XXIIIN EXILEWhere the remote Bermudas rideIn the Ocean's bosom unespied,From a small boat that rowed alongThe listening winds received this song.‘What should we do but sing his praiseThat led us through the watery maze,Where he the huge sea-monsters wracksThat lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms and prelates' rage:He gave us this eternal springWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by his handFrom Lebanon he stores the land,And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergrease on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound his name.O let our voice his praise exalt'Till it arrive at heaven's vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique Bay!’Thus sang they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.Marvell.XXIIIALEXANDER'S FEAST'Twas at the royal feast for Persia wonBy Philip's warlike son:Aloft in awful stateThe godlike hero sateOn his imperial throne;His valiant peers were placed around,Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound(So should desert in arms be crowned);The lovely Thais by his sideSate like a blooming Eastern brideIn flower of youth and beauty's pride.Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the brave,None but the brave,None but the brave deserves the fair!Timotheus, placed on highAmid the tuneful quire,With flying fingers touched the lyre:The trembling notes ascend the skyAnd heavenly joys inspire.The song began from JoveWho left his blissful seats above,Such is the power of mighty love!A dragon's fiery form belied the god;Sublime on radiant spires he rodeWhen he to fair Olympia pressed,And while he sought her snowy breast,Then round her slender waist he curled,And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;A present deity! they shout around:A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:With ravished earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god;Affects to nodAnd seems to shake the spheres.The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:The jolly god in triumph comes;Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!Flushed with a purple graceHe shows his honest face:Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!Bacchus, ever fair and young,Drinking joys did first ordain;Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:Rich the treasure,Sweet the pleasure,Sweet is pleasure after pain.Soothed with the sound the king grew vain;Fought all his battles o'er again,And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!The master saw the madness rise,His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;And while he heaven and earth defiedChanged his hand, and checked his pride.He chose a mournful MuseSoft pity to infuse:He sung Darius great and good,By too severe a fateFallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,Fallen from his high estate,And weltering in his blood;Deserted at his utmost needBy those his former bounty fed,On the bare earth exposed he liesWith not a friend to close his eyes.With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,Revolving in his altered soulThe various turns of Chance belowAnd now and then a sigh he stole,And tears began to flow.The mighty master smiled to seeThat love was in the next degree;'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,For pity melts the mind to love.Softly sweet, in Lydian measuresSoon he soothed his soul to pleasures.War, he sang, is toil and trouble,Honour but an empty bubble;Never ending, still beginning,Fighting still, and still destroying;If the world be worth thy winning,Think, O think, it worth enjoying:Lovely Thais sits beside thee,Take the good the gods provide thee.The many rend the skies with loud applause;So love was crowned, but Music won the cause.The prince, unable to conceal his pain,Gazed on the fairWho caused his care,And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,Sighed and looked, and sighed again:At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.Now strike the golden lyre again:A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!Break his bands of sleep asunderAnd rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark, hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head;As awaked from the dead,And amazed he stares around.Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,See the Furies arise!See the snakes that they rear,How they hiss in their hair,And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!Behold a ghastly band,Each a torch in his hand!Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slainAnd unburied remainInglorious on the plain:Give the vengeance dueTo the valiant crew!Behold how they toss their torches on high,How they point to the Persian abodesAnd glittering temples of their hostile gods.The princes applaud with a furious joy:And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;Thais led the wayTo light him to his prey,And like another Helen fired another Troy!Thus long ago,Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,While organs yet were mute,Timotheus, to his breathing fluteAnd sounding lyre,Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire.At last divine Cecilia came,Inventress of the vocal frame;The sweet enthusiast from her sacred storeEnlarged the former narrow bounds,And added length to solemn sounds,With Nature's mother-wit and arts unknown beforeLet old Timotheus yield the prize,Or both divide the crown:He raised a mortal to the skies;She drew an angel down.Dryden.XXIVTHE QUIET LIFECondemned to Hope's delusive mine,As on we toil from day to day,By sudden blast or slow declineOur social comforts drop away.Well tried through many a varying year,See Levett to the grave descend:Officious, innocent, sincere,Of every friendless name the friend.Yet still he fills affection's eye,Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;Nor, lettered arrogance, denyThy praise to merit unrefined.When fainting Nature called for aid,And hovering death prepared the blow,His vigorous remedy displayedThe power of art without the show.In misery's darkest caverns known,His ready help was ever nigh,Where hopeless anguish poured his groan,And lonely want retired to die.No summons mocked by chill delay,No petty gains disdained by pride:The modest wants of every dayThe toil of every day supplied.His virtues walked their narrow round,Nor made a pause, nor left a void;And sure the eternal Master foundHis single talent well employed.The busy day, the peaceful night,Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;His frame was firm, his powers were bright,Though now his eightieth year was nigh.Then, with no throbs of fiery pain,No cold gradations of decay,Death broke at once the vital chain,And freed his soul the nearest way.Johnson.XXVCHEVY CHACETHE HUNTINGGod prosper long our noble king,Our lives and safeties all;A woeful hunting once there didIn Chevy-Chace befall;To drive the deer with hound and hornErle Percy took his way;The child may rue that is unborn,The hunting of that day.The stout Erle of NorthumberlandA vow to God did make,His pleasure in the Scottish woodsThree summer's days to take,The chiefest harts in Chevy-ChaceTo kill and bear away.These tydings to Erle Douglas came,In Scotland where he lay:Who sent Erle Percy present word,He wold prevent his sport.The English Erle, not fearing that,Did to the woods resortWith fifteen hundred bow-men bold,All chosen men of might,Who knew full well in time of needeTo ayme their shafts aright.The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,To chase the fallow deere:On Monday they began to hunt,Ere daylight did appeare;And long before high noone they hadAn hundred fat buckes slaine;Then having dined, the drovyers wentTo rouse the deere againe.The bow-men mustered on the hills,Well able to endure;Their backsides all, with special careThat day were guarded sure.The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,The nimble deere to take,And with their cryes the hills and dalesAn echo shrill did make.Lord Percy to the quarry went,To view the slaughtered deere:Quoth he, ‘Erle Douglas promisèdThis day to meet me here,But if I thought he wold not come,No longer wold I stay.’With that, a brave younge gentlemanThus to the Erle did say:‘Lo, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,His men in armour bright;Full twenty hundred Scottish spearesAll marching in our sight;All men of pleasant Tivydale,Fast by the river Tweede’:‘O, cease your sports,’ Erle Percy said,‘And take your bowes with speede;And now with me, my countrymen,Your courage forth advance,For there was never champion yet,In Scotland or in France,That ever did on horsebacke come,But if my hap it were,I durst encounter man for man,And with him break a speare.’THE CHALLENGEErle Douglas on his milke-white steede,Most like a baron bold,Rode foremost of his company,Whose armour shone like gold.