THE HUNTING IN CHEVY CHASE.

God prosper long our noble king,

Our lives and safeties all;

A woeful hunting once there did

In Chevy Chase befall.

To drive the deer with hound and horn,

Earl Percy took his way;

The child may rue that is unborn

The hunting of that day.

The stout earl of Northumberland

A vow to God did make,

His pleasure in the Scottish woods

Three summer’s days to take;

The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase

To kill and bear away:

These tidings to earl Douglas came,

In Scotland where he lay;

Who sent earl Percy present word,

He would prevent his sport:

The English earl, not fearing this,

Did to the woods resort,

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold;

All chosen men of might,

Who knew full well, in time of need,

To aim their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,

To chase the fallow-deer;

On Monday they began to hunt,

When day-light did appear;

And, long before high-noon, they had

A hundred fat bucks slain;

Then, having din’d, the drovers went

To rouse them up again.

The bowmen muster’d on the hills,

Well able to endure;

Their backsides all, with special care,

That day were guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,

The nimble deer to take,

And with their cries the hills and dales

An echo shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went,

To view the slaughter’d deer;

Quoth he, Earl Douglas promised,

This day to meet me here:

If that I thought he would not come,

No longer would I stay.

With that a brave young gentleman

Thus to the earl did say:

Lo! yonder doth earl Douglas come,

His men in armour bright;

Full twenty hundred Scottish spears

All marching in our sight;

All men of pleasant Tividale,

Fast by the river Tweed.

Then cease your sport, earl Percy said,

And take your bows with speed.

And now with me, my countrymen,

Your courage forth advance;

For never was there champion yet,

In Scotland or in France,

That ever did on horseback come,

But if mayhap it were,

I durst adventure, man for man,

With him to break a spear.

Earl Douglas, on a milk-white steed,

Most like a baron bold,

Rode foremost of the company,

Whose armour shone like gold.

Show me, said he, whose men you be,

That hunt so boldly here;

That, without my consent, do chase,

And kill my fallow deer.

The man that first did answer make,

Was noble Percy, he;

Who said, We list not to declare,

Nor show whose men we be:

Yet we will spend our dearest blood,

Thy chiefest hearts to slay.

Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,

And thus in rage did say:

Ere thus I will outbraved be,

One of us two shall die;

I know thee well, an earl thou art,

Lord Percy, so am I.

But trust me, Percy, pity it were,

And great offence to kill

Any of these our harmless men,

For they have done no ill.

Let thou and I the battle try,

And set our men aside.

Accurs’d be he, lord Percy said,

By whom this is deny’d.

Then stepp’d a gallant ’squire forth,

Witherington was his name,

Who said, I would not have it told

To Henry our king, for shame,

That e’er my captain fought on foot,

And I stood looking on:

You be two earls, said Witherington,

And I a squire alone:

I’ll do the best that do I may,

While I have strength to stand;

While I have pow’r to wield my sword,

I’ll fight with heart and hand.

Our English archers bent their bows,

Their hearts were good and true;

At the first flight of arrows sent,

Full three-score Scots they slew.

To drive the deer with hound and horn

Earl Douglas had the bent;

A captain mov’d with mickle pride,

The spears to shivers sent.

They clos’d 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 grief to see,

And likewise for to hear

The cries of men lying in their gore,

And scatter’d here and there.

At last these two stout earls did meet,

Like captains of great might;

Like lions mov’d, they laid on load,

And made a cruel fight.

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, lord Percy, Douglas said,

In faith I will thee bring,

Where thou shall high advanced be,

By James our Scotish king:

Thy ransom I will freely give,

And thus report of thee,

Thou art the most courageous knight

That ever I did see.

No, Douglas, quoth earl Percy then,

Thy proffer I do scorn;

I will not yield to any Scot

That ever yet was born.

With that there came an arrow keen,

Out of an English bow,

Which struck earl Douglas to the heart,

A deep and deadly blow:

Who never spoke 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, earl Percy took

The dead man by the hand,

And said, “Earl Douglas, for thy life

Would I had lost my land!

O Christ! my very heart doth bleed,

With sorrow for thy sake;

For sure a more renowned knight

Mischance did never take.”

A knight amongst the Scots there was,

Which saw earl Douglas die,

Who straight in wrath did vow revenge

Upon the earl Percy:

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he call’d;

Who with a spear most bright,

Well mounted on a gallant steed,

Ran fiercely through the fight;

And pass’d the English archers all,

Without all dread or fear;

And through earl Percy’s body then

He thrust his hateful spear:

With such a vehement force and might

He did his body gore,

The spear went 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 perceiv’d

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

Up to the head drew he:

Against sir Hugh Montgomery,

So right the shaft he set,

The grey-goose-wing that was thereon

In his heart-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 the earl Percy there was slain

Sir John of Ogerton,

Sir Robert Radclyffe, and sir John,

Sir James that bold baron:

And, with sir George, and good sir James,

Both knights of good account,

Good sir Ralph Raby there was slain,

Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wail,

As one in doleful dumps;

For when his legs were smitten off,

He fought upon his stumps.

