the Bishopp of Durham orders himself to fight

with his battell axe in hand;

he said, "this day now I will fight as long as I can stand.”

" & soe will I," sayd my Lord of Carlile, "in this faire morning gay;"

" & soe will I," sayd my Lord ffluwilliams, "for Mary, that myld may."

our English archers bent their bowes

shortlye and anon,

they shott over the Scottish oast

& scantlye toucht a man.

"hold downe your hands," sayd the Bishopp of

Durham,

"my archers good and true."

the 2a shoote that thè shott

full sore the Scottes it rue.

the Bishopp of Durham spoke on hye that both partyes might heare,

"be of good cheere, my merrymen all,

the Scotts flyen, & changen there cheere!"

but as thè saidden, soe thè didden,

they fell on heapes hye;

our Englishmen laid on with their bowes

as fast as they might dree.

The King of Scotts in a studye stood

amongst his companye,

an arow stroke him thorrow the nose and thorrow his armorye.

The King went to a marsh side

& light beside his steede,

and leaned him down on his sword hilt,

to let his nose bleede.

there followed him a yeoman of merry England, his name was John of Coplande ;

"yield thee Traytor !" cries Coplande then, "thy liffe lyes in my hand."

"how shold I yeeld me?" sayes the King, " & thou art noe gentleman."

"Noe, by my troth," sayes Copland there, "I am but a poore yeoman;

"What art thou better than I, Sir King? tell me if that thou can!

What art thou better than I, Sir King? now we be but man to man ?"

the King smote angerly at Copland then, angerly in that stonde;

& then Copland was a bold yeoman,

& bore the King to the ground.

He sett the King upon a Palfrey,

himselfe upon a steede,

he tooke him by the bridle rayne, towards London he gan him Lead.

& when to London that he came,

the King from ffrance was new come home, & there unto the King of Scottes,

he sayd these words anon.

"how like you my shepards & my millers, my priests with shaven crownes ? "

"by my fayth, they are the sorest fighting men that ever I mett on the ground;

"there was never a yeoman in merry England but he was worth a Scottish knight !"

"I, by my troth," said King Edward, and laughe, "for you fought all against the right."

but now the Prince of merry England
worthilye under his Sheelde
hath taken the King of ffrance

at Poytiers in the ffeelde.

the Prince did present his father with that feod,

the lovely King off ffrance,

& fforward of his Journey he is gone :

god send us all good chance!

Thus ends the battell of ffaire Durham

in one morning of may,

the battell of Cressey, & the battle of Potyers,
All within one monthes day.

then was welthe and welfare in mery England,
Solaces, game, & glee,

& every man loved other well,

& the King loved good yeomanrye.

but God that made the grasse to growe,
& leaves on greenwoode tree,

now save & keepe our noble King,
& maintaine good yeomanrye !

Old Ballad.

X.

THE ANCIENT BALLAD OF CHEVYCHASE.

THE Percy out of Northumberland,

And a vow to God made he,

That he would hunt in the mountains

Of Cheviat within days three,

In the mauger of doughty Douglas,
And all that ever with him be.

The fattest harts in all Cheviat

He said he would kill, and carry them away: "By my faith," said the doughty Douglas again, "I will let that hunting if that I may."

Then the Percy out of Bamborough came,
With him a mighty meany ;

With fifteen hundred archers bold;

They were chosen out of shires three.

This began on a Monday at noon
In Cheviat the hills so he;
The child may rue that is unborn,
It was the more pity.

The drivers thorough the woodes went
For to rouse the deer;

Bowmen bickarte upon the bent

With their broad arrows clear.

They began in Cheviat the hills above
Early on a Monynday:

By that it drew to the hour of noon
A hundred fat harts dead there lay.

They blew a mort upon the bent,
They 'sembled on sides sheer ;
To the quarry then the Percy went,
To see the brittling of the deer.