Classic Poem

The Perse owt off Northombarlonde,
And avowe to God mayd he
That he wold hunte in the mowntayns
Off Chyviat within days thre,
In the magg[re] of doughte Dogl[a]s,
And all that euer with him be.

The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat
He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away:
Be my feth, sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn,
I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.

The[n] the Perse owt off Banborowe cam,
With him a myghtee meany,
With fifteen hondrith archares bold off blood and bone;
The[y] wear chosen owt of shyars thre.

This begane on a Monday at morn,
In Cheviat the hillys so he;
The chylde may rue that ys vn-born,
It wos the mor pitte.

The dryvars thorowe the woodes went
For to reas the dear;
Bomen byckarte vppone the bent
With ther browd aros cleare.

Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went
On euery syde shear;
Greahondes thorowe the grevis glent
For to kyll thear dear.

Th[i]s begane in Chyviat the hyls abone
Yerly on a Monnyn-day;
Be that it drewe to the oware off none
A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.

The[y] blewe a mo[r]t vppone the bent,
The[y] semblyde on sydis shear;
To the quyrry then the Perse went
To se the bryttlynge off the deare.

He sayd, It was the Duglas promys
This day to met me hear;
But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;
A great oth the Perse swear.

At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde
Lokyde at his hand full ny;
He was war a the doughetie Doglas commynge,
With him a myghtte meany.

Both with spear, [bylle,] and brande,
Yt was a myghtti sight to se;
Hardyar men both off hart not hande
Wear not in Cristiante.

The[y] wear twenti hondrith spear-men good
Withoute any feale;
The[y] wear borne along be the watter a Twyde
Yth bowndes of Tividale.

Leave of the brytlyng of the dear, he sayd,
And to your bo[w]ys lock ye tayk good hede;
For neuer sithe ye wear on your mothars borne
Had ye neuer so mickle nede.

The dougheti Dogglas on a stede
He rode alle his men beforne;
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;
A boldar barne was neuer born.

Tell me whos men ye ar, he says,
Or whos men that ye be;
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays
In the spyt of myn and of me?

The first mane that euer him an answear mayd,
Yt was the good lord Perse:
We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar, he says,
Nor whos men that we be;
But we wyll hounte hear in this chays
In the spyt of thyne and of the.

The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat
We haue kyld, and cast to carry them away.
Be my troth, sayd the doughete Dogglas agay[n],
Therfor the ton of vs shall de this day.

Then sayd the doughte Doglas
Unto the lord Perse:
To kyll alle thes giltles men,
Alas, it wear great pitee:

But Perse, thowe art a lord of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contre;
Let all our men vppone a parti stande,
And do the battell off the and of me.

Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd the lorde Perse,
Who-se-euer ther-to says nay;
Be my troth, doughtte Doglas, he says,
Thow shalt neuer se that day.

Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,
Nor for no man of a woman born,
But, and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him, on man for on.

Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde,
Richard Wytharyngton was his nam:
It shall neuer be told in Sothe-Ynglonde, he says,
To Kyng Herry the Fourth for sham.

I wat youe byn great lordes twaw,
I am a poor squyar of lande;
I wylle neuer se my captayne fyght on a fylde
And stande my selffe and loocke on,
But whylle I may my weppone welde
I wylle not [fayle], both hart and hande.

That day, that day, that dredfull day!
The first fit here I fynde;
And youe wyll here any mor a the hountynge a the Chyviat,
Yet ys ther mor behynde.

The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,
Ther hartes wer good yenoughe;
The first off arros that the[y] shote off,
Seven skore spear-men the[y] sloughe.

Yet byddys the yerle Doglas vppon the bent,
A captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament
For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.

The Dogglas partyd his ost in thre
Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde;
With suar spears off myghtte tre
The[y] cum in on euery syde;

Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery
Gave many a wounde fulle wyde;
Many a doughete the[y] garde to dy,
Which ganyde them no pryde.

The Ynglyshe men let thear bo[w]ys be
And pulde owt brandes that wer brighte;
It was a hevy syght to se
Bryght swordes on basnites lyghte.

Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple
Many sterne the[y] strocke done streght;
Many a freyk that was fulle fre
Ther vndar foot dyd lyght.

At last the Duglas and the Perse met
Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
The[y] swapte togethar tylle the[y] both swat
With swordes that wear of fyn myllan.

Thes worthe freckys for to fyght
Ther-to the[y] wear fulle fayne,
Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente
As euer dyd heal or ra[y]n.

Yelde the, Perse, sayd the Doglas,
And i' feth I shalle the brynge
Wher thowe shalte haue a yerls wagis
Of Jamy our Skottish kynge.