And with earl Douglas there was slain

Sir Hugh Montgomery,

Sir Charles Currel, that from the field

One foot would never fly;

Sir Charles Murrel of Ratcliffe too,

His sister’s son was he;

Sir David Lamb, so well esteem’d,

Yet saved could not be.

And the lord Maxwell, in likewise,

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 were slain in Chevy Chase,

Under the greenwood tree.

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, bath’d in purple blood,

They bore with them away;

They kiss’d them dead a thousand times,

When they were clad in clay.

This 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 Percy of Northumberland

Was slain in Chevy Chase.

Now God be with him! said our king,

Sith ’twill no better be;

I trust I have within my realm

Five hundred as good as he.

Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say,

But I will vengeance take;

And be revenged on them all,

For brave lord Percy’s sake.

This vow full well the king perform’d,

After, on Humble-down;

In one day fifty knights were slain,

With lords of great renown;

And of the rest, of small account,

Did many hundreds die.

Thus ended the hunting of Chevy Chase,

Made by the earl Percy.

God save the king, and bless the land

In plenty, joy, and peace;

And grant, henceforth, that foul debate

’Twixt noblemen may cease.

I Have heard of a lilting, at our ewes’ milking,

Lasses a lilting, before the break of day;

But now there’s a moaning, on ilka green loaning,

That our braw forresters are a’ wede away.

At boughts, in the morning, nae blyth lads are scorning;

The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae;

Nae daffin, nae gabbin, but sighing and sabbing,

Ilka ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away.

At e’en at the gloming, nae swankies are roaming,

’Mong stacks, with the lasses, at bogle to play;

But ilka ane sits dreary, lamenting her deary,

The Flowers of the Forest that are a’ wede away.

At harrest, at the shearing, nae youngsters are jeering,

The bansters are runkled, lyart, and grey.

At a fair, or a preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching,

Since our braw forresters are a’ wede away.

O dool for the order, sent our lads to the border:

The English for anes by guile gat the day.

The Flowers of the Forrest, that ay shone the foremost,

The prime of our land, lies cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting, at our ewes’ milking,

The women and bairns are dowie, and wae.

Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning,

Since our braw forresters are a’ wede away.

From Spey to the border,

Was peace and good order;

The sway of our monarch was mild as the May;

Peace he adored,

Whilk Soudrons abhorred,

Our marches they plunder, our wardens they slay.

’Gainst Louis, our ally,

Their Henry did sally,

Tho’ James, but in vain, did his herauld advance,

Renouncing alliance,

Denouncing defiance,

To Soudrons, if langer abiding in France.

Many were the omens,

Our ruin was coming,

E’er the flower of our nation was call’d to array:

Our king at devotion,

St Andrew did caution,

And sigh’d as with sorrow he to him did say,—

Sir, in this expedition,

You must have ambition;

From the company of women you shou’d keep away.

When the spectre this declar’d,

It quickly disappear’d;

But where it retired no man could espy.

The flowers of the nation

Were call’d to their station,

With valiant inclination their banners to display;

To Burrow-Muir resorting;

Their right for supporting,

And there rendevouzing, encamped did lay.

But another bad omen,

That vengeance was coming;

At midnight, in Edinburgh, a voice loud did cry,

As heraulds, in their station,

With loud proclamation,

Did name all our barons in England to die.

These words the demon spoke,

At the throne of Plotcock,

It charg’d their appearing, appointing the day:

The provost, in its hearing,

The summons greatly fearing,

Appeal’d to his Maker, the same did deny.

At this were many griev’d,

As many misbeliev’d;

But forward they march’d to their destiny:

From thence to the border,

They march’d in good order,

The Merse-men and Forrest they join’d the array.

England’s invasion,

It was their persuasion,

To make restitution for their cruelty;

But O fatal Flodoun!

There came the wo down;

And our royal nation was brought to decay.

After spoiling and burning,

Many hameward returning,

With our king still the nobles and vassals abide:

To Surrey’s proud vaunting,

He answers but daunting;

The king would await him whatever betide.

The English advanced

To where they were stanced;

Half-intrenched by nature, the field it so lay:

To fight the English fearing,

And sham’d their retiring;

But alas! unperceived was their subtilty.

