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VII. THE SONNGE OF SIR ANDRAYE BARTON, KNIGHT.
[From an Early Transcript in York Minster Library.]
It fell against a Midsomer moneth,
When birds soonge well in every tree, Our worthe prence, Kinge Henrye,
He roode untoe a chelvellrye, And allsoe toe a forrest soe faire,
Wher his grace wente toe tak the ayre; And twentye marchantes of London citie
Then on there knees they kneelled there.
"Yea are welcome home, my rich merchantes,
The best salers in Christentie !' "We thanke yowe by the Rood, we are salers good,
• But rich merchantes we can not be; "To France nor Flanders we der not goe,
'Nor a Burgesse? voy(a)ge we der not farre,3 · For a robber that lyes abrod on the sea,
And robs us of oure merchante's waire.'
1 The MS. of this well-known and most popular North-country ballad recently came into the possession of the Dean and Chapter of York, with a number of papers which belonged in the seventeenth century to the episcopal families of Lamplugh and Davenant. It is written in a sixteenth century hand, and is the best known version of the famous old ballad, in which it makes many improvements and changes. It has at one time formed part of a ballad book in small 4to., this song being numbered 25. At the end of it is part of No. 26, beginning, “ As I forth walkeeth aireley among the groves and pleasant springes in the merie moneth of Maye.' 2 An old form of Bordeaux.
3 Lege fare,
King Henry was stout, and turnd hime about,
He sware by the Lord that was mickell of might,
Der worke toe England that unrighte?
With a woefull harte, to the kinge againe,
Were we twentie shippes and he but one.' 1
King Henrye lookte over his shoulder agayne
Amongst his lordes of hye degree :
the sea ?'
Neare the kinge's grace that he did stande;
My selfe will be the onlie man
That will goe beat Sir Andrewe Barton,
Upon the seas, if he be there,
Ore Ile come in England never more.
realme soe free
“Toe give the the great shippe on the sea.'
'Petter,' quoeth he, 'I must saill the sea,
“Toe looke' an enemye, God be my speede, "As thowe arte ould, I have chossen the,
' Of a hundreth gunners to be the headde.'
He said, “If your Honor have chossen me
' Of a hundreth gunners to be the headd, On
your mayn mast tre let me be hangd, 'If I miss thre mille a pennye breed.?? Then next of all my Lord up cald
A noble boweman he was ane,
And William Horsley height 3 his name.
‘Horsley,' saide he, 'I must saill the sea,
"Toe meete an enemee, thow must knowe, I have oft told of thy artillorye,
But of thy shootinge I never sawe:
• Of a hundreth bowemen to be the heade.'
Yea pickmen more, and bowmen both,
This worthe Howward tooke to the sea,
Out of Temes mouth sailled he:
After his Honor tooke to the sea,
To look for.
2 Breed, i.e. breadth.
When he sawe the Lion of England out blaisse,
eye, Full soonne he let his toppe-saill fall,
That was a tooken of curtissie. Me Lord he cald of Henry Huntte,
Bad Harry Hunt both stay and stande ; Saies "Tell me where thy dwellinge is,
And whome unto thye shippe belonnges ? '
Henrye Hunt he answered, sore he sight,
With a woefull hart and a sorrowefull minde, 'I and this shippe doth both belonge
Unto the Newe Castell that stands upon Tyne.' “But haist thowe harde,' said my Lord Charles Hawward,
Wher thowe haist travelled by daie or by night, Of a robber that lies abroode on the sea, “They call him Sir Andrewe Barton knight?'
'Yes,' Harye answered, sore he sight,
With a woefull hart thus did he saye. Mar(r)y, overwell I knowe that weight,
'I was his pressoner yesterdaie; "Toe frome 1 home, my Lord, that I was boune,2
A Burgess voyage was boune so faire, Sir Andrewe Barton met with me,
And robd me of mye merchante's waire.
* And I ame a man in mickle debte, " And
everye one craves his owne of mee; And I am boune to London, my Lorde, 'Fore toe comepleanne to good King Henrye.'
1 Tofrom, formed like tofore, &c.
'But even I pray the,' saies Lord Charlles Howeerd,
Henrye, let me that robber see, Where that Scoott hath teyne frome the a grootte, • I'le paye the backe a shillinge,' said hee.
He hath a pennis is dearelye deighte,
“She is dearelye deighte, and of mickell pried, His pennis hath ninescorre men and more,
And thirtene peece on ethere sidde. Were yare ' twentie shippes, my Lorde, "As your
Honor is but one, Ethere bye lerbord or by lowe “That Scootte would overcome yowe, everye one.'
Mar(r)ye, that's ill hartinge,” saies my Lord Charlls Howeward,
Harye, to welcome a stranger to the sea, I'le ether bringe thatte Scootte and his shippe toe England,
Or into Scootteland hee carrye me.' "Well, since the matter is soe flatte,
"Take heed, Ile tell yowe this before 'If yowe and Sir Andrewe chance toe borde,
Let noe man toe his topcastle goe,
11.e. if you had.