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XVII.

Excepte yowe have a gunner goode,

(That can well marke with his eye ; First seeke to gette his pennis sunk,

"The soonner overcome his selfe may bee. · Yesterdaie I was Sir Andrewe's pressonner,

" And ther he tooke me sworne,' saide hee, Before Ile leave off my serving (?) God, 'My wild maide oeth may brooken be.

XVIII.

" Will yowe lend me sexe peece of ordenance, my Lord,

• To carye into my shippe with mee? "Toe morrowe by seven a clocke, and souner,

'In the morne yowe shall Sir Andrewe see; · Fore I will set yowe a glasse, my Lord,

“That yowe shall saille forth all this night, "Toe morrowe be seven a clocke and souner,

Yows se Sir Andrewe Barton, knight.'

XIX.

Nowe will we leave talkinge of Harry Hunt;

The worthye Howwarde tooke to the sea; By the morne, by seven a clocke and souner,

My Lord hee did Sir Andrewe see, A larborde wher Sir Andrewe laye;

They saide he tould his gold in the light. 'Nowe by my faith,' saide my Lord Charlles Howwarde,

'I se yonne Scootte, a worthe weight.'

XX.

All our greatt ordienance weell take in,

· Fetche downe my streemers,' then saide hee, And hange me forth a white willowe wande,

• As a marchante man that sailles by the sea.' By Sir Andrewe then mye Lord he past,

And noe topsaille let fall would hee.
What meanes yonne English dogg?' he saies,

Dogs doe knowe noe curtissie.

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XXI.

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For I have staid heare in this place

Admirall more then yeares three; • Yet was not ther Englishеman or Portingaill,

Could passe by me with his liffe,' saide he. * Once I met with the Portingaills,

• Yea I met with them, ye I indeed, "I salted thirtie of ther heades,

· And sent them home to eate with breade.

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XXII, Nowe by me is yoen pedler past,

It greves me at the hart,' said hee. Fetch me yoen English dogs,' he saide,

· Ile hange them al on my mayn mast tree.' Then his pennis shotte of a peec of ordenance.

The shootte my Lord might verye well ken,
Fore he shootte downe his missonne mast,
And kild xyth of my Lorde's men.

XXIII. 'Come hether, Peter Simond,' said my Lord Charles Howward,

· Letes se the word standis in steede; On my mayn mast tre thowe must be hunge "If thowe misse three mill a

penney

breed.' Petter was ould, his hart was bould,

He tooke a peece frome hie and laid hir beloue, He put in a chean of yeards ninee,

Besides all other greate shoote and smalle.

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XXIV.

And as he maide that

gune

to

goe, And verye well he marke with his eie, The first sight that Sir Andrewe sawee,

He sawe his penis sunke in the sea. 1 In the edition of Bishop Percy's folio MS. & quotation is given from Bishop Lesley's · Historie of Scotland,' in which it is said · Andro Bartone did tak mony shipps of that countrey (Holland) and fillit certane pipis with the heidis of the Holandaris, and send unto the king in Scotland.' This is not mentioned in any other version of this ballad.

When Sir Andrewe sawe his pennis sunke,

That man in his hart was no thinge well, Cut me my cabells, let me be lousse, • Ile fetch yoen English dogges me selne.'

XXV. When

my Lord sawe Sir Andrewe from his anker loouse, Nay, Lord, a mighty man was hee. "Let my drumes strike up, and my trumpetes sound,

And blaise my banners vailliantlie.' Peter Simon's sonne shoote of a gune,

That Sir Andrewe might very well ken, Fore he shoott throughe his over decke,

And kild fifttio of Sir Andrewe's men.

XXVI.

· Ever alack !' said Sir Andrewe Barton,

I like not of this geare,' saide hee; 'I doubt this is some English Lorde

"Thats comed to taik me on the sea.' Harrye Hunt came in on the other sidde,

The shoote Sir Andrewe might very well ken, Fore he shoote downe his misson mast,

And kild other fortye of his men.

XXVII.

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· Ever alacke !' said Sir Andrewe Barton,

What maye a trewe man thinke or saye ? He is becomed my greatest enymye,

That was my pressonner yesterdaie. 'Yet feare no English dogges,' said Sir Andrew Barton,

Nor fore ther forse stand yea no awe, My hands shall hange them all my selfe,

· Froe once I let my beames downe fawe.

XXVIII.

Come hether, drinke, thou Girdon goode,

And come thou hether at my call. Fore heare I may noe longer staye; Goe up and let my beames down fall.'

Then he swarmd up the maine mast tree,

With mickell might and all his maine, Then Horsley with a broode headed arrowe,

Stroke then Girdon throughe the weame.

XXIX.

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And he fell backe to the hatches againe,

And in that wound full sore did bleed, The bloode that ran soe fast from hime,

They said it was, the Girdon's deed!'
Come hether, thow James Hamelton,
Thowe

ту
sister's sonne,

I have noe more." 'Ile give the five hundreth pound,' he saide,

* Ife thowe wilt toe the topsaille goee.'

XXX. .

Then he swarmd

up
the
mayn

mast tree With mickell might and all his mayne. Then Horsley with a broode arrowe head,

Tooke hime in at the buttuke of the utuer beame; Yet frome the tre he would not parte,

But up in haist he did prossed, Then Horsley with anothere arrrowe,

Strooke then Hamelton throughe the heade.

XXXI.

When Sir Andrewe sawe his sister's sonne slayne,

That man in his harte was nothinge well. Fight, maisters!' said Sir Andrewe Barton,

Its time, Ile to the top myselne.' Then he put on the armere of prooffe,

And it was guilt with gold full cleare. My brother John of Barton,' he saide

Full longe against Portingaill they weare.

1 Read moe.

XXXII.

When he had on that armore of prooffe,

Yea on his bodye he had that on,
Marry, they that sawe Sir Andrewe Barton

Said arrowes nor guns he feared none.
Yet Horsley drewe a broode headed arrowe,

With mickell might and all his mayne, That shaft against Sir Andrewe's brest,

Came back to my Lord Howwarde's shippe agayne.

XXXIII. When

my

Lord he sawe that arrowe comme, My Lord he was a woefull weight; • Marke well thine ame, Horsley,' he saide,

* Fore that same shoote Ile make the knight.'
"Ever alacke!' said Horsley then,
For howe soe ever this

geare
doth

goee; *If I for my service louse my heade,

'I have in this shippe but arrowe towe.”

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XXXIV.
Yet he ma(r)kt hime with the one of them,

In a previe place and a secrete pert,
He shoote hime in at the left oxtere,

The arrowe quiett throughe harte.
Feight, Maisters!' said Sir Andrewe Barton,

I'se a lettle hurt, but I ame not slayne,
Ile lie me downe and bleede a whill,
Ile risse and feight with yowe agayne.

XXXV. 'Yet feare noe English dogges,' said Sir Andrewe Barton,

Nore fore there force stand ye noe awe; Sticke stifeley to Sir Andrewe Barton,

'Feight till ye heare my whisstill blowe.' The(y) could noe skill of the whisstill heare ;

Quoeth Hary Hunt, 'I der lay my heade, My Lord yowe maye take the shippe when yowe will, 'I se Sir Andrewe Barton deade.'

Lege blawe.

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