Our Highland battalion,

So forward and valiant,

They broke from their ranks, and they rush’d on to slay:

With hacking and slashing,

And broad swords a-dashing,

Thro’ the front of the English they cut a full way.

But, alas! to their ruin,

An ambush pursuing,

They were surrounded with numbers too high:

The Merse-men and Forest,

They suff’red the sorest,

Upon the left wing were inclos’d the same way.

Our men into parties,

The battle in three quarters,

Upon our main body the marksmen did play:

The spearmen were surrounded.

And all were confounded;

The fatal devastation of that woful day!

Our nobles all ensnared,

Our king he was not spared;

For of that fate he shared, and would not run away;

The whole were intercepted,

That very few escaped

The fatal conflagration of that woful day.

This set the whole nation

Into grief and vexation:

The widows did weep, and the maidens did say,

Why tarries my lover?

The battle’s surely over?

Is there none left to tell us the fates of the day?

I’ve heard a lilting,

At our ewes’ milking,

Lasses a-lilting afore the break of day;

But now there’s a moaning,

On ilka green loaning,

Since our bra foresters are a’ wed away.

At boughts i’ the morning,

Nae blyth lads are scorning;

The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae;

Nae daffin, nae gabbin,

But sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away.

At e’en in the glomin,

Nae swankeys are roaming,

’Mang stacks, wi’ the lasses, at bogle to play;

But ilk ane sits dreary,

Lamenting her deary,

The flowers of the Forest that are wed away.

In herst, at the shearing,

Nae younkers are jeering;

The bansters are lyart, runkled, and grey:

At fairs nor at preaching,

Nae wooing, nae fleeching,

Since our bra’ Foresters are a’ wed away.

O dool for the order,

Sent our lads to the border!

The English for anes by guile got the day:

The Flowers of the Forest,

That ay shone the foremost,

The prime of our land lies cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting,

At our ewes’ milking:

The women and bairns are dowie and wae,

Sighing and moaning,

On ilka green loaning,

Since our bra Foresters are a’ wed away.

I’ve seen the smiling

Of fortune beguiling;

I’ve felt all her favours, and found her decay:

Sweet is her blessing,

And kind her caressing;

But now it is fled, it is fled far away.

I’ve seen the forest

Adorned the foremost,

With flowers of the fairest both pleasant and gay:

Sae bonny was their blooming,

Their scent the air perfuming;

But now they are withered, and all gone away.

I’ve seen the morning,

With gold the hills adorning,

And loud tempests storming before mid-day:

I’ve seen Tweed’s silver streams

Shining i’ the sunny beams,

Grow drumly and dark as it roll’d on the way.

O fickle fortune!

Why this cruel sporting?

Why this perplexing poor sons of a day?

Thy frowns cannot fear me,

Nor smiles cannot chear me,

Since the Flowers of the Forest are a’ wed away.

’Twas he that rul’d his Country’s heart

With more than Royal sway—

But Scotland saw her James depart,

And sadden’d at his stay.

She heard his fate—she wept her grief—

That James, her own, her darling Chief,

Was gone for evermore.

But this she learnt, that e’er he fell,

(Oh, Men! Oh, Patriots! mark it well)

His Fellow Soldiers round his fall,

Enclos’d him like a living wall,

Mixing their friendly gore.

Nor was the day of Flodden done,

’Till they were slaughter’d, one by one,

And this may serve to shew—

When Kings are Patriots none will fly:

When such a King was doom’d to die,

Oh, who would Death forego?

On July seventh, the suthe to say,

At the Reid Squair the tryst was set.

Our wardens they affixt the day,

And as they promist, sae they met:

Allace! that day I’ll neir forzet,

Was sure sae feir’d, and then sae fain,

They cam thair justice for to get,

Will nevir grein to cum again.

Carmichael was our warden then,

He causit the countrey to convene,

And the laird Watt, that worthy man,

Brocht in his surname weil be sene:

The Armstrangs that ay haif bene

A hardy house, but not a hail;

The Elliotts honours to mentain,

Brought in the laif of Liddisdale.

Then Twidail came to with speid,

The Scheriff brocht the Douglas doun,

With Cranstane, Gladstane, gude at neid,

Baith Rewls-water and Hawick Town.

Beangeddert bauldly maid him boun,

With all the Trumbles strang and stout;

The Ruthirfuirds, with grit renoun,

Convoyit the town of Jedbruch out.

With other Clanns I can nocht tell,

Because our wairning was nocht wyde,

Be this our folk hes tane the fell,

And plantit pallions thair to byde:

We lukit down the uther syde,

And saw cum briesting owr the brae,

And Sir George Foster was thair gyde,

With fyftene hundrid men and mae.

