Ballads. (continued 2)

Tears from her eyes did flow amain, And she full oft would sighing say, ‘My constant love, alas! is slain, And to pale death, become a prey: Oh, Hannah, Hannah thou art base; Thy pride will turn to foul disgrace!’

She spent her time in godly prayers, And quiet rest did from her fly; She to her friends full oft declares, She could not live if he did die: Thus she continued till the bell, Began to sound his fatal knell.

And when she heard the dismal sound, Her godly book she cast away, With bitter cries would pierce the ground. Her fainting heart ’gan to decay: She to her pensive mother said, ‘I cannot live now he is dead.’

Then after three short minutes’ space, As she in sorrow groaning lay, A gentleman [108b] did her embrace, And mildly unto her did say, ‘Dear melting soul be not so sad, But let your passion be allayed.’

Her answer was, ‘My heart is burst, My span of life is near an end; My love from me by death is forced, My grief no soul can comprehend.’ Then her poor heart it waxèd faint, When she had ended her complaint.

For three hours’ space, as in a trance, This broken-hearted creature lay, Her mother wailing her mischance, To pacify her did essay: But all in vain, for strength being past, She seemingly did breathe her last.

Her mother, thinking she was dead, Began to shriek and cry amain; And heavy lamentations made, Which called her spirit back again; To be an object of hard fate, And give to grief a longer date.

Distorted with convulsions, she, In dreadful manner gasping lay, Of twelve long hours no moment free, Her bitter groans did her dismay: Then her poor heart being sadly broke, Submitted to the fatal stroke.

When things were to this issue brought, Both in one grave were to be laid: But flinty-hearted Hannah thought, By stubborn means for to persuade, Their friends and neighbours from the same, For which she surely was to blame.

And being asked the reason why, Such base objections she did make, She answerèd thus scornfully, In words not fit for Billingsgate: ‘She might have taken fairer on— Or else be hanged:’ Oh heart of stone!

What hell-born fury had possessed, Thy vile inhuman spirit thus? What swelling rage was in thy breast, That could occasion this disgust, And make thee show such spleen and rage, Which life can’t cure nor death assuage?

Sure some of Satan’s minor imps, Ordainèd were to be thy guide; To act the part of sordid pimps, And fill thy heart with haughty pride; But take this caveat once for all, Such devilish pride must have a fall.

But when to church the corpse was brought, And both of them met at the gate; What mournful tears by friends were shed, When that alas it was too late,— When they in silent grave were laid, Instead of pleasing marriage-bed.

You parents all both far and near, By this sad story warning take; Nor to your children be severe, When they their choice in love do make; Let not the love of cursèd gold, True lovers from their love withhold.

Of a rich counsellor I write, Who had one only daughter, Who was of youthful beauty bright; Now mark what follows after. [111] Her uncle left her, I declare, A sumptuous large possession; Her father he was to take care Of her at his discretion.

She had ten thousand pounds a-year, And gold and silver ready, And courted was by many a peer, Yet none could gain this lady. At length a squire’s youngest son In private came a-wooing, And when he had her favour won, He feared his utter ruin.

The youthful lady straightway cried, ‘I must confess I love thee, Though lords and knights I have denied, Yet none I prize above thee: Thou art a jewel in my eye, But here,’ said she, ‘the care is,— I fear you will be doomed to die For stealing of an heiress.’

The young man he replied to her Like a true politician; ‘Thy father is a counsellor, I’ll tell him my condition. Ten guineas they shall be his fee, He’ll think it is some stranger; Thus for the gold he’ll counsel me, And keep me safe from danger.’

Unto her father he did go, The very next day after; But did not let the lawyer know The lady was his daughter. Now when the lawyer saw the gold That he should be she gainer, A pleasant trick to him he told With safety to obtain her.

‘Let her provide a horse,’ he cried, ‘And take you up behind her; Then with you to some parson ride Before her parents find her: That she steals you, you may complain, And so avoid their fury. Now this is law I will maintain Before or judge or jury.

‘Now take my writing and my seal, Which I cannot deny thee, And if you any trouble feel, In court I will stand by thee.’ ‘I give you thanks,’ the young man cried, ‘By you I am befriended, And to your house I’ll bring my bride After the work is ended.’