‘Show me,’ said he, ‘whose men ye be,That hunt so boldly here,That, without my consent, do chaseAnd kill my fallow-deere.’The first man that did answer make,Was noble Percy he;Who sayd, ‘We list not to declare,Nor shew whose men we be,Yet we will spend our dearest blood,Thy chiefest harts to slay.’Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,And thus in rage did say:‘Ere thus I will out-bravèd be,One of us two shall dye:I know thee well, an erle thou art;Lord Percy, so am I.But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,And great offence to killAny of these our guiltlesse men,For they have done no ill.Let thou and I the battell trye,And set our men aside.’‘Accurst be he,’ Erle Percy said,‘By whom this is denied.’Then stept a gallant squier forth,Witherington was his name,Who said, ‘I wold not have it toldTo Henry our king for shame,That ere my captaine fought on foote,And I stood looking on.Ye be two erles,’ said Witherington,‘And I a squier alone:Ile do the best that do I may,While I have power to stand:While I have power to wield my sword,Ile fight with heart and hand.’THE BATTLEOur English archers bent their bowes,Their hearts were good and trew,At the first flight of arrowes sent,Full fourscore Scots they slew.Yet bides Erle Douglas on the bent,As Chieftain stout and good.As valiant Captain, all unmovedThe shock he firmly stood.His host he parted had in three,As leader ware and try'd,And soon his spearmen on their foesBare down on every side.Throughout the English archeryThey dealt full many a wound;But still our valiant EnglishmenAll firmly kept their ground,And, throwing strait their bowes away,They grasped their swords so bright,And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,On shields and helmets light.They closed full fast on every side,No slackness there was found;And many a gallant gentlemanLay gasping on the ground.O Christ! it was a griefe to see,And likewise for to heare,The cries of men lying in their gore,And scattered here and there!At last these two stout erles did meet,Like captaines of great might:Like lions wode, they laid on lode,And made a cruel fight:They fought untill they both did sweatWith swords of tempered steele;Until the blood like drops of rainThey trickling downe did feele.‘Yield thee, Lord Percy,’ Douglas said;‘In faith I will thee bringe,Where thou shalt high advancèd beBy James our Scottish king:Thy ransome I will freely give,And this report of thee,Thou art the most courageous knight,That ever I did see.’‘No, Douglas,’ quoth Erle Percy then,‘Thy proffer I do scorne;I will not yield to any Scot,That ever yet was borne.’With that, there came an arrow keeneOut of an English bow,Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,A deep and deadly blow:Who never spake more words than these,‘Fight on, my merry men all;For why, my life is at an end;Lord Percy sees my fall.’Then leaving life, Erle Percy tookeThe dead man by the hand;And said, ‘Erle Douglas, for thy lifeWold I had lost my land!O Christ! my very heart doth bleedWith sorrow for thy sake,For sure, a more redoubted knightMischance could never take.’A knight amongst the Scots there was,Which saw Erle Douglas dye,Who straight in wrath did vow revengeUpon the Lord Percye.Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he calledWho, with a speare most bright,Well-mounted on a gallant steed,Ran fiercely through the fight,And past the English archers all,Without or dread or feare,And through Erle Percy's body thenHe thrust his hateful speare.With such a vehement force and mightHe did his body gore,The staff ran through the other sideA large cloth-yard, and more.So thus did both these nobles dye,Whose courage none could staine!An English archer then perceivedThe noble Erle was slaine:He had a bow bent in his hand,Made of a trusty tree;An arrow of a cloth-yard longUp to the head drew he;Against Sir Hugh MountgomeryeSo right the shaft he set,The grey goose-winge that was thereonIn his heart's bloode was wet.This fight did last from breake of dayTill setting of the sun;For when they rung the evening-bell,The battle scarce was done.THE SLAINWith stout Erle Percy, there was slaineSir John of Egerton,Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,Sir James, that bold baròn;And with Sir George and stout Sir James,Both knights of good account,Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,Whose prowesse did surmount.For Witherington needs must I wayle,As one in doleful dumpes;For when his legs were smitten off,He fought upon his stumpes.And with Erle Douglas, there was slaineSir Hugh Mountgomerye,Sir Charles Murray, that from the fieldOne foote would never flee;Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,His sister's sonne was he;Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,Yet saved he could not be;And the Lord Maxwell in like caseDid with Erle Douglas dye:Of twenty hundred Scottish speares,Scarce fifty-five did flye.Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,Went home but fifty-three:The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,Under the greene woode tree.Next day did many widdowes come,Their husbands to bewayle;They washt their wounds in brinish teares,But all wold not prevayle;Their bodyes, bathed in purple gore,They bore with them away;They kist them dead a thousand times,Ere they were clad in clay.THE TIDINGSThe newes was brought to Eddenborrow,Where Scotland's king did raigne,That brave Erle Douglas suddenlyeWas with an arrow slaine:‘O heavy newes,’ King James did say,‘Scotland may witnesse be,I have not any captaine moreOf such account as he.’Like tydings to King Henry came,Within as short a space,That Percy of NorthumberlandWas slaine in Chevy-Chace:‘Now God be with him,’ said our king,‘Sith it will no better be;I trust I have, within my realme,Five hundred as good as he:Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say,But I will vengeance take:I'll be revengèd on them all,For brave Erle Percy's sake.’This vow full well the king performedAfter, at Humbledowne;In one day, fifty knights were slayne,With lords of great renowne,And of the rest, of small account,Did many thousands dye.Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,Made by the Erle Percye.God save our king, and bless this landWith plentye, joy, and peace,And grant henceforth that foule debate'Twixt noblemen may cease!XXVISIR PATRICK SPENSThe King sits in Dunfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine:‘O whaur will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship o' mine?’O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the King's right knee:‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sailed the sea.’Our King has written a braid letterAnd sealed it wi' his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.‘To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The King's daughter to Noroway,'Tis thou maun bring her hame.’The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud, loud lauchèd he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his ee.‘O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the King of me,To send us out at this time o' yearTo sail upon the sea?Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The King's daughter to Noroway,'Tis we must bring her hame.’They hoysed their sails on Monday mornWi' a' the speed they may;They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway but twae,When that the lords o' NorowayBegan aloud to say:‘Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's goudAnd a' our Queenis fee.’‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,Fu' loud I hear ye lie!For I brought as mickle white monieAs gane my men and me,And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goudOut-o'er the sea wi' me.Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'!Our gude ship sails the morn.’