The Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire. Various

manye a chiefetayne there bows ydowne,

      And so heart'lye dothe hee praye."

      Oh then bespake the kyng of Scotts,

      And soe heavylie spake hee:

      "And had I but yon holye Standarde,

      Right gladsom sholde I bee.

      "And had I but yon holye Standarde,

      That there so his doth tow're,

      I would not care for yon Englishe hoste,

      Nor alle yon chieftaynes pow're.

      "Oh had I but yon holie roode,

      That there soe brighte doth showe;

      I wolde not care for yon Englishe hoste,

      Nor the worste that theye colde doe."

      Oh then bespake prince Henrye,

      And like a brave prince spake hee:

      "Ah let us but fighte like valiante men,

      And wee'l make yon hostes to flee.

      "Oh let us but fighte like valiante men,

      And to Christe's wyll ybowe,

      And yon hallow'd Standarde shall bee ours,

      And the victorie alsoe."

      Prince Henrye was as brave a youthe

      As ever fought in fielde;

      Full many a warrioure that dreade day

      To hym hys lyfe dyd yeilde.

      Prince Henrye was as fayre a youthe

      As the sunne dyd e're espye;

      Full manye a ladye in Scottishe lande

      For that young prince dyd sighe.

      Prince Henrye call'd his young foot page,

      And thus to hym spake hee:

      "Oh heede my wordes, and serve mee true,

      And thou sall have golde and fee.

      "Stande thou on yonder rising hylle,

      Fulle safe I weene the syte:

      And from thence oh marke thee well my creste

      In all the thickeste fighte.

      "And if, o'ercome with woundes, I falle,

      Then take thee a swifte swifte steede,

      And from thys moore to Dumfries towne,

      Oh ryde thee awaye with speede.

      "There to the ladye Alice wende;

      (You'll knowe that lovelye fayre,

      For the fayreste mayde in all that towne,

      Cannot with her compare;)

      "And tell that ladye of my woe,

      And telle her of my love;

      And give to her thys golden ring,

      My tender faythe to prove.

      "And stryve to cheare that lovelye mayde

      In alle her griefe and care:

      For well I knowe her gentle hearte

      Dyd ever holde mee deare."

      And nowe the Englishe hoste drewe neare,

      And alle in battle arraye;

      Theire shyning swordes and glitt'ring speares

      Shot rounde a brilliante raye.

      And nowe both valiante hostes cam neare,

      Eache other for to slaye;

      Whyle watchfulle hovered o'er their heades

      Full manye a byrde of preye.

      The sun behynde the darke darke cloudes

      Dyd hyde each beamy raye,

      As fearefulle to beholde the woe

      That mark'd that doleful daye.

      The thund'ring wyndes of heaven arose,

      And rush'd from pole to pole,

      As stryving to drowne the groanes and sighes

      Of manye a dyeing soule.

      Sterne deathe he hearde the shoutes of warre,

      That ecchoed arounde soe loude;

      And hee rouz'd hym to th' embattled fielde,

      To feaste on human bloode.

      And fyrste the Pictish race began

      The carnage of that daye;

      The cries they made were like the storm

      That rends the rocks awaye.

      Those fierce fierce men of Gallowaye

      Began that day of dole;

      And their shoutes were like the thunder's roare,

      That's hearde from pole to pole.

      Nowe bucklers rang 'gainst swordes and speares,

      And arrows dimn'd the playne;

      And manye a warrioure laye fulle lowe,

      And manye a chiefe was slayne.

      Oh woeful woeful was that daye,

      To chylde and wydowe dreare!

      For there fierce deathe o'er human race

      Dyd triumphe 'farre and neare.

      Dreare was the daye—in darke darke cloudes

      The welkin alle endrown'd;

      But farre more dreare the woeful scene

      Of carnage alle arounde.

      Dreare was the sounde of warring wyndes

      That foughte along the skyes;

      But farre more dreare the woeful sounde

      Of dying warriours sighes.

      Laden with deathe's unpitying arme,

      Swordes fell and arrowes flewe;

      The wydow'd wyfe and fatherlesse chylde

      That day of dole sall rue.

      Ten thousand Scotts who on that morne

      Were marching alle soe gaye,

      By nighte, alas! on that drearye moore

      Poore mangled corps ylaye.

      Weepe, dames of Scotlande, weepe and waile,

      Let your sighes reecho rounde;

      Ten thousande brave Scotts that hail'd the morne,

      At night laye deade on grounde.

      And yee fayr dames of merrye Englande,

      As faste youre teares muste poure;

      For manye's the valiante Englisheman

      That yee sall see noe more.

      Sighe, dames of Englande, and lamente,

      And manye a salte teare shed;

      For manye an Englisheman hail'd that morne,

      That ere the nyghte was deade.

      The Scotts they fled; but still their kynge,

      With