It greivt him sair that day I trow,

With Sir John Hinrome of Schipsydehouse,

Because we were not men enow,

He counted us not worth a souse;

Sir George was gentil, meik, and douse,

But he was hail and het as fyre:

But zit for all his cracking crouse,

He rewd the raid of the Reid Squyre.

To deil with proud men is but pain,

For ether ze maun ficht or flie,

Or els nae answer mack again,

But play the beist, and let him be.

It was nae wondir tho’ he was hie,

Had Tyndall, Redsdaile at his hand,

With Cucksdaile, Gladsdaile on the lie,

Auld Hebsrime and Northumberland.

Zit was our meeting meik enough,

Begun with mirriness and mows,

And at the brae abune the heugh

The clerk sat doun to call the rows,

And sum for ky and sum for ewis,

Callit in of Dandrie Hob and Jock,

I saw cum merching owre the knows,

Fyve hundred Fennicks in a flock.

With jack and speir, and bowis all bent,

And warlike weaponis at their will;

Howbeit they wer not weil content,

Zit be me trouth we feird nae ill:

Sum zeid to drink, and sum stude still,

And sum to cards and dyce them sped,

Quhyle on ane Farstein they fyld a bill,

And he was fugitive that fled.

Carmichael bad them speik out plainly,

And cloke nae cause for ill nor gude,

The uther answering him full vainly,

Begouth to reckon kin and blude,

He raise and rax’d him quhair he stude,

And bade him match him with his marrows;

Then Tyndal hard these reseuns rude,

And they lute aff a flight of arrows.

Then was ther nocht but bow and speir,

And ilka man pullit out a brand,

A Schaftan and a Fennick their,

Gude Symington was slain frae hand.

The Scotismen cryd on uther to stand,

Frae tyme they saw John Robson slain:

Quhat suld they cry! The King’s command

Culd cause nae cowards turn again.

Up raise the laird to red the cumber,

Quhilk wald not be for all his boist,

Quhat suld we do with sic a number,

Fyve thousand men into an hoist?

Then Henrie Purdie proud hes cost,

And verie narrowlie had mischiefd him,

And ther we had our Warden lost,

Wart not the grit God he relievd him.

Ane uther throw the breiks him bair,

Quhyle flatlines to the ground he fell:

Then thocht I, we had lost him thair,

Into my heart it struck a knell;

Zit up he raise, the truth to tell,

And laid about him dunts full dour,

His horsemen they faucht stout and snell,

And stude about him in the stour.

Then raisd the slogan with an schout,

Fy, Tyndall to it, Jedbrugh heir;

I trow he was not half sae stout,

But anes his stomach was a steir,

With gun and genzie, bow and spier,

He micht se mony a crakit crown,

But up amang the merchant gier,

They bussie were as we wer doun.

The swallow-tails frae teckles flew,

Fyve hundred slain into the flicht,

But we had pestellets anew,

And schot amang them as we micht.

With help of God the game gade richt,

Frae tyme the foremost of them fell;

Hynd owre the know, without gude-nicht,

They ran with mony a schout and zell.

And after they had turnd again,

Zit Tyndall men they turnd again,

And had not bene the merchant packs,

There had bene mae of Scotland slain:

But Jesu gif the folk was fain

No put the bussing on thair theis,

And sae they fled with all thair main,

Doun owre the brae lyke clogged beis.

Sir Francis Russel tane was thair,

And hurt, as we heir men reherse;

Proud Wallingtoun was wounded sair,

Albeit he was a Fennick ferss,

But gif ze wald a souldier serche

Amang them all was tane that night,

Was nane sae wordie of our verse

As Colingwood that courteous knight.

Zung Henry skapit hame, is hurt,

A souldier schot him with a bow,

Scotland has cause to make great sturt,

For laiming of the Laird of Mow.

The Laird Watt did weil indeid,

His friends stude stoutly by himsell,

With little Gladstone, gude in neid,

For Gretein kend not gude be ill.

The Scheriff wantit not gude-will,

Howbeit he might not ficht sae fast:

Benjeadert, Hundlie and Hunthill,

Three, on they laid well at the last

Except the horsemen of the gaird:

If I could put men to avail,

Nane stoutlier stude out for their laird,

Nor did the lads of Liddisdale.

But little harness had we thair,

But auld Badrule had on a jack,

And did richt weil, I zou declair,

With all the Trumbulls at his back.

Gude Ederstane was not to lack,

With Kirtoun, Newtoun, nobill-men.

Thir is ail the specials I haif spack,

Forby them that I could nocht ken.