‘Now, ever alake, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.I saw the new moon late yestreenWi' the auld moon in her arm;And, if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm.’They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.‘O where will I get a gude sailorTo tak' my helm in hand,Till I gae up to the tall topmastTo see if I can spy land?’‘O here am I, a sailor gude,To tak' the helm in hand,Till you gae up to the tall topmast;But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.’He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.‘Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,Anither o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And letna the sea come in.’They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Anither o' the twine,And they wapped them round that gude ship's side,But still the sea cam' in.O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their milk-white hands;But lang ere a' the play was owerThey wat their gowden bands.O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heeled shoon;But lang ere a' the play was playedThey wat their hats aboon.O lang, lang may the ladies sitWi' their fans intill their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi' their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they'll see nae mair.Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,It's fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick SpensWi' the Scots lords at his feet.XXVIIBRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBYThe fifteenth day of July,With glistering spear and shield,A famous fight in FlandersWas foughten in the field:The most conspicuous officersWere English captains three,But the bravest man in battelWas brave Lord Willoughby.The next was Captain Norris,A valiant man was he:The other, Captain Turner,From field would never flee.With fifteen hundred fighting men,Alas! there were no more,They fought with forty thousand thenUpon the bloody shore.‘Stand to it, noble pikeman,And look you round about:And shoot you right, you bow-men,And we will keep them out:You musquet and cailiver men,Do you prove true to me,I'll be the bravest man in fight,’Says brave Lord Willoughby.And then the bloody enemyThey fiercely did assail,And fought it out most furiously,Not doubting to prevail:The wounded men on both sides fellMost piteous for to see,But nothing could the courage quellOf brave Lord Willoughby.For seven hours to all men's viewThis fight endurèd sore,Until our men so feeble grewThat they could fight no more;And then upon dead horsesFull savourly they eat,And drank the puddle water,That could no better get.When they had fed so freely,They kneelèd on the ground,And praisèd God devoutlyFor the favour they had found;And bearing up their colours,The fight they did renew,And cutting tow'rds the Spaniard,Five thousand more they slew.The sharp steel-pointed arrowsAnd bullets thick did fly;Then did our valiant soldiersCharge on most furiously:Which made the Spaniards waver,They thought it best to flee:They feared the stout behaviourOf brave Lord Willoughby.Then quoth the Spanish general,‘Come, let us march away,I fear we shall be spoilèd allIf that we longer stay:For yonder comes Lord WilloughbyWith courage fierce and fell,He will not give one inch of groundFor all the devils in hell.’And when the fearful enemyWas quickly put to flight,Our men pursued courageouslyTo rout his forces quite;And at last they gave a shoutWhich echoed through the sky:‘God, and St. George for England!’The conquerors did cry.This news was brought to EnglandWith all the speed might be,And soon our gracious Queen was toldOf this same victory.‘O! this is brave Lord Willoughby,My love that ever won:Of all the lords of honour'Tis he great deeds hath done!’To the soldiers that were maimèd,And wounded in the fray,The queen allowed a pensionOf fifteen pence a day,And from all costs and chargesShe quit and set them free:And this she did all for the sakeOf brave Lord Willoughby.Then courage, noble Englishmen,And never be dismayed!If that we be but one to ten,We will not be afraidTo fight with foreign enemies,And set our country free.And thus I end the bloody boutOf brave Lord Willoughby.XXVIIIHUGHIE THE GRÆMEGood Lord Scroope to the hills is gane,Hunting of the fallow deer;And he has grippit Hughie the GræmeFor stealing of the Bishop's mare.‘Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be!Here hangs a broadsword by my side;And if that thou canst conquer me,The matter it may soon be tried.’‘I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief;Although thy name be Hughie the Græme,I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds,If God but grant me life and time.’But as they were dealing their blows so free,And both so bloody at the time,Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall,All for to take bold Hughie the Græme.O then they grippit Hughie the Græme,And brought him up through Carlisle town:The lads and lasses stood on the walls,Crying, ‘Hughie the Græme, thou'se ne'er gae down!’‘O loose my right hand free,’ he says,‘And gie me my sword o' the metal sae fine,He's no in Carlisle town this dayDaur tell the tale to Hughie the Græme.’Up then and spake the brave Whitefoord,As he sat by the Bishop's knee,‘Twenty white owsen, my gude lord,If ye'll grant Hughie the Græme to me.’‘O haud your tongue,’ the Bishop says,‘And wi' your pleading let me be;For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat,They suld be hangit a' for me.’Up then and spake the fair Whitefoord,As she sat by the Bishop's knee,‘A peck o' white pennies, my good lord,If ye'll grant Hughie the Græme to me.’‘O haud your tongue now, lady fair,Forsooth, and so it sall na be;Were he but the one Graham of the name,He suld be hangit high for me.’They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe,He lookèd to the gallows tree,Yet never colour left his cheek,Nor ever did he blink his e'e.He lookèd over his left shoulderTo try whatever he could see,And he was aware of his auld father,Tearing his hair most piteouslie.‘O haud your tongue, my father dear,And see that ye dinna weep for me!For they may ravish me o' my life,But they canna banish me fro' Heaven hie.And ye may gie my brither JohnMy sword that's bent in the middle clear,And let him come at twelve o'clock,And see me pay the Bishop's mare.And ye may gie my brither JamesMy sword that's bent in the middle brown,And bid him come at four o'clock,And see his brither Hugh cut down.And ye may tell my kith and kinI never did disgrace their blood;And when they meet the Bishop's cloak,To mak' it shorter by the hood.’XXIXKINMONT WILLIETHE CAPTUREO have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde?O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope?How they hae ta'en bold Kinmont Willie,On Haribee to hang him up?Had Willie had but twenty men,But twenty men as stout as he,Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en,Wi' eight score in his cumpanie.They band his legs beneath the steed,They tied his hands behind his back;They guarded him fivesome on each side,And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,And also thro' the Carlisle sands;They brought him on to Carlisle castleTo be at my Lord Scroope's commands.‘My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,And wha will dare this deed avow?Or answer by the Border law?Or answer to the bold Buccleuch?’‘Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!There's never a Scot shall set thee free:Before ye cross my castle yett,I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.’‘Fear na ye that, my lord,’ quo' Willie:‘By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope,’ he said,‘I never yet lodged in a hostelrieBut I paid my lawing before I gaed.’THE KEEPER'S WRATHNow word is gane to the bold Keeper,In Branksome Ha' where that he lay,That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie,Between the hours of night and day.He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,He garred the red wine spring on hie:‘Now a curse upon my head,’ he said,‘But avengèd of Lord Scroope I'll be!O is my basnet a widow's curch?Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?Or my arm a lady's lily hand,That an English lord should lightly me!And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,Against the truce of Border tide?And forgotten that the bold BuccleuchIs keeper here on the Scottish side?And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,Withouten either dread or fear?And forgotten that the bold BuccleuchCan back a steed or shake a spear?O were there war between the lands,As well I wot that there is none,I would slight Carlisle castle high,Though it were builded of marble stone.I would set that castle in a lowe,And slocken it with English blood!There's never a man in CumberlandShould ken where Carlisle castle stood.But since nae war's between the lands,And there is peace, and peace should be,I'll neither harm English lad or lass,And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!’THE MARCHHe has called him forty Marchmen bold,I trow they were of his ain name,Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calledThe Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.He has called him forty Marchmen bold,Were kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch;With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,And gluves of green, and feathers blue.There were five and five before them a',Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright:And five and five cam' wi' Buccleuch,Like warden's men, arrayed for fight.And five and five like a mason gangThat carried the ladders lang and hie;And five and five like broken men;And so they reached the Woodhouselee.And as we crossed the 'Bateable Land,When to the English side we held,The first o' men that we met wi',Whae suld it be but fause Sakelde?‘Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?’Quo' fause Sakelde; ‘come tell to me!’‘We go to hunt an English stagHas trespassed on the Scots countrie.’‘Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?’Quo' fause Sakelde; ‘come tell me true!’‘We go to catch a rank reiverHas broken faith wi' the bold Buccleuch.’‘Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,Wi' a' your ladders lang and hie?’‘We gang to herry a corbie's nestThat wons not far frae Woodhouselee.’‘Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?’Quo' fause Sakelde; ‘come tell to me!’Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,And the never a word of lear had he.‘Why trespass ye on the English side?Row-footed outlaws, stand!’ quo' he;The never a word had Dickie to say,Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie.Then on we held for Carlisle toun,And at Staneshaw-Bank the Eden we crossed;The water was great and meikle of spait,But the never a horse nor man we lost.And when we reached the Staneshaw-Bank,The wind was rising loud and hie;And there the Laird garred leave our steeds,For fear that they should stamp and neigh.And when we left the Staneshaw-Bank,The wind began full loud to blaw;But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,When we came beneath the castle wa'.We crept on knees, and held our breath,Till we placed the ladders against the wa';And sae ready was Buccleuch himsellTo mount the first before us a'.He has ta'en the watchman by the throat,He flung him down upon the lead:‘Had there not been peace between our lands,Upon the other side thou'dst gaed!Now sound out, trumpets!’ quo' Buccleuch;‘Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!’Then loud the warden's trumpet blewO wha dare meddle wi' me?THE RESCUEThen speedilie to wark we gaed,And raised the slogan ane and a',And cut a hole through a sheet of lead,And so we wan to the castle ha'.They thought King James and a' his menHad won the house wi' bow and spear;It was but twenty Scots and tenThat put a thousand in sic a stear!Wi' coulters and wi' forehammersWe garred the bars bang merrilie,Until we came to the inner prison,Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie.And when we cam' to the lower prison,Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie:‘O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,Upon the morn that thou's to die?’‘O I sleep saft, and I wake aft;It's lang since sleeping was fleyed frae me!Gie my service back to my wife and bairns,And a' gude fellows that spier for me.’Then Red Rowan has hente him up,The starkest man in Teviotdale:‘Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!’ he cried;‘I'll pay you for my lodging maill,When first we meet on the Border side.’Then shoulder high with shout and cryWe bore him down the ladder lang;At every stride Red Rowan made,I wot the Kinmont's airns played clang.‘O mony a time,’ quo' Kinmont Willie,‘I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;But a rougher beast than Red RowanI ween my legs have ne'er bestrode.And mony a time,’ quo' Kinmont Willie,‘I've pricked a horse out oure the furs;But since the day I backed a steed,I never wore sic cumbrous spurs!’We scarce had won the Staneshaw-BankWhen a' the Carlisle bells were rung,And a thousand men on horse and footCam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water,Even where it flowed frae bank to brim,And he has plunged in wi' a' his band,And safely swam them through the stream.He turned him on the other side,And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he:‘If ye like na my visit in merrie England,In fair Scotland come visit me!’All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,He stood as still as rock of stane;He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,When through the water they had gane.‘He is either himsell a devil frae hell,Or else his mother a witch maun be;I wadna have ridden that wan waterFor a' the gowd in Christentie.’XXXTHE HONOUR OF BRISTOLAttend you, and give ear awhile,And you shall understandOf a battle fought upon the seasBy a ship of brave command.The fight it was so gloriousMen's hearts it did ful-fill,And it made them cry, ‘To sea, to sea,With the Angel Gabriel!’This lusty ship of BristolSailed out adventurouslyAgainst the foes of England,Her strength with them to try;Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was,With good provision still,Which made men cry, ‘To sea, to sea,With the Angel Gabriel!’The Captain, famous Netherway(That was his noble name):The Master—he was called John Mines—A mariner of fame:The Gunner, Thomas Watson,A man of perfect skill:With many another valiant heartIn the Angel Gabriel.They waving up and down the seasUpon the ocean main,‘It is not long ago,’ quoth they,‘That England fought with Spain:O would the Spaniard we might meetOur stomachs to fulfil!We would play him fair a noble boutWith our Angel Gabriel!’They had no sooner spokenBut straight appeared in sightThree lusty Spanish vesselsOf warlike trim and might;With bloody resolutionThey thought our men to spill,And they vowed that they would make a prizeOf our Angel Gabriel.Our gallant ship had in herFull forty fighting men:With twenty piece of ordnanceWe played about them then,With powder, shot, and bulletsRight well we worked our will,And hot and bloody grew the fightWith our Angel Gabriel.Our Captain to our Master said,‘Take courage, Master bold!’Our Master to the seamen said,‘Stand fast, my hearts of gold!’Our Gunner unto all the rest,‘Brave hearts, be valiant still!Fight on, fight on in the defenceOf our Angel Gabriel!’We gave them such a broadside,It smote their mast asunder,And tore the bowsprit off their ship,Which made the Spaniards wonder,And causèd them in fear to cry,With voices loud and shrill,‘Help, help, or sunken we shall beBy the Angel Gabriel!’So desperately they boarded usFor all our valiant shot,Threescore of their best fighting menUpon our decks were got;And lo! at their first entrancesFull thirty did we kill,And thus we cleared with speed the deckOf our Angel Gabriel.With that their three ships boarded usAgain with might and main,But still our noble EnglishmenCried out, ‘A fig for Spain!’Though seven times they boarded usAt last we showed our skill,And made them feel what men we wereOn the Angel Gabriel.Seven hours this fight continued:So many men lay dead,With Spanish blood for fathoms roundThe sea was coloured red.Five hundred of their fighting menWe there outright did kill,And many more were hurt and maimedBy our Angel Gabriel.Then, seeing of these bloody spoils,The rest made haste away:For why, they said, it was no bootThe longer there to stay.Then they fled into Calès,Where lie they must and willFor fear lest they should meet againWith our Angel Gabriel.We had within our English shipBut only three men slain,And five men hurt, the which I hopeWill soon be well again.At Bristol we were landed,And let us praise God still,That thus hath blest our lusty heartsAnd our Angel Gabriel.