Next morning, ere the day did break, This news to her he carried; She did her father’s counsel take And they were fairly married, And now they felt but ill at case, And, doubts and fears expressing, They home returned, and on their knees They asked their father’s blessing,

But when he had beheld them both, He seemed like one distracted, And vowed to be revenged on oath For what they now had acted. With that bespoke his new-made son— ‘There can be no deceiving, That this is law which we have done Here is your hand and sealing!’

The counsellor did then reply, Was ever man so fitted; ‘My hand and seal I can’t deny, By you I am outwitted. ‘Ten thousand pounds a-year in store ‘She was left by my brother, And when I die there will be more, For child I have no other.

‘She might have had a lord or knight, From royal loins descended; But, since thou art her heart’s delight, I will not be offended; ‘If I the gordian knot should part, ‘Twere cruel out of measure; Enjoy thy love, with all my heart, In plenty, peace, and pleasure.’

In black were her ladies, and black were their faces.’

Queen Jane was in travail For six weeks or more, Till the women grew tired, And fain would give o’er. ‘O women! O women! Good wives if ye be, Go, send for King Henrie, And bring him to me.’

King Henrie was sent for, He came with all speed, In a gownd of green velvet From heel to the head. ‘King Henrie! King Henrie! If kind Henrie you be, Send for a surgeon, And bring him to me.’

The surgeon was sent for, He came with all speed, In a gownd of black velvet From heel to the head. He gave her rich caudle, But the death-sleep slept she. Then her right side was opened, And the babe was set free.

The babe it was christened, And put out and nursed, While the royal Queen Jane She lay cold in the dust.

So black was the mourning, And white were the wands, Yellow, yellow the torches, They bore in their hands.

The bells they were muffled, And mournful did play, While the royal Queen Jane She lay cold in the clay.

Six knights and six lords Bore her corpse through the grounds; Six dukes followed after, In black mourning gownds. The flower of Old England Was laid in cold clay, Whilst the royal King Henrie Came weeping away.

You fathers and mothers, and children also, Draw near unto me, and soon you shall know The sense of my ditty, and I dare to say, The like’s not been heard of this many a day.

The subject which to you I am to relate, It is of a young squire of vast estate; The first dear infant his wife did him bear, It was a young daughter of beauty most rare.

He said to his wife, ‘Had this child been a boy, ‘Twould have pleased me better, and increased my joy, If the next be the same sort, I declare, Of what I’m possessèd it shall have no share.’

In twelve months’ time after, this woman, we hear, Had another daughter of beauty most clear; And when that he knew it was but a female, Into a bitter passion he presently fell,

Saying, ‘Since this is of the same sort as the first, In my habitation she shall not be nursed; Pray let her be sent into the countrie, For where I am, truly, this child shall not be.’

With tears his dear wife unto him did say, ‘Husband, be contented, I’ll send her away.’ Then to the countrie with speed her did send, For to be brought up by one was her friend.

Although that her father he hated her so, He a good education on her did bestow; And with a gold locket, and robes of the best, This slighted young damsel was commonly dressed.

And when unto stature this damsel was grown, And found from her father she had no love shown, She cried, ‘Before I will lay under his frown, I’m resolvèd to travel the country around.’

But now mark, good people, the cream of the jest, In what sort of manner this creature was dressed; With cat-skins she made her a robe, I declare, The which for her covering she daily did wear.

Her own rich attire, and jewels beside, Then up in a bundle by her they were tied, And to seek her fortune she wandered away; And when she had travelled a cold winter’s day,

In the evening-tide she came to a town, Where at a knight’s door she sat herself down, For to rest herself, who was tirèd sore;— This noble knight’s lady then came to the door.

This fair creature seeing in such sort of dress, The lady unto her these words did express: ‘Whence camest thou, girl, and what wouldst thou have?’ She said, ‘A night’s rest in your stable I crave.’

The lady said to her, ‘I’ll grant thy desire, Come into the kitchen, and stand by the fire.’ Then she thankèd the lady, and went in with haste; And there she was gazed on from highest to least.

And, being well warmed, her hunger was great, They gave her a plate of good food for to eat, And then to an outhouse this creature was led, Where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed.

