee,

I tell yow in sertayne;

Men of armes byganne to joyne;

Many a dowghty man was ther slayne.

The Perssye and the Dowglas mette,

That ather of other was fayne;

They ‘swapped’ together whyll that the swette,

Wyth swordes of fine collayne;

Tyll the bloode from ther bassonettes ranne,

As the roke doth in the rayne.

Yelde the to me, sayd the Dowglas,

Or ellse thow schalt be slayne:

For I see, by thy bryght bassonet,

Thow arte sum man of myght;

And so I do by thy burnysshed brande,

Thow art an yerle, or elles a knyght.

By my good faythe, sayd the noble Perssye,

Now haste thou rede full ryght,

Yet wyll I never yelde me to the,

Whyll I may stonde and fyght.

They swapped together, whyll that they swette,

Wyth swordes scharpe and long;

Ych on other so faste thee beette,

Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn.

The Perssye was a man of strength,

I tell yow in thys stounde,

He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length,

That he felle to the growynde.

The sworde was scharpe and sore can byte,

I tell yow in sertayne;

To the harte he cowde him smyte,

Thus was the Dowglas slayne.

The stonderdes stode styll on ‘elke’ asyde,

Wyth many a grevous grone;

Ther the fowght the daye, and all the nyght,

And many a dowghty man was slayne.

Ther was no freke that ther wolde flye,

But styffely in stowre can stond,

Ych one hewyng on other whyll they myght drye,

Wyth many a bayllefull bronde.

Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde,

For soth and sertenly,

Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne,

That daye that he cowde dye.

The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne.

Grysely groned uppon the growynd;

Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde,

Syr Jhon of Agurstonne.

Syr Charlles Morrey in that place,

That never a fote wold flee;

Syr Hugh Maxwell, a lorde he was,

Wyth the Dowglasse dyd he dye.

Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde,

For soth as I yow saye,

For fowre and forty thowsande Skottes

Went but eyghtene awaye.

Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe syde,

For soth and sertenlye,

A gentyll knyght, syr Jhon ‘Fitzhewe,’

Yt was the more pety.

Syr James Harebotell ther was slayne,

For hym ther hartes were sore,

The gentyll ‘Lovell’ ther was slayne,

That the Perssye’s standerd bore.

Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe perte,

For soth as I yow saye;

Of nyne thowsande Ynglysshe men,

Fyve hondert cam awaye:

The other were slayne in the fylde,

Cryste kepe ther sowlles from wo,

Seying ther was so fewe fryndes

Agaynst so many a foo.

Then on the morne they mayde them beerys

Of byrch, and haysell graye;

Many a widowe wyth wepyng teyres

Ther makes they fette awaye.

Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne

Bytwene the nyghte and the daye;

Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyffe,

And the Perssye was lede awaye.

Then was ther a Scottysh prysoner tayne,

Syr Hewe Montgomery was hys name,

For soth as I yow saye,

He borrowed the Perssye home agayne.

Now let us all for the Perssye praye,

To Jesu most of myght,

To bryng hys sowlle to the blysse of heven,

For he was a gentyll knyght.

It fell and about the Lammas time,

When husband men do win their hay,

Earl Douglas is to the English woods,

And a’ with him to fetch a prey.

He has chosen the Lindsays light,

With them the gallant Gordons gay,

And the Earl of Fyfe withouten strife,

And Sir Hugh Montgomery upon a grey.

They hae taken Northumberland,

And sae hae they the North-shire,

And the Otter-dale they burnt it hale,

And set it a’ into a fire.

Out then spack a bonny boy,

That serv’d ane o’ Earl Douglas’ kin;

Methinks I see an English host

A-coming branken us upon.

If this be true, my little boy,

An it be troth that thou tells me,

The brawest bower in Otterbourne,

This day shall be thy morning fee.

But if it be false, my little boy,

And but a lie that thou tells me;

On the highest tree that’s in Otterbourne,

With my awin hands I’ll hing thee hie.

The boy’s taen out his little penknife,

That hanget low down by his gare,

And he gae Earl Douglas a deadly wound,

Alack! a deep wound and a sare.

Earl Douglas said to Sir Hugh Montgomery,

Tack thou the vanguard o’ the three;

And bury me at yon braken bush,

That stands upon yon lilly lee.

Then Percy and Montgomery met,

And weel a wat they war na fain;

They swapped swords, and they twa swat,

And ay the blood ran down between.

O yield thee, yield thee, Percy, he said,

Or else I vow I’ll lay thee low.

Whom to shall I yield? said Earl Percy;

Now that I see it maun be so.

O yield thee to yon braken bush,

That grows upon yon lilly lee.