Where the remote Bermudas rideIn the Ocean's bosom unespied,From a small boat that rowed alongThe listening winds received this song.‘What should we do but sing his praiseThat led us through the watery maze,Where he the huge sea-monsters wracksThat lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms and prelates' rage:He gave us this eternal springWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by his handFrom Lebanon he stores the land,And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergrease on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound his name.O let our voice his praise exalt'Till it arrive at heaven's vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique Bay!’Thus sang they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
Marvell.
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia wonBy Philip's warlike son:Aloft in awful stateThe godlike hero sateOn his imperial throne;His valiant peers were placed around,Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound(So should desert in arms be crowned);The lovely Thais by his sideSate like a blooming Eastern brideIn flower of youth and beauty's pride.Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the brave,None but the brave,None but the brave deserves the fair!Timotheus, placed on highAmid the tuneful quire,With flying fingers touched the lyre:The trembling notes ascend the skyAnd heavenly joys inspire.The song began from JoveWho left his blissful seats above,Such is the power of mighty love!A dragon's fiery form belied the god;Sublime on radiant spires he rodeWhen he to fair Olympia pressed,And while he sought her snowy breast,Then round her slender waist he curled,And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;A present deity! they shout around:A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:With ravished earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god;Affects to nodAnd seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:The jolly god in triumph comes;Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!Flushed with a purple graceHe shows his honest face:Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!Bacchus, ever fair and young,Drinking joys did first ordain;Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:Rich the treasure,Sweet the pleasure,Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Soothed with the sound the king grew vain;Fought all his battles o'er again,And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!The master saw the madness rise,His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;And while he heaven and earth defiedChanged his hand, and checked his pride.He chose a mournful MuseSoft pity to infuse:He sung Darius great and good,By too severe a fateFallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,Fallen from his high estate,And weltering in his blood;Deserted at his utmost needBy those his former bounty fed,On the bare earth exposed he liesWith not a friend to close his eyes.With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,Revolving in his altered soulThe various turns of Chance belowAnd now and then a sigh he stole,And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to seeThat love was in the next degree;'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,For pity melts the mind to love.Softly sweet, in Lydian measuresSoon he soothed his soul to pleasures.War, he sang, is toil and trouble,Honour but an empty bubble;Never ending, still beginning,Fighting still, and still destroying;If the world be worth thy winning,Think, O think, it worth enjoying:Lovely Thais sits beside thee,Take the good the gods provide thee.The many rend the skies with loud applause;So love was crowned, but Music won the cause.The prince, unable to conceal his pain,Gazed on the fairWho caused his care,And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,Sighed and looked, and sighed again:At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
Now strike the golden lyre again:A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!Break his bands of sleep asunderAnd rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark, hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head;As awaked from the dead,And amazed he stares around.Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,See the Furies arise!See the snakes that they rear,How they hiss in their hair,And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!Behold a ghastly band,Each a torch in his hand!Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slainAnd unburied remainInglorious on the plain:Give the vengeance dueTo the valiant crew!Behold how they toss their torches on high,How they point to the Persian abodesAnd glittering temples of their hostile gods.The princes applaud with a furious joy:And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;Thais led the wayTo light him to his prey,And like another Helen fired another Troy!
Thus long ago,Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,While organs yet were mute,Timotheus, to his breathing fluteAnd sounding lyre,Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire.At last divine Cecilia came,Inventress of the vocal frame;The sweet enthusiast from her sacred storeEnlarged the former narrow bounds,And added length to solemn sounds,With Nature's mother-wit and arts unknown beforeLet old Timotheus yield the prize,Or both divide the crown:He raised a mortal to the skies;She drew an angel down.
Dryden.
Condemned to Hope's delusive mine,As on we toil from day to day,By sudden blast or slow declineOur social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,See Levett to the grave descend:Officious, innocent, sincere,Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye,Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;Nor, lettered arrogance, denyThy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting Nature called for aid,And hovering death prepared the blow,His vigorous remedy displayedThe power of art without the show.
In misery's darkest caverns known,His ready help was ever nigh,Where hopeless anguish poured his groan,And lonely want retired to die.
No summons mocked by chill delay,No petty gains disdained by pride:The modest wants of every dayThe toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walked their narrow round,Nor made a pause, nor left a void;And sure the eternal Master foundHis single talent well employed.
The busy day, the peaceful night,Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;His frame was firm, his powers were bright,Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then, with no throbs of fiery pain,No cold gradations of decay,Death broke at once the vital chain,And freed his soul the nearest way.
Johnson.
God prosper long our noble king,Our lives and safeties all;A woeful hunting once there didIn Chevy-Chace befall;
To drive the deer with hound and hornErle Percy took his way;The child may rue that is unborn,The hunting of that day.
The stout Erle of NorthumberlandA vow to God did make,His pleasure in the Scottish woodsThree summer's days to take,
The chiefest harts in Chevy-ChaceTo kill and bear away.These tydings to Erle Douglas came,In Scotland where he lay:
Who sent Erle Percy present word,He wold prevent his sport.The English Erle, not fearing that,Did to the woods resort
With fifteen hundred bow-men bold,All chosen men of might,Who knew full well in time of needeTo ayme their shafts aright.
The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,To chase the fallow deere:On Monday they began to hunt,Ere daylight did appeare;
And long before high noone they hadAn hundred fat buckes slaine;Then having dined, the drovyers wentTo rouse the deere againe.
The bow-men mustered on the hills,Well able to endure;Their backsides all, with special careThat day were guarded sure.
The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,The nimble deere to take,And with their cryes the hills and dalesAn echo shrill did make.
Lord Percy to the quarry went,To view the slaughtered deere:Quoth he, ‘Erle Douglas promisèdThis day to meet me here,
But if I thought he wold not come,No longer wold I stay.’With that, a brave younge gentlemanThus to the Erle did say:
‘Lo, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,His men in armour bright;Full twenty hundred Scottish spearesAll marching in our sight;
All men of pleasant Tivydale,Fast by the river Tweede’:‘O, cease your sports,’ Erle Percy said,‘And take your bowes with speede;
And now with me, my countrymen,Your courage forth advance,For there was never champion yet,In Scotland or in France,
That ever did on horsebacke come,But if my hap it were,I durst encounter man for man,And with him break a speare.’
Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,Most like a baron bold,Rode foremost of his company,Whose armour shone like gold.
‘Show me,’ said he, ‘whose men ye be,That hunt so boldly here,That, without my consent, do chaseAnd kill my fallow-deere.’