And when in the morning the daylight she saw, Her riches and jewels she hid in the straw; And, being very cold, she then did retire Into the kitchen, and stood by the fire.

The cook said, ‘My lady hath promised that thee Shall be as a scullion to wait upon me; What say’st thou girl, art thou willing to bide?’ ‘With all my heart truly,’ to him she replied.

To work at her needle she could very well, And for raising of paste few could her excel; She being so handy, the cook’s heart did win, And then she was called by the name of Catskin.

The lady a son had both comely and tall, Who oftentimes usèd to be at a ball A mile out of town; and one evening-tide, To dance at this ball away he did ride.

Catskin said to his mother, ‘Pray, madam, let me Go after your son now, this ball for to see.’ With that in a passion this lady she grew, And struck her with the ladle, and broke it in two.

On being thus servèd she quick got away, And in her rich garments herself did array; And then to this ball she with speed did retire, Where she dancèd so bravely that all did admire.

The sport being done, the young squire did say, ‘Young lady, where do you live? tell me, I pray.’ Her answer was to him, ‘Sir, that I will tell,— At the sign of the broken ladle I dwell.’

She being very nimble, got home first, ’tis said, And in her catskin robes she soon was arrayed; And into the kitchen again she did go, But where she had been they did none of them know.

Next night this young squire, to give him content, To dance at this ball again forth he went. She said, ‘Pray let me go this ball for to view.’ Then she struck with the skimmer, and broke it in two.

Then out of the doors she ran full of heaviness, And in her rich garments herself soon did dress; And to this ball ran away with all speed, Where to see her dancing all wondered indeed.

The ball being ended, the young squire said, ‘Where is it you live?’ She again answerèd, ‘Sir, because you ask me, account I will give, At the sign of the broken skimmer I live.’

Being dark when she left him, she homeward did hie, And in her catskin robes she was dressed presently, And into the kitchen amongst them she went, But where she had been they were all innocent.

When the squire dame home, and found Catskin there, He was in amaze and began for to swear; ‘For two nights at the ball has been a lady, The sweetest of beauties that ever I did see.

‘She was the best dancer in all the whole place, And very much like our Catskin in the face; Had she not been dressed in that costly degree, I should have swore it was Catskin’s body.

Next night to the ball he did go once more, And she askèd his mother to go as before, Who, having a basin of water in hand, She threw it at Catskin, as I understand.

Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run, And dressèd herself when this thing she had done. To the ball once more she then went her ways; To see her fine dancing they all gave her praise.

And having concluded, the young squire said he, ‘From whence might you come, pray, lady, tell me?’ Her answer was, ‘Sir, you shall soon know the same, From the sign of the basin of water I came.’

Then homeward she hurried, as fast as could be; This young squire then was resolvèd to see Whereto she belonged, and, following Catskin, Into an old straw house he saw her creep in.

He said, ‘O brave Catskin, I find it is thee, Who these three nights together has so charmèd me; Thou’rt the sweetest of creatures my eyes e’er beheld, With joy and content my heart now is filled.

‘Thou art our cook’s scullion, but as I have life, Grant me but thy love, and I’ll make thee my wife, And thou shalt have maids for to be at thy call.’ ‘Sir, that cannot be, I’ve no portion at all.’

‘Thy beauty’s a portion, my joy and my dear, I prize it far better than thousands a year, And to have my friends’ consent I have got a trick, I’ll go to my bed, and feign myself sick.

‘There no one shall tend me but thee I profess; So one day or another in thy richest dress, Thou shalt be clad, and if my parents come nigh, I’ll tell them ’tis for thee that sick I do lie.’

Thus having consulted, this couple parted. Next day this young squire he took to his bed; And when his dear parents this thing both perceived, For fear of his death they were right sorely grieved.

To tend him they send for a nurse speedily, He said, ‘None but Catskin my nurse now shall be.’ His parents said, ‘No, son.’ He said, ‘But she shall, Or else I’ll have none for to nurse me at all.’

His parents both wondered to hear him say thus, That no one but Catskin must be his nurse; So then his dear parents their son to content, Up into his chamber poor Catskin they sent.

