The Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire. Various

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      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 hys brave sonne by hys syde,

      Foughte long the foe (brave kynge and prince,

      Of Scotlande aye the pryde).

      The Scotts they fled; but stille their kynge,

      With hys brave sonne, foughte full welle,

      Till o'er the moore an arrowe yflewe—

      And brave prynce Henrye felle.

      Alle thys espy'd his young foote page,

      From the hille whereon he stode;

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