An arrow, that was a cloth-yard long,
To the hard steel halèd he;

A dint, that was both sad and sore,

He set on Sir Hugh the Montgomerie.

The dint it was both sad and sore,
That he on Montgomerie set;

The swan-feathers, that his arrow bore,
With his heart's blood they were wet.

There was never a freke one foot would flee, But still in stour did stand,

Hewing on each other, while they might dree, With many a baleful brand.

This battle began in Cheviot
An hour before the noon,

And when evensong bell was rung

The battle was not half done.

They took on on either hand
By the light of the moon;
Many had no strength for to stand,
In Cheviot the hills aboon.

Of fifteen hundred archers of England,
Went away but fifty and three ;

Of twenty hundred spearmen of Scotland,
But even five and fiftie.

THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT

But all were slain Cheviot within;

They had no strength to stand or hie. The child may rue that is unborn;

It was the more pitie.

There was slain with the Lord Percy
Sir John of Agerslone,

Sir Roger, the hindè1 Hartley,
Sir William, the bold Heron.

Sir George, the worthy Lovel,
A knight of great renown;
Sir Ralph, the rich Rugby,2

With dints were beaten down.

For Witherington my heart was wo,
That ever he slain should be;

For when both his legs were hewn in two,
Yet he kneeled and fought on his knee.

There was slain with the Doughty Douglas
Sir Hugh the Montgomerie;

Sir Davy Liddale, that worthy was,
His sister's son was he.

Sir Charles à Murray, in that place,
That never a foot would flee;
Sir Hugh Maxwell, a Lord he was,
With the Douglas did he dee.

1 "Hinde"=courteous.

2 Rugby" either Rokeby or Raby.

So on the morrow they made them biers
Of birch and hazel so gray;
Many widows with weeping tears,
Came to fetch their makès 1 away.

Tivydale may carp of care,

Northumberland may make great moan, For two such captains, as slain were there, On the Marches shall never be none.

Word is come to Edinburgh,

To Jamie the Scottish King,

Doughty Douglas, lieutenant of the Marches, Lay slain Cheviot within.

His handès did he weal and wring:

He said "Alas, and wo is me!

Such another captain in Scotland wide"
He said, "I' faith, shall never be."

Word is come to lovely London,

To the Fourth Harry our King,

That Lord Percy, lieutenant of the Marches, He lay slain Cheviot within.

"God have mercy on his soul," said King Harry, Good Lord, if Thy will it be!

I've a hundred captains in England, he said,
As good as ever was he;

But, Percy, an I brook my life,
Thy death well quit shall be."

1 "Makès "=mates.

THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT

As our noble King made his avow,
Like a noble prince of renown,
For the death of the Lord Percy,
He did the battle of Humbledon :

Where six and thirty Scottish Knights,
On a day were beaten down :
Glendale glittered on their armour bright,
Over castle, tower, and town.

This was the hunting of the Cheviot;
That here began this spurn,

Old men that know the ground well enough,
Call it the battle of Otterburn.

At Otterburn began this spurn,

Upon a Monanday:

There was the doughty Douglas slain,

The Percy never went away.

There was never a time on the March parts, Since the Douglas and the Percy met,

But it was marvel, an the red blood run not, As the rain does in the street.

Jesus Christ, our balès bete,

And to the bliss us bring!

This was the hunting of the Cheviot,

God send us all good ending.

Anonymous.

THE BATTLE OF

SHREWSBURY

July 23, 1403 A.D.

Hotspur. O gentlemen, the time of life is short!
To spend that shortness basely were too long,
If life did ride upon a dial's point,

Still ending at the arrival of an hour.

An if we live, we live to tread on kings ;
If die, brave death, when princes die with us!
Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair,
When the intent of bearing them is just.
(Enter Messenger.)

Messenger. My Lord, prepare; the King comes on apace.

Hotspur. I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale,

For I profess not talking; only this

Let each man do his best: and here draw I

A sword, whose temper I intend to stain
With the best blood that I can meet withal,
In the adventure of this perilous day.
Now, Esperance! Percy! and set on.
Sound all the lofty instruments of war,
And by that music let us all embrace;
For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall
A second time do such a courtesy.

William Shakespeare: King Henry IV., Part I. Act. V. Sc. ii.