Sweet cordials and other rich things were prepared, Which between this young couple were equally shared; And when all alone they in each other’s arms, Enjoyed one another in love’s pleasant charms.

And at length on a time poor Catskin, ’tis said, In her rich attire again was arrayed, And when that his mother to the chamber drew near, Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear;

Which caused her to stare, and thus for to say, ‘What young lady is this, come tell me, I pray?’ He said, ‘It is Catskin for whom sick I lie, And except I do have her with speed I shall die.’

His mother then hastened to call up the knight, Who ran up to see this amazing great sight; He said, ‘Is this Catskin we held in such scorn? I ne’er saw a finer dame since I was born.’

The old knight he said to her, ‘I prithee tell me, From whence thou didst come and of what family?’ Then who were her parents she gave them to know, And what was the cause of her wandering so.

The young squire he cried, ‘If you will save my life, Pray grant this young creature she may be my wife.’ His father replied, ‘Thy life for to save, If you have agreed, my consent you may have.’

Next day, with great triumph and joy as we hear, There were many coaches came far and near; Then much like a goddess dressed in rich array, Catskin was married to the squire that day.

For several days this wedding did last, Where was many a topping and gallant repast, And for joy the bells rung out all over the town, And bottles of canary rolled merrily round.

When Catskin was married, her fame for to raise, Who saw her modest carriage they all gave her praise; Thus her charming beauty the squire did win; And who lives so great now as he and Catskin.

Now in the fifth part I’ll endeavour to show, How things with her parents and sister did go; Her mother and sister of life are bereft, And now all alone the old squire is left.

Who hearing his daughter was married so brave, He said, ‘In my noddle a fancy I have; Dressed like a poor man now a journey I’ll make, And see if she on me some pity will take.’

Then dressed like a beggar he went to her gate, Where stood his daughter, who looked very great; He cried, ‘Noble lady, a poor man I be, And am now forced to crave charity.’

With a blush she asked him from whence that he came; And with that he told her, and likewise his name. She cried ‘I’m your daughter, whom you slighted so, Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I’ll show.

‘Through mercy the Lord hath provided for me; Pray, father, come in and sit down then,’ said she. Then the best provisions the house could afford, For to make him welcome was set on the board.

She said, ‘You are welcome, feed hearty, I pray, And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay, So long as you live.’ Then he made this reply: ‘I only am come now thy love for to try.

‘Through mercy, my dear child, I’m rich and not poor, I have gold and silver enough now in store; And for this love which at thy hands I have found, For thy portion I’ll give thee ten thousand pound.’

So in a few days after, as I understand, This man he went home, and sold off all his land, And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give, And now altogether in love they do live.

O did you ever hear of the brave Earl Brand, Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie; His courted the king’s daughter o’ fair England, I’ the brave nights so early!

She was scarcely fifteen years that tide, When sae boldly she came to his bed-side,

‘O, Earl Brand, how fain wad I see A pack of hounds let loose on the lea.’

‘O, lady fair, I have no steed but one, But thou shalt ride and I will run.’

‘O, Earl Brand, but my father has two, And thou shalt have the best of tho’.’

Now they have ridden o’er moss and moor, And they have met neither rich nor poor;

Till at last they met with old Carl Hood, He’s aye for ill, and never for good.

‘Now Earl Brand, an ye love me, Slay this old Carl and gar him dee.’

‘O, lady fair, but that would be sair, To slay an auld Carl that wears grey hair.

‘My own lady fair, I’ll not do that, I’ll pay him his fee . . . . . . ’

‘O, where have ye ridden this lee lang day, And where have ye stown this fair lady away?’

‘I have not ridden this lee lang day, Nor yet have I stown this lady away;

‘For she is, I trow, my sick sister, Whom I have been bringing fra’ Winchester.’

‘If she’s been sick, and nigh to dead, What makes her wear the ribbon so red?

‘If she’s been sick, and like to die, What makes her wear the gold sae high?’

When came the Carl to the lady’s yett, He rudely, rudely rapped thereat.

‘Now where is the lady of this hall?’ ‘She’s out with her maids a playing at the ball.’

‘Ha, ha, ha! ye are all mista’en, Ye may count your maidens owre again.