Qhua did invent that day of play,

We neid nocht feir to find him sune,

For Sir John Foster, I dare weil say,

Maid us that noysome afternune:

Not that I speik precisely out,

That he supposd it wald be perill,

But pryde and breaking out, but dout,

Gart Tyndall lads begin the quarrell.

When we were silly sisters seven, sisters [we] were so fair.

Five of us were brave knights wives, and died in child-bed sair,

Up then spake fair ‘Mabel’, marry would she nane.

If ever she came in man’s bed the same gate wad she gang.

Make no vows, fair ‘Mabel’, for fear they broken be,

Here’s been the knight of Wallington asking good-will of thee.

Here’s been the knight [of Wallington] mother, asking good-will of me;

Within three-quarters of a year you may come bury me.

When she came to Wallington, and into Wallington-hall,

There she spy’d her mother dear walking about the wall.

You’re welcome, daughter dear, to thy castle and thy bower.

I thank you kindly, mother, I hope they’ll soon be your’s.

She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a day,

Till upon the ground she could not walk, she was a weary prey;

She had not been in Wallington three-quarters and a night,

Till on the ground she cou’d not walk, she was a weary ‘wight.’

Is there ne’er a boy in this town who’ll win hose and shun,

That will run to fair Pudlington, and bid my mother come?

Up then spake a little boy, near unto [her] a-kin,

Full oft I have your errands gone, but now I will it run.

Then she call’d her waiting-maid to bring up bread and wine:

Eat and drink, thou bonny boy, thou’ll ne’er eat more of mine:

Give my respects to my mother, as [she] ‘sits’ in her chair of stone,

And ask her how she likes the news of seven to have but one.

Give my love to my brother William, Ralph, and John;

And to my sister Betty fair, and to her white as bone,

And bid her keep her maidenhead, be sure to make much on’t,

For if e’er she come in man’s bed, the same gate will she gang.

Away this little boy is gone as fast as he could run,

When he came where brigs were broke, he lay down and ‘swum.’

When he saw the lady, he said, Lord may your keeper be!

What news, my pretty boy, ‘hast’ thou to tell to me?

Your daughter ‘Mabel’ orders me, as you sit in a chair of stone,

To ask you how you like the news of seven to have but one;

Your daughter gives commands as you sit in a chair of ‘state,’

And bids you come to her sickening, her ‘weary’ lake-wake:

She gives command to her brother William, Ralph, and John;

To her sister Betty fair, and to her white [as] bone,

She bids her keep her maidenhead, besure make much on’t,

For if e’er she come in man’s bed the same gate wou’d she gang.

She kickt the table with her foot, she kickt it with her knee,

The silver plate into the fire so far she made it flee:

Then she call’d her waiting-maid to bring her riding-hood,

So did she on her stable-groom to bring her ‘stead so good:’

Go saddle to me the black, go saddle to me the brown,

Go saddle to me the swiftest steed that e’er rid Wallington,

When she came to Wallington, and into Wallington-hall,

There she espy’d her son Fenwick walking about the wall.

God save you, dear son, Lord may your keeper be!

Where is my daughter fair, that used to walk with thee?

He turn’d his head round about, the tears did fill his eye;

’Tis a month, he said, since she took her chambers from me.

She went on, and there were in the hall

Four and twenty ladies letting the tears down fall:

Her daughter had a scope into her chest, and into her chin,

All to keep her life till her dear mother came therein.

Come take the rings off my finger, the skin it is so white,

And give them to my mother dear, for she was all the ‘weight;’

Come take the rings off my fingers, the veins are so red,

Give them to sir William Fenwick, I’m sure his heart will bleed.

She took out a razor, that was sharp and fine,

And out of her left side she has taken the heir of Wallington,

There is a race in Wallington, and that I rue full sare,

Tho’ the cradle it be full spread up, the bride-bed is left bare.

THE HUNTING IN CHEVY CHASE.

AN OLD SONG ON THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST;
Or, Flodden Field.

VERSES
ON JAMES THE IVth, OF SCOTLAND.
Who fell at the Battle of Flodden.

THE BATTLE OF REID SQUAIR.

FAIR ‘MABEL’ OF WALLINGTON.

THE HUNTING IN CHEVY CHASE.

AN OLD SONG ON THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST; Or, Flodden Field.

VERSES ON JAMES THE IVth, OF SCOTLAND. Who fell at the Battle of Flodden.

THE BATTLE OF REID SQUAIR.

FAIR ‘MABEL’ OF WALLINGTON.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST;
Or, Flodden Field.

VERSES
ON JAMES THE IVth, OF SCOTLAND.
Who fell at the Battle of Flodden.