Thoue shalte haue thy ransom fre,
I hight the hear this thinge;
For the manfullyste man yet art thowe [he]
That euer I conqueryd in filde fighttynge.

Nay, sayd the lord Perse,
I tolde it the beforne,
That I wolde neuer yeldyde be
To no man of a woman born.

With that ther cam an arrowe hastely
Forthe off a myghtte wane;
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas
In at the brest-bane.

Thorowe lyvar and longes bathe
The sharpe arrowe ys gane,
That neuer after in all his lyffe-days
He spayke mo wordes but ane:
That was, Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may,
For my lyff-days ben gan.

The Perse leanyde on his brande
And sawe the Duglas de;
He tooke the dede mane by the hande
And sayd, Wo ys me for the!

To haue savyde thy lyffe, I wolde haue partyde with
My landes for years thre;
For a better man of hart nare of hande
Was nat in all the north contre.

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght
Was callyd Ser Hewe the Mon[t]gombyrry;
He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght,
He spendyd a spear, a trusti tre.

He rod vppone a corsiare
Throughe a hondrith archery;
He neuer stynttyde, nar neuer blane,
Tylle he cam to the good lord Perse.

He set vppone the lorde Perse
A dynte that was full soare;
With a suar spear of a myghtte tre
Clean thorow the body he the Perse ber;

A the tothar syde that a man myght se
A large cloth-yard and mare:
Towe bettar captayns wear not in Cristiante
Then that day slan wear ther.

An archar of Northomberlonde
Sa[w] slean was the lord Perse;
He bar a bende bowe in his hand
Was made off trusti tre.

An arow that a cloth-yarde was lang
To the harde stele halyde he;
A dynt that was both sad and soar
He sat on Ser Hewe the Mon[t]gombyrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and soar
That he of Mon[t]gomberry sete;
The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar
With his hart-blood the[y] wear wete.

Ther was neuer a freake wone foot wolde fle
But still in stour dyd stand,
Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the[y] myghte dre,
With many a balfull brande.

This battell begane in Chyviat
An owar before the none,
And when [the] even-songe bell was rang
The battell was nat half done.

The[y] tocke [a stande] on ethar hande
Be the lyght off the mone;
Many had no strength for to stande
In Chyviat the hillys abon.

Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde
Went away but seuenti and thre;
Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde
But even five and fifti.

But all wear slayne Cheviat within,
The[y] hade no streng[th]e to stand on hy;
The chylde may rue that ys vnborne,
It was the mor pitte.

Thear was slayne withe the lord Perse
Ser Johan of Agerstone,
Ser Rogar, the hinde Hartly,
Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone.

Ser Jorg[e], the worthe Loumle,
A knyghte of great renowen,
Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe,
With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharryngton my harte was wo
That euer he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in t[w]o
Yet he knyled and fought on hys kny.

Ther was slayne with the dougheti Duglas
Ser Hewe the Mon[t]gombyrry,
Ser Dauy Lwdale that worthe was,
His sistars son was he;

Ser Charls a Murre in that place
That neuer a foot wolde fle;
Ser Hewe Maxwelle a lorde he was,
With the Doglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the[y] mayde them byears
Off birch and hasell so g[r]ay;
Many wedous with wepyng tears
Cam to fache ther makys away.

Tivydale may carpe off care,
Northombarlond may mayk great mon,
For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear
On the March-parti shall neuer be non.

Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe
To Jamy the Skottishe kynge,
That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches,
He lay slean Chyviat within.

His handdes dyd he weal and wryng,
He sayd, Alas, and woe ys me;
Such an other captayn Skotland within,
He sayd, ye-feth shuld neuer be.

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone
Till the fourth Harry our kynge,
That lord Perse, [ly]ff-tenante of the Marches,
He lay slayne Chyviat within.

God haue merci on his solle, sayde Kyng Harry,
Good lord, yf thy will it be;
I haue a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde, he sayd,
As good as euer was he;
But Perse, and I brook my lyffe,
Thy deth well quyte shall be.

As our noble kynge mayde his avowe
Lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Perse
He dyde the battell of Hombyll-down;

Wher syx and thritte Skottishe knyghtes
On a day wear beaten down;
Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght
Over castille, towar, and town.

This was the hontynge off the Cheviat
That [ther] begane this spurn;
Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe
Call it the battell of Otterburn.

At Otterburn begane this spurne
Vppone a Monnynday;
Ther was the doughte Doglas slean,
The Perse went neuer away.

Ther was neuer a tym on the Marche-partes
Sen the Doglas and the Perse met,
But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not
As the reane doys in the stret.

Ihesue Crist our balys bete
And to the blys vs brynge;
Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat:
God send vs alle good endyng!