The first man that did answer make,Was noble Percy he;Who sayd, ‘We list not to declare,Nor shew whose men we be,
Yet we will spend our dearest blood,Thy chiefest harts to slay.’Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,And thus in rage did say:
‘Ere thus I will out-bravèd be,One of us two shall dye:I know thee well, an erle thou art;Lord Percy, so am I.
But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,And great offence to killAny of these our guiltlesse men,For they have done no ill.
Let thou and I the battell trye,And set our men aside.’‘Accurst be he,’ Erle Percy said,‘By whom this is denied.’
Then stept a gallant squier forth,Witherington was his name,Who said, ‘I wold not have it toldTo Henry our king for shame,
That ere my captaine fought on foote,And I stood looking on.Ye be two erles,’ said Witherington,‘And I a squier alone:
Ile do the best that do I may,While I have power to stand:While I have power to wield my sword,Ile fight with heart and hand.’
Our English archers bent their bowes,Their hearts were good and trew,At the first flight of arrowes sent,Full fourscore Scots they slew.
Yet bides Erle Douglas on the bent,As Chieftain stout and good.As valiant Captain, all unmovedThe shock he firmly stood.
His host he parted had in three,As leader ware and try'd,And soon his spearmen on their foesBare down on every side.
Throughout the English archeryThey dealt full many a wound;But still our valiant EnglishmenAll firmly kept their ground,
And, throwing strait their bowes away,They grasped their swords so bright,And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,On shields and helmets light.
They closed full fast on every side,No slackness there was found;And many a gallant gentlemanLay gasping on the ground.
O Christ! it was a griefe to see,And likewise for to heare,The cries of men lying in their gore,And scattered here and there!
At last these two stout erles did meet,Like captaines of great might:Like lions wode, they laid on lode,And made a cruel fight:
They fought untill they both did sweatWith swords of tempered steele;Until the blood like drops of rainThey trickling downe did feele.
‘Yield thee, Lord Percy,’ Douglas said;‘In faith I will thee bringe,Where thou shalt high advancèd beBy James our Scottish king:
Thy ransome I will freely give,And this report of thee,Thou art the most courageous knight,That ever I did see.’
‘No, Douglas,’ quoth Erle Percy then,‘Thy proffer I do scorne;I will not yield to any Scot,That ever yet was borne.’
With that, there came an arrow keeneOut of an English bow,Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,A deep and deadly blow:
Who never spake more words than these,‘Fight on, my merry men all;For why, my life is at an end;Lord Percy sees my fall.’
Then leaving life, Erle Percy tookeThe dead man by the hand;And said, ‘Erle Douglas, for thy lifeWold I had lost my land!
O Christ! my very heart doth bleedWith sorrow for thy sake,For sure, a more redoubted knightMischance could never take.’
A knight amongst the Scots there was,Which saw Erle Douglas dye,Who straight in wrath did vow revengeUpon the Lord Percye.
Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he calledWho, with a speare most bright,Well-mounted on a gallant steed,Ran fiercely through the fight,
And past the English archers all,Without or dread or feare,And through Erle Percy's body thenHe thrust his hateful speare.
With such a vehement force and mightHe did his body gore,The staff ran through the other sideA large cloth-yard, and more.
So thus did both these nobles dye,Whose courage none could staine!An English archer then perceivedThe noble Erle was slaine:
He had a bow bent in his hand,Made of a trusty tree;An arrow of a cloth-yard longUp to the head drew he;
Against Sir Hugh MountgomeryeSo right the shaft he set,The grey goose-winge that was thereonIn his heart's bloode was wet.
This fight did last from breake of dayTill setting of the sun;For when they rung the evening-bell,The battle scarce was done.
With stout Erle Percy, there was slaineSir John of Egerton,Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,Sir James, that bold baròn;
And with Sir George and stout Sir James,Both knights of good account,Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,Whose prowesse did surmount.
For Witherington needs must I wayle,As one in doleful dumpes;For when his legs were smitten off,He fought upon his stumpes.
And with Erle Douglas, there was slaineSir Hugh Mountgomerye,Sir Charles Murray, that from the fieldOne foote would never flee;
Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,His sister's sonne was he;Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,Yet saved he could not be;
And the Lord Maxwell in like caseDid with Erle Douglas dye:Of twenty hundred Scottish speares,Scarce fifty-five did flye.
Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,Went home but fifty-three:The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,Under the greene woode tree.
Next day did many widdowes come,Their husbands to bewayle;They washt their wounds in brinish teares,But all wold not prevayle;
Their bodyes, bathed in purple gore,They bore with them away;They kist them dead a thousand times,Ere they were clad in clay.
The newes was brought to Eddenborrow,Where Scotland's king did raigne,That brave Erle Douglas suddenlyeWas with an arrow slaine:
‘O heavy newes,’ King James did say,‘Scotland may witnesse be,I have not any captaine moreOf such account as he.’
Like tydings to King Henry came,Within as short a space,That Percy of NorthumberlandWas slaine in Chevy-Chace:
‘Now God be with him,’ said our king,‘Sith it will no better be;I trust I have, within my realme,Five hundred as good as he:
Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say,But I will vengeance take:I'll be revengèd on them all,For brave Erle Percy's sake.’
This vow full well the king performedAfter, at Humbledowne;In one day, fifty knights were slayne,With lords of great renowne,
And of the rest, of small account,Did many thousands dye.Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,Made by the Erle Percye.
God save our king, and bless this landWith plentye, joy, and peace,And grant henceforth that foule debate'Twixt noblemen may cease!
The King sits in Dunfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine:‘O whaur will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship o' mine?’
O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the King's right knee:‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sailed the sea.’
Our King has written a braid letterAnd sealed it wi' his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.
‘To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The King's daughter to Noroway,'Tis thou maun bring her hame.’
The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud, loud lauchèd he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his ee.
‘O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the King of me,To send us out at this time o' yearTo sail upon the sea?
Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The King's daughter to Noroway,'Tis we must bring her hame.’
They hoysed their sails on Monday mornWi' a' the speed they may;They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway but twae,When that the lords o' NorowayBegan aloud to say:
‘Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's goudAnd a' our Queenis fee.’‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,Fu' loud I hear ye lie!
For I brought as mickle white monieAs gane my men and me,And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goudOut-o'er the sea wi' me.
Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'!Our gude ship sails the morn.’‘Now, ever alake, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.
I saw the new moon late yestreenWi' the auld moon in her arm;And, if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm.’
They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.
‘O where will I get a gude sailorTo tak' my helm in hand,Till I gae up to the tall topmastTo see if I can spy land?’
‘O here am I, a sailor gude,To tak' the helm in hand,Till you gae up to the tall topmast;But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.’
He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.
‘Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,Anither o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And letna the sea come in.’