‘I met her far beyond the lea With the young Earl Brand his leman to be.’

Her father of his best men armed fifteen, And they’re ridden after them bidene.

The lady looked owre her left shoulder then, Says, ‘O Earl Brand we are both of us ta’en.’

‘If they come on me one by one, You may stand by till the fights be done;

‘But if they come on me one and all, You may stand by and see me fall.’

They came upon him one by one, Till fourteen battles he has won;

And fourteen men he has them slain, Each after each upon the plain.

But the fifteenth man behind stole round, And dealt him a deep and a deadly wound.

Though he was wounded to the deid, He set his lady on her steed.

They rode till they came to the river Doune, And there they lighted to wash his wound.

‘O, Earl Brand, I see your heart’s blood!’ ‘It’s nothing but the glent and my scarlet hood.’

They rode till they came to his mother’s yett, So faint and feebly he rapped thereat.

‘O, my son’s slain, he is falling to swoon, And it’s all for the sake of an English loon.’

‘O, say not so, my dearest mother, But marry her to my youngest brother—

‘To a maiden true he’ll give his hand, Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie.

To the king’s daughter o’ fair England, To a prize that was won by a slain brother’s brand, I’ the brave nights so early!’

There comes an old man and his three sons,

I could match this beginning with an old tale.—i. 2.

Old Sir Robert Bolton had three sons, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And one of them was Sir Ryalas, For he was a jovial hunter.

He ranged all round down by the wood side, Wind well thy horn, good hunter, Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied, For he was a jovial hunter.

‘Oh, what dost thee mean, fair lady,’ said he, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; ‘The wild boar’s killed my lord, and has thirty men gored, And thou beest a jovial hunter.’

‘Oh, what shall I do this wild boar for to see?’ Wind well thy horn, good hunter; ‘Oh, thee blow a blast and he’ll come unto thee, As thou beest a jovial hunter.’

Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west, and south, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And the wild boar then heard him full in his den, As he was a jovial hunter.

Then he made the best of his speed unto him, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; [Swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared with [gore], [125a] To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along, To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

‘Oh, what dost thee want of me?’ wild boar, said he, [125b] Wind well thy horn, good hunter; ‘Oh, I think in my heart I can do enough for thee, For I am the jovial hunter.’

Then they fought four hours in a long summer day, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; Till the wild boar fain would have got him away From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with might, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And he fairly cut the boar’s head off quite, For he was a jovial hunter.

Then out of the wood the wild woman flew, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; ‘Oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew, For thou beest a jovial hunter.

‘There are three things, I demand them of thee,’ Wind well thy horn, good hunter; ‘It’s thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady, As thou beest a jovial hunter.’

‘If these three things thou dost ask of me,’ Wind well thy horn, good hunter; ‘It’s just as my sword and thy neck can agree, For I am a jovial hunter.’

Then into his long locks the wild woman flew, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; Till she thought in her heart to tear him through, Though he was a jovial hunter.

Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword again, Wind well thy horn, good hunter, And he fairly split her head into twain, For he was a jovial hunter.

In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And the wild boar’s head is pictured thereby, Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter.

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower window, At midnight mending her quoif; And there she saw as fine a corpse As ever she saw in her life.

‘What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall? What bear ye on your shouldèrs?’ ‘We bear the corpse of Giles Collins, An old and true lover of yours.’

‘O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall, All on the grass so green, And to-morrow when the sun goes down, Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

‘And bury me in Saint Mary’s Church, All for my love so true; And make me a garland of marjoram, And of lemon thyme, and rue.’

Giles Collins was buried all in the east, Lady Alice all in the west; And the roses that grew on Giles Collins’s grave, They reached Lady Alice’s breast.

The priest of the parish he chancèd to pass, And he severed those roses in twain. Sure never were seen such true lovers before, Nor e’er will there be again.

This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a few families only, and by them held so precious, that it was never intrusted to the memory of the son till the father was on his death-bed. But times are altered, for since the first edition of this work, a certain bookseller [the late Mr. Evans] has printed it verbatim, with little acknowledgment to the first editor. He might have recollected that The Felon Sewe had been already reclaimed property vested. However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, this hint shall suffice.—History of Craven, second edition, London, 1812.