As in that bush a bier there be,

For it I’d save thy life and thee.

I winna yield to a braken bush,

Nor yet will I unto a bier;

But I wad yield to Earl Douglas,

Or Sir Hugh Montgomery, if he was here.

As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,

He stuck his sword’s point in the ground:

And Sir Hugh Montgomery was a courteous knight,

And he quickly brought him by the hand.

The deed was done at Otterbourne,

About the breaking o’ the day.

Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush,

And Percy led captive away.

The Persé owt off Northomberlonde,

And a vowe to God mayd he,

That he wold hunte in the mountayns

Of Chyviat within dayes thre;

In the magger of doughté Dogles,

And all that ever with him be.

The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat,

He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away.

By my feth, sayd the doughté Doglas agayn,

I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.

Then the Persé owt of Bamborowe cam,

With him a myghtee meany;

With fifteen hondrith archares bold, off blood and bone,

The wear chosen owt of shayrs thre.

This beganne on a Monday at morn,

In Chyviat the hillys so he;

The chyld may rue that ys unborn,

It was the mor pitté.

The dryvers thorowe the woodes went

For to reas the deare;

Bomen byckarte uppone the bent

With ther browd aras cleare.

Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went

On every syde shear;

Grea hondes thorowe the grevis glent

For to kyll thear dear.

The beganne in Chyviat the hyls above,

Yerly on a sonny’tn day;

Be that it drewe to the oware off none

A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.

The blewe a mort uppone the bent,

The semblyd on sydes shear;

To the quyrry then the Persé went

To se the bryttlynge off the deare.

He sayd, It was the Doglas promys

This day to met me hear;

But I wyste he wold faylle verament:

A great oath the Persé swear.

At the last a squyar of ‘Northomberlonde,’

Lookyde at his hande full ny,

He was war ath the doughetie Doglas commynge,

With him a myghtté meany.

Both with spear, byll, and brande:

Yt was a myghti sight to se,

Hardyar men both off harte nar hande

Wear not in Christiantè.

The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good,

Withowte any feale;

The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde,

Yth bowndes of Tividale.

Leave off the brytlyng of the deare, he sayde,

And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed;

For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne

Had ye never so mickle ned.

The dougheti Dogglas on a stede

He rode all his men beforne;

His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;

A bolder barne was never born.

Tell me ‘what’ men ye ar, he says,

Or whos men that ye be:

Who gave youe leave to hunte in this

Chyviat chays in the spyt of me?

The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,

It was the good lord Persé:

We wyll not tell the ‘what’ men we ar, he says,

Nor whos men that we be;

But we will hount hear in this chays

In the spyt of thyne and of the.

The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat

We have kyld, and cast to carry them away.

Be my troth, sayd the doughté ‘Dogglas’ agayn,

Ther for the ton of us shall de this day.

Then sayd the doughté Dogglas,

Unto the lord Persé:

To kyll all these giltles men,

Alas! it wear great pitté.

But, Persé, thowe art a lorde of lande,

I am a yerle callyd within my contrè;

Let all our men uppone a parti stande;

And do the battell off the and of me.

Now Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd the lord Persé,

Who soever ther to says nay.

Be my troth, doughté Doglas, he says,

Thow shalt never se that day;

Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,

Nor for no man of a woman born,

But and fortune be my chance,

I dar met him on man for on.

Then bespayke a squyar of Northombarlonde,

Ric. Wytheryngton was his nam;

It shall never be tolde in Sothe Ynglonde, he says,

To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.

I wat youe byn great lordes twaw,

I am a poor squyar of lande;

I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,

And stande myselffe, and loocke on,

But whyll I may my weppone welde

I wyll not [fayl] bothe harte and hande.

That day, that day, that dredfull day,

The first fit here I fynde:

And youe wyll here any mor athe hountyng athe Chyviat,

Yet ys ther more behynd.

The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,

Ther hartes were good yenoughe;

The first off arros that the shote off,

Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.

Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent,

A captayne good yenoughe,

And that was sene verament,

For he wrought them hom both woo and wouche.

The Doglas pertyd his ost in thre,

Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde,

With suar speares off myghtté tre,

The cum in on every syde.

Thrugke our Yngglyshe archery

Gave many a wounde full wyde;

Many a doughete the garde to dy,

Which ganyde them no pryde.

The Yngglyshe men let thear ‘bowys’ be.

And pulde owt brandes that wer bright;

It was a hevy syght to se

Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.

Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple,

Many sterne the stroke done streght:

Many a freyke, that was full fre,

Ther undar foot dyd lyght.