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Anither o' the twine,And they wapped them round that gude ship's side,But still the sea cam' in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their milk-white hands;But lang ere a' the play was owerThey wat their gowden bands.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heeled shoon;But lang ere a' the play was playedThey wat their hats aboon.
O lang, lang may the ladies sitWi' their fans intill their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi' their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they'll see nae mair.
Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,It's fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick SpensWi' the Scots lords at his feet.
The fifteenth day of July,With glistering spear and shield,A famous fight in FlandersWas foughten in the field:The most conspicuous officersWere English captains three,But the bravest man in battelWas brave Lord Willoughby.
The next was Captain Norris,A valiant man was he:The other, Captain Turner,From field would never flee.With fifteen hundred fighting men,Alas! there were no more,They fought with forty thousand thenUpon the bloody shore.
‘Stand to it, noble pikeman,And look you round about:And shoot you right, you bow-men,And we will keep them out:You musquet and cailiver men,Do you prove true to me,I'll be the bravest man in fight,’Says brave Lord Willoughby.
And then the bloody enemyThey fiercely did assail,And fought it out most furiously,Not doubting to prevail:The wounded men on both sides fellMost piteous for to see,But nothing could the courage quellOf brave Lord Willoughby.
For seven hours to all men's viewThis fight endurèd sore,Until our men so feeble grewThat they could fight no more;And then upon dead horsesFull savourly they eat,And drank the puddle water,That could no better get.
When they had fed so freely,They kneelèd on the ground,And praisèd God devoutlyFor the favour they had found;And bearing up their colours,The fight they did renew,And cutting tow'rds the Spaniard,Five thousand more they slew.
The sharp steel-pointed arrowsAnd bullets thick did fly;Then did our valiant soldiersCharge on most furiously:Which made the Spaniards waver,They thought it best to flee:They feared the stout behaviourOf brave Lord Willoughby.
Then quoth the Spanish general,‘Come, let us march away,I fear we shall be spoilèd allIf that we longer stay:For yonder comes Lord WilloughbyWith courage fierce and fell,He will not give one inch of groundFor all the devils in hell.’
And when the fearful enemyWas quickly put to flight,Our men pursued courageouslyTo rout his forces quite;And at last they gave a shoutWhich echoed through the sky:‘God, and St. George for England!’The conquerors did cry.
This news was brought to EnglandWith all the speed might be,And soon our gracious Queen was toldOf this same victory.‘O! this is brave Lord Willoughby,My love that ever won:Of all the lords of honour'Tis he great deeds hath done!’
To the soldiers that were maimèd,And wounded in the fray,The queen allowed a pensionOf fifteen pence a day,And from all costs and chargesShe quit and set them free:And this she did all for the sakeOf brave Lord Willoughby.
Then courage, noble Englishmen,And never be dismayed!If that we be but one to ten,We will not be afraidTo fight with foreign enemies,And set our country free.And thus I end the bloody boutOf brave Lord Willoughby.
Good Lord Scroope to the hills is gane,Hunting of the fallow deer;And he has grippit Hughie the GræmeFor stealing of the Bishop's mare.
‘Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be!Here hangs a broadsword by my side;And if that thou canst conquer me,The matter it may soon be tried.’
‘I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief;Although thy name be Hughie the Græme,I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds,If God but grant me life and time.’
But as they were dealing their blows so free,And both so bloody at the time,Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall,All for to take bold Hughie the Græme.
O then they grippit Hughie the Græme,And brought him up through Carlisle town:The lads and lasses stood on the walls,Crying, ‘Hughie the Græme, thou'se ne'er gae down!’
‘O loose my right hand free,’ he says,‘And gie me my sword o' the metal sae fine,He's no in Carlisle town this dayDaur tell the tale to Hughie the Græme.’
Up then and spake the brave Whitefoord,As he sat by the Bishop's knee,‘Twenty white owsen, my gude lord,If ye'll grant Hughie the Græme to me.’
‘O haud your tongue,’ the Bishop says,‘And wi' your pleading let me be;For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat,They suld be hangit a' for me.’
Up then and spake the fair Whitefoord,As she sat by the Bishop's knee,‘A peck o' white pennies, my good lord,If ye'll grant Hughie the Græme to me.’
‘O haud your tongue now, lady fair,Forsooth, and so it sall na be;Were he but the one Graham of the name,He suld be hangit high for me.’
They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe,He lookèd to the gallows tree,Yet never colour left his cheek,Nor ever did he blink his e'e.
He lookèd over his left shoulderTo try whatever he could see,And he was aware of his auld father,Tearing his hair most piteouslie.
‘O haud your tongue, my father dear,And see that ye dinna weep for me!For they may ravish me o' my life,But they canna banish me fro' Heaven hie.
And ye may gie my brither JohnMy sword that's bent in the middle clear,And let him come at twelve o'clock,And see me pay the Bishop's mare.
And ye may gie my brither JamesMy sword that's bent in the middle brown,And bid him come at four o'clock,And see his brither Hugh cut down.
And ye may tell my kith and kinI never did disgrace their blood;And when they meet the Bishop's cloak,To mak' it shorter by the hood.’
O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde?O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope?How they hae ta'en bold Kinmont Willie,On Haribee to hang him up?
Had Willie had but twenty men,But twenty men as stout as he,Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en,Wi' eight score in his cumpanie.
They band his legs beneath the steed,They tied his hands behind his back;They guarded him fivesome on each side,And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.
They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,And also thro' the Carlisle sands;They brought him on to Carlisle castleTo be at my Lord Scroope's commands.
‘My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,And wha will dare this deed avow?Or answer by the Border law?Or answer to the bold Buccleuch?’
‘Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!There's never a Scot shall set thee free:Before ye cross my castle yett,I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.’
‘Fear na ye that, my lord,’ quo' Willie:‘By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope,’ he said,‘I never yet lodged in a hostelrieBut I paid my lawing before I gaed.’
Now word is gane to the bold Keeper,In Branksome Ha' where that he lay,That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie,Between the hours of night and day.
He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,He garred the red wine spring on hie:‘Now a curse upon my head,’ he said,‘But avengèd of Lord Scroope I'll be!
O is my basnet a widow's curch?Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?Or my arm a lady's lily hand,That an English lord should lightly me!
And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,Against the truce of Border tide?And forgotten that the bold BuccleuchIs keeper here on the Scottish side?
And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,Withouten either dread or fear?And forgotten that the bold BuccleuchCan back a steed or shake a spear?
O were there war between the lands,As well I wot that there is none,I would slight Carlisle castle high,Though it were builded of marble stone.
I would set that castle in a lowe,And slocken it with English blood!There's never a man in CumberlandShould ken where Carlisle castle stood.
But since nae war's between the lands,And there is peace, and peace should be,I'll neither harm English lad or lass,And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!’
