C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Hunting of the Cheviot
By The Ballad
1.T
and a vowe to God mayd he
That he would hunte in the mountayns
of Cheviot within days thre,
In the magger of doughty Douglas,
and all that ever with him be.
he sayd he would kyll, and cary them away:
“Be my feth,” sayd the doughty Douglas agayn,
“I will let that hontyng if that I may.”
with him a myghtee meany,
With fifteen hondred archares bold of blood and bone;
they were chosen out of shyars thre.
in Cheviot the hillys so he;
The chyld may rue that ys unborn,
it was the more pittë.
for to reas the deer;
Bowmen byckarte uppone the bent
with their browd arrows cleare.
on every sydë shear;
Greahondës thorowe the grevis glent,
for to kyll their deer.
yerly on a Monnyn-day;
Be that it drewe to the hour of noon,
a hondred fat hartës ded ther lay.
they semblyde on sydis shear;
To the quyrry then the Percy went,
to see the bryttlynge of the deere.
this day to met me hear;
But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;”
a great oth the Percy swear.
lokyde at his hand full ny;
He was war a the doughtie Douglas commynge,
with him a myghtë meany.
yt was a myghtë sight to se;
Hardyar men, both of hart nor hande,
were not in Cristiantë.
withoute any fail;
They were borne along be the water a Twyde,
yth bowndës of Tividale.
“and to your bows look ye tayk good hede;
For never sithe ye were on your mothers borne
had ye never so mickle nede.”
he rode alle his men beforne;
His armor glytteyrde as dyd a glede;
a boldar barne was never born.
“or whose men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Cheviot chays,
in the spyt of myn and of me.”
yt was the good lord Percy:
“We wyll not tell the whose men we are,” he says,
“nor whose men that we be;
But we wyll hounte here in this chays,
in spyt of thyne and of the.
we have kyld, and cast to carry them away:”
“Be my troth,” sayd the doughty Douglas agayn,
“therefor the tone of us shall die this day.”
unto the lord Percy,
“To kyll alle thes giltles men,
alas, it wear great pittë!
I am a yerle callyd within my contrë;
Let all our men uppone a parti stande,
and do the battell of the and of me.”
“whosoever thereto says nay;
Be my troth, doughty Douglas,” he says,
“thow shalt never se that day.
nor for no man of a woman born,
But, and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him, one man for one.”
Richard Wytharyngton was his name:
“It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde,” he says.
“To Kyng Herry the Fourth for shame.
I am a poor squyar of lande:
I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
and stande my selffe and looke on,
But whylle I may my weppone welde,
I wylle not fayle both hart and hande.”
the first fit here I fynde;
And you wyll hear any more a the hountyng a the Cheviot
yet ys ther mor behynde.
ther hartes were good yenoughe;
The first of arrows that they shote off,
seven skore spear-men they sloughe.
a captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
for he wrought hem both wo and wouche.
like a chief chieftain of pryde;
With sure spears of myghtty tre,
they cum in on every syde:
gave many a wounde fulle wyde;
Many a doughty they garde to dy,
which ganyde them no pryde.
and pulde out brandes that were brighte;
It was a heavy syght to se
bryght swordes on basnites lyght.
many sterne they strocke down straight;
Many a freyke that was fulle fre,
there under foot dyd lyght.
lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
The swapte together tylle they both swat,
with swordes that were of fine milan.
ther-to they were fulle fayne,
Tylle the bloode out off their basnetes sprente,
as ever dyd hail or rayn.
“and i faith I shalle thee brynge
Where thowe shalte have a yerls wagis
of Jamy our Scottish kynge.
I hight the here this thinge;
For the manfullyste man yet art thow
that ever I conqueryd in fielde fighttynge.”
“I tolde it thee beforne,
That I wolde never yeldyde be
to no man of a woman born.”
forthe off a myghtty wane;
It hath strekene the yerle Douglas
in at the brest-bane.
the sharpe arrowe ys gane,
That never after in all his lyfe-days
he spayke mo wordës but ane:
That was, “Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may,
for my lyfe-days ben gane.”
and sawe the Douglas de;
He tooke the dead man by the hande,
and said, “Wo ys me for thee!
my landes for years three,
For a better man, of hart nor of hande,
was not in all the north contrë.”
was callyd Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry;
He saw the Douglas to the death was dyght,
he spendyd a spear, a trusti tree.
throughe a hondred archery;
He never stynttyde nor never blane,
till he came to the good lord Percy.
a dynte that was full sore;
With a sure spear of a myghttë tree
clean thorow the body he the Percy ber,
a large cloth-yard and mare;
Two better captayns were not in Cristiantë
than that day slain were there.
saw slain was the lord Percy;
He bore a bende bowe in his hand,
was made of trusti tree;
to the harde stele halyde he;
A dynt that was both sad and soar
he set on Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry.
that he of Monggombyrry set;
The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar
with his hart-blood they were wet.
but still in stour dyd stand,
Hewyng on eache other, whyle they myghte dree,
with many a balefull brande.
an hour before the none,
And when even-songe bell was rang,
the battell was not half done.
by the lyght of the mone;
Many hade no strength for to stande,
in Cheviot the hillys abon.
went away but seventy and three;
Of twenty hundred spear-men of Scotlonde,
but even five and fifty.
they had no strength to stand on hy;
The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
it was the more pittë.
Sir John of Agerstone,
Sir Rogar, the hinde Hartly,
Sir Wyllyam, the bold Hearone.
a knyghte of great renown,
Sir Raff, the ryche Rugbe,
with dyntes were beaten downe.
that ever he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis were hewyn in to,
yet he kneeled and fought on hys knee.
Sir Hewe the Monggombyrry,
Sir Davy Lwdale, that worthy was,
his sister’s son was he.
that never a foot wolde fle;
Sir Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was,
with the Douglas dyd he die.
off birch and hasell so gray;
Many widows, with weepyng tears,
came to fetch ther makys away.
Northumberland may mayk great moan,
For two such captayns as slayne were there,
on the March-parti shall never be none.
to Jamy the Scottische kynge,
That doughty Douglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches,
he lay slean Cheviot within.
he sayd, “Alas, and woe ys me!
Such an othar captayn Skotland within,”
he sayd, “i-faith should never be.”
till the fourth Harry our kynge,
That lord Percy, leyff-tenante of the Marchis,
he lay slayne Cheviot within.
“good lord, yf thy will it be!
I have a hondred captayns in Ynglonde,” he sayd,
“as good as ever was he:
But Percy, and I brook my lyfe,
thy deth well quyte shall be.”
lyke a noble prince of renown,
For the deth of the lord Percy
he dyd the battle of Hombyll-down:
on a day were beaten down:
Glendale glytteryde on their armor bryght,
over castille, towar, and town.
that tear begane this spurn;
Old men that knowen the grownde well enoughe
call it the battell of Otterburn.
upon a Monnynday;
There was the doughty Douglas slean,
the Percy never went away.
sen the Douglas and the Percy met,
But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not,
as the rain does in the stret.
and to the bliss us bring!
Thus was the hunting of the Cheviot;
God send us alle good ending!