At last the Doglas and the Persé met,

Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;

The swapte togethar tyll the both swat

With swordes that wear of fyn myllan.

Thes worthé freckys for to fyght

Ther to the wear full fayne,

Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,

As ever dyd heal or ran.

‘Holde’ the, Persé, sayd the Doglas,

And i feth I shall the brynge,

Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis

Of Jamy our ‘Scottish’ kynge.

Thoue shalte have thy ransom fre,

I hight the hear this thinge;

For the manfullyste man yet art thowe,

That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng.

Nay, sayd the lorde Persé,

I tolde it the beforne,

That I wolde never yeldyde be

To no man of a woman born.

With that ther cam an arrowe hastely

Forthe off a myghtté wane,

Hit hathe strekene the yerle Doglas

In at the brest bane.

Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe

The sharpe arrowe ys gane,

That never after in all his lyffe days

He spayke mo wordes but ane,

That was, Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may,

For my lyff days ben gan.

The Persé leanyde on his brande,

And sawe the Doglas de;

He tooke the dede mane be the hande,

And sayd, Wo ys me for the!

To have savyde thy lyffe I wold have pertyde with

My landes for years thre;

For a better man of hart, nare of hande,

Was not in all the north contrè.

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght,

Was callyd sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry,

He sawe the Doglas to the deth was dyght;

He spendyd a spear a trusti tre:

He rod uppon a corsiare

Throughe a hondrith archery;

He never stynttyde, nar never blane,

Tyll he cam to the good lorde Persé.

He set uppone the lorde Persé

A dynte that was full soare;

With a suar spear of a myghtté tre

Clean thorow the body he the Persé ‘bore.’

Athe tothar syde, that a man myght se,

A large cloth yard and mare;

Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiantè,

Then that day slain wear ther.

An archar of Northomberlonde

Say slean was the lord Persé,

He bar a bende bow in his hand,

Was made off trusti tre:

An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang,

Toth hard stele hayld he;

A dynt that was both sad and soar,

He sat on sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and sar,

That he of Monggonbyrry 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 dyd stand,

Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre,

With many a balfull brande.

This battell begane in Chyviat,[40]

And owar before the none,

And when even-song bell was rang,

The battell was nat haff done.

The tooke on ethar hand,

Be the lyght off the mone;

Many had no strength for to stande,

In Chyviat the hillys abone.

Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde

Went away but fifti and thre;

Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,

But even five and fifti.[41]

But all wear slayne Chyviat within:

The had no strengthe to stand on hy:

The chylde may rue that ys unborne,

It was the mor pitté.

Thear was slayne with the lord Persé,

Sir John of Agerstone,

Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly,

Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.

Sir Jorg the worthé Lovele,

A knyght of great renowen,

Sir Raff the ryche Rugbè,

With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharrynton 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 his kny.

Ther was slayne with the doughti Doglas,

Sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry,

Sir Davy Lwdale that worthè was,

His sisters 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 Doglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the mayde them byears

Off birch, and hasell so gray;

Many wedous, with wepyng tears,

Cam to fach ther makys away.

Tivydale may carpe off care,

Northombarlonde may mayke great mon,

For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear,

On the march perti shall never be non.

Word ys commyn to Eddenburrowe

To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,

That dougheti Doglas, lyff tenante of the merches,

He lay slean Chyviot within.

His handdes dyd he weal and wryng,

He says, Alas, and woe ys me!

Such another captayn Skotland within,

He sayd, yefeth shuld never be.

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone

Till the fourth Harry our kyng,

That lord Persé, ‘leyff’-tenante of the merchis,

He lay slayne Chyviat within.

God have merci on his soll, sayd kyng Harry,

Good lord, yf thy will it be!

I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde, he sayd,

As good as ever was he:

But, Persé, and I brook my lyffe,

Thy deth well quyte shall be.

As our noble kyng made his avowe,

Lyke a noble prince of renowen,

For the deth of the lord Persé,

He dyde the battel of Hombyll-down:[42]

Wher syx and thritté 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 Chyviat;

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 doughté Doglas slean,

The Persé never went away.

Ther was never a tym on the march partes,

Sen the Doglas and the Persé met,

But yt was mervele, and the rede blude ronne not,

As the reane doys in the stret.

Jhesue Crist our balys bete,

And to the blys us brynge!

Thus was the hountynge of the Chyviat;

God send us all good endyng!

THE TOKEN MONGER.
A SONG.

The following Dialogue, in bad Prose, was overheard by the Person who now attempts it in bad Verse.

FOOTY AGAIN THE WALL.

THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN.

A FYTTE.

THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.

THE HUNTING OF THE CHYVIAT.

(FIT THE SECOND.)