Ye men that will of aunters wynne, That late within this lande hath bin, Of on I will yow telle; And of a sewe that was sea strang, Alas! that ever scho lived sea lang, For fell folk did scho wele. [129]

Scho was mare than other three, The grizeliest beast that ere mote bee Her hede was greate and graye; Scho was bred in Rokebye woode, Ther war few that thither yoode, [130a] But cam belive awaye.

Her walke was endlang Greta syde, Was no barne that colde her byde, That was fra heven or helle; [130b] Ne never man that had that myght, That ever durst com in her syght, Her force it was sea felle.

Raphe [130c] of Rokebye, with full gode wyll, The freers of Richmonde gav her tyll, Full wele to gar thayme fare; Freer Myddeltone by name, Hee was sent to fetch her hame, Yt rewed him syne full sare.

Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two, Peter of Dale was on of tho, Tother was Bryan of Beare; [130d] Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife, And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe, What tyme as musters were. [130e]

These three men wended at theyr wyll, This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll, Liggand under a tree; Rugg’d and rustic was her here, Scho rase up wyth a felon fere, [131a] To fyght agen the three.

Grizely was scho for to meete, Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete, The barke cam fra’ the tree: When Freer Myddeltone her saugh, Wete yow wele hee list not laugh, Full earnestful luik’d hee.

These men of auncestors [131b] were so wight, They bound them bauldly for to fyght, And strake at her full sare; Until a kilne they garred her flee, Wolde God sende thayme the victorye, They wolde aske hym na maire.

The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone, And they wer on the bawke aboone, For hurting of theyr feete; They wer sea sauted [131c] wyth this sewe, That ’mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe, The kilne began to reeke!

Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande, But put a rape downe wyth a wande, And heltered her ful meete; They hauled her furth agen her wyll, Qunyl they cam until a hille, A little fra the streete. [131d]

And ther scho made thayme sike a fray, As, had they lived until Domesday, They colde yt nere forgette: Scho brayded upon every syde, And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde, For nathing wolde scho lette.

Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bande That Peter of Dale had in his hande, Hee myght not holde hys feete; Scho chasèd thayme sea to and fro, The wight men never wer sea woe, Ther mesure was not mete.

Scho bound her boldly to abide, To Peter of Dale scho cam aside, Wyth mony a hideous yelle; Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee, The freer sayd, ‘I conjure thee, Thou art a fiend of helle!

‘Thou art comed hider for sum trayne, I conjure thee to go agayne, Wher thou was wont to dwell.’ He sainèd hym wyth crosse and creede, Tooke furth a booke, began to reade, In Ste Johan hys gospell.

The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare, But rudely rushèd at the freer, That blynkèd all his blee; [132a] And when scho wolde have takken holde, The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde, [132b] And bealed hym wyth a tree.

Scho was brim as anie beare, For all their meete to laboure there, To thayme yt was noe boote; On tree and bushe that by her stode, Scho vengèd her as scho wer woode, And rave thayme up by roote.

Hee sayd, ‘Alas that I wer freer, I shal bee hugged asunder here, Hard is my destinie! Wiste my brederen, in this houre, That I was set in sike a stoure, They wolde pray for mee!’

This wicked beaste thatte wrought the woe, Tooke that rape from the other two, And than they fledd all three; They fledd away by Watling streete, They had no succour but their feete, Yt was the maire pittye.

The fielde it was both loste and wonne, The sewe wente hame, and thatte ful soone, To Morton-on-the-Greene. When Raphe of Rokeby saw the rape, He wist that there had bin debate, Whereat the sewe had beene.

He bade thayme stand out of her waye, For scho had had a sudden fraye,— ‘I saw never sewe sea keene, Some new thingis shall wee heare, Of her and Myddeltone the freer, Some battel hath ther beene.’

But all that servèd him for nought,— Had they not better succour sought, [133] They wer servèd therfore loe. Then Mistress Rokebye came anon, And for her brought scho meete ful soone, The sewe cam her untoe.

Scho gav her meete upon the flower; [Scho made a bed beneath a bower, With moss and broom besprent; The sewe was gentle as mote be, Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e’e, Scho seemèd wele content.]