He has called him forty Marchmen bold,I trow they were of his ain name,Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calledThe Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.
He has called him forty Marchmen bold,Were kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch;With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,And gluves of green, and feathers blue.
There were five and five before them a',Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright:And five and five cam' wi' Buccleuch,Like warden's men, arrayed for fight.
And five and five like a mason gangThat carried the ladders lang and hie;And five and five like broken men;And so they reached the Woodhouselee.
And as we crossed the 'Bateable Land,When to the English side we held,The first o' men that we met wi',Whae suld it be but fause Sakelde?
‘Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?’Quo' fause Sakelde; ‘come tell to me!’‘We go to hunt an English stagHas trespassed on the Scots countrie.’
‘Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?’Quo' fause Sakelde; ‘come tell me true!’‘We go to catch a rank reiverHas broken faith wi' the bold Buccleuch.’
‘Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,Wi' a' your ladders lang and hie?’‘We gang to herry a corbie's nestThat wons not far frae Woodhouselee.’
‘Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?’Quo' fause Sakelde; ‘come tell to me!’Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,And the never a word of lear had he.
‘Why trespass ye on the English side?Row-footed outlaws, stand!’ quo' he;The never a word had Dickie to say,Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie.
Then on we held for Carlisle toun,And at Staneshaw-Bank the Eden we crossed;The water was great and meikle of spait,But the never a horse nor man we lost.
And when we reached the Staneshaw-Bank,The wind was rising loud and hie;And there the Laird garred leave our steeds,For fear that they should stamp and neigh.
And when we left the Staneshaw-Bank,The wind began full loud to blaw;But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,When we came beneath the castle wa'.
We crept on knees, and held our breath,Till we placed the ladders against the wa';And sae ready was Buccleuch himsellTo mount the first before us a'.
He has ta'en the watchman by the throat,He flung him down upon the lead:‘Had there not been peace between our lands,Upon the other side thou'dst gaed!
Now sound out, trumpets!’ quo' Buccleuch;‘Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!’Then loud the warden's trumpet blewO wha dare meddle wi' me?
Then speedilie to wark we gaed,And raised the slogan ane and a',And cut a hole through a sheet of lead,And so we wan to the castle ha'.
They thought King James and a' his menHad won the house wi' bow and spear;It was but twenty Scots and tenThat put a thousand in sic a stear!
Wi' coulters and wi' forehammersWe garred the bars bang merrilie,Until we came to the inner prison,Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie.
And when we cam' to the lower prison,Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie:‘O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,Upon the morn that thou's to die?’
‘O I sleep saft, and I wake aft;It's lang since sleeping was fleyed frae me!Gie my service back to my wife and bairns,And a' gude fellows that spier for me.’
Then Red Rowan has hente him up,The starkest man in Teviotdale:‘Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.
Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!’ he cried;‘I'll pay you for my lodging maill,When first we meet on the Border side.’
Then shoulder high with shout and cryWe bore him down the ladder lang;At every stride Red Rowan made,I wot the Kinmont's airns played clang.
‘O mony a time,’ quo' Kinmont Willie,‘I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;But a rougher beast than Red RowanI ween my legs have ne'er bestrode.
And mony a time,’ quo' Kinmont Willie,‘I've pricked a horse out oure the furs;But since the day I backed a steed,I never wore sic cumbrous spurs!’
We scarce had won the Staneshaw-BankWhen a' the Carlisle bells were rung,And a thousand men on horse and footCam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.
Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water,Even where it flowed frae bank to brim,And he has plunged in wi' a' his band,And safely swam them through the stream.
He turned him on the other side,And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he:‘If ye like na my visit in merrie England,In fair Scotland come visit me!’
All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,He stood as still as rock of stane;He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,When through the water they had gane.
‘He is either himsell a devil frae hell,Or else his mother a witch maun be;I wadna have ridden that wan waterFor a' the gowd in Christentie.’
Attend you, and give ear awhile,And you shall understandOf a battle fought upon the seasBy a ship of brave command.The fight it was so gloriousMen's hearts it did ful-fill,And it made them cry, ‘To sea, to sea,With the Angel Gabriel!’
This lusty ship of BristolSailed out adventurouslyAgainst the foes of England,Her strength with them to try;Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was,With good provision still,Which made men cry, ‘To sea, to sea,With the Angel Gabriel!’
The Captain, famous Netherway(That was his noble name):The Master—he was called John Mines—A mariner of fame:The Gunner, Thomas Watson,A man of perfect skill:With many another valiant heartIn the Angel Gabriel.
They waving up and down the seasUpon the ocean main,‘It is not long ago,’ quoth they,‘That England fought with Spain:O would the Spaniard we might meetOur stomachs to fulfil!We would play him fair a noble boutWith our Angel Gabriel!’
They had no sooner spokenBut straight appeared in sightThree lusty Spanish vesselsOf warlike trim and might;With bloody resolutionThey thought our men to spill,And they vowed that they would make a prizeOf our Angel Gabriel.
Our gallant ship had in herFull forty fighting men:With twenty piece of ordnanceWe played about them then,With powder, shot, and bulletsRight well we worked our will,And hot and bloody grew the fightWith our Angel Gabriel.
Our Captain to our Master said,‘Take courage, Master bold!’Our Master to the seamen said,‘Stand fast, my hearts of gold!’Our Gunner unto all the rest,‘Brave hearts, be valiant still!Fight on, fight on in the defenceOf our Angel Gabriel!’
We gave them such a broadside,It smote their mast asunder,And tore the bowsprit off their ship,Which made the Spaniards wonder,And causèd them in fear to cry,With voices loud and shrill,‘Help, help, or sunken we shall beBy the Angel Gabriel!’
So desperately they boarded usFor all our valiant shot,Threescore of their best fighting menUpon our decks were got;And lo! at their first entrancesFull thirty did we kill,And thus we cleared with speed the deckOf our Angel Gabriel.
With that their three ships boarded usAgain with might and main,But still our noble EnglishmenCried out, ‘A fig for Spain!’Though seven times they boarded usAt last we showed our skill,And made them feel what men we wereOn the Angel Gabriel.
Seven hours this fight continued:So many men lay dead,With Spanish blood for fathoms roundThe sea was coloured red.Five hundred of their fighting menWe there outright did kill,And many more were hurt and maimedBy our Angel Gabriel.
Then, seeing of these bloody spoils,The rest made haste away:For why, they said, it was no bootThe longer there to stay.Then they fled into Calès,Where lie they must and willFor fear lest they should meet againWith our Angel Gabriel.
We had within our English shipBut only three men slain,And five men hurt, the which I hopeWill soon be well again.At Bristol we were landed,And let us praise God still,That thus hath blest our lusty heartsAnd our Angel Gabriel.