When Freer Myddeltone com home, Hys breders war ful faine ilchone, And thanked God for hys lyfe; He told thayme all unto the ende, How hee had foughten wyth a fiende, And lived thro’ mickle stryfe.

‘Wee gav her battel half a daye, And was faine to flee awaye For saving of oure lyfe; And Peter Dale wolde never blin, But ran as faste as he colde rinn, Till he cam till hys wyfe.’

The Warden sayde, ‘I am ful woe That yow sholde bee torment soe, But wee had wyth yow beene! Had wee bene ther, yowr breders alle, Wee wolde hav garred the warlo [134] falle, That wrought yow all thys teene.’

Freer Myddeltone, he sayde soon, ‘Naye, In faythe ye wolde hav ren awaye, When moste misstirre had bin; Ye all can speke safte wordes at home, The fiend wolde ding yow doone ilk on, An yt bee als I wene,

Hee luik’d sea grizely al that nyght.’ The Warden sayde, ‘Yon man wol fyght If ye saye ought but gode, Yon guest [135a] hath grievèd hym sea sore; Holde your tongues, and speake ne more, Hee luiks als hee wer woode.’

The Warden wagèd [135b] on the morne, Two boldest men that ever wer borne, I weyne, or ere shall bee: Tone was Gilbert Griffin sonne, Ful mickle worship hadde hee wonne, Both by land and sea.

Tother a bastard sonne of Spaine, Mony a Sarazin hadde hee slaine; Hys dint hadde garred thayme dye. Theis men the battel undertoke Agen the sewe, as saythe the boke, And sealed securitye,

That they shold boldly bide and fyghte, And scomfit her in maine and myghte, Or therfor sholde they dye. The Warden sealed toe thayme againe, And sayde, ‘If ye in fielde be slaine, This condition make I:

‘Wee shall for yow praye, syng, and reade, Until Domesdaye wyth heartye speede, With al our progenie.’ Then the lettres wer wele made, The bondes wer bounde wyth seales brade, As deeds of arms sholde bee.

Theise men-at-arms thatte wer sea wight, And wyth theire armour burnished bryght, They went the sewe toe see. Scho made at thayme sike a roare, That for her they fear it sore, And almaiste bounde to flee.

Scho cam runnyng thayme agayne, And saw the bastarde sonne of Spaine, Hee brayded owt hys brande; Ful spiteouslie at her hee strake, Yet for the fence that he colde make, Scho strake it fro hys hande, And rave asander half hys sheelde, And bare hym backwerde in the fielde, Hee mought not her gainstande.

Scho wolde hav riven hys privich geare, But Gilbert wyth hys swerde of warre, Hee strake at her ful strang. In her shouther hee held the swerde; Than was Gilbert sore afearde, When the blade brak in twang.

And whan in hande hee had her ta’en, Scho toke hym by the shouther bane, And held her hold ful faste; Scho strave sea stifflie in thatte stoure, Scho byt thro’ ale hys rich armoure, Till bloud cam owt at laste.

Than Gilbert grievèd was sea sare, That hee rave off the hyde of haire; The flesh cam fra the bane, And wyth force hee held her ther, And wanne her worthilie in warre, And band her hym alane;

And lifte her on a horse sea hee, Into two panyers made of a tree, And toe Richmond anon. When they sawe the felon come, They sange merrilye Te Deum! The freers evrich one.

They thankyd God and Saynte Frauncis, That they had wonne the beaste of pris, And nere a man was sleyne: There never didde man more manlye, The Knyght Marone, or Sir Guye, Nor Louis of Lothraine.

If yow wyl any more of thys, I’ the fryarie at Richmond [137] written yt is, In parchment gude and fyne, How Freer Myddeltone sea hende, Att Greta Bridge conjured a fiende, In lykeness of a swyne.

Yt is wel knowen toe manie a man, That Freer Theobald was warden than, And thys fel in hys tyme. And Chryst thayme bles both ferre and nere, Al that for solas this doe here, And hym that made the ryme.

Raphe of Rokeby wid ful gode wyl, The freers of Richmond gav her tyll, This sewe toe mende ther fare; Freer Myddeltone by name, He wold bring the felon hame, That rewed hym sine ful sare.