SKELTON, LAUREATE, &c. HOWE THE DOUTY DUKE OF ALBANY,[257] LYKE A COWARDE KNYGHT, RAN AWAYE SHAMFULLY, WITH AN HUNDRED THOUSANDE TRATLANDE SCOTTES AND FAINT HARTED FRENCHEMEN, BESIDE THE WATER OF TWEDE, &c.

Reioyse, Englande, And vnderstande These tidinges newe, Whiche be as trewe As the gospell: This duke so fell Of Albany, So cowardly, With all his hoost Of the Scottyshe coost, 10 For all theyr boost, Fledde lyke a beest; Wherfore to ieste Is my delyght Of this cowarde knyght, And for to wright In the dispyght Of the Scottes ranke Of Huntley banke, Of Lowdyan, 20 Of Locryan, And the ragged ray Of Galaway. Dunbar, Dunde, Ye shall trowe me, False Scottes are ye: Your hartes sore faynted, And so[258] attaynted, Lyke cowardes starke, At the castell of Warke, 30 By the water of Twede, Ye had euill spede; Lyke cankerd curres, Ye loste your spurres, For in that fraye Ye ranne awaye, With, hey, dogge, hay! For Sir William Lyle Within shorte whyle, That valiaunt knyght, 40 Putte you to flyght; By his valyaunce Two thousande[259] of Fraunce There he putte backe, To your great lacke, And vtter shame Of your Scottysshe name. Your chefe cheftayne, Voyde of all brayne, Duke of all Albany, 50 Than shamefuly He reculed backe, To his great lacke, Whan he herde tell That my lorde amrell Was comyng downe, To make hym frowne And to make hym lowre, With the noble powre Of my lorde cardynall, 60 As an hoost royall, After the auncient manner, With sainct Cutberdes banner, And sainct Williams also; Your capitayne ranne to go, To go, to go, to go, And brake vp all his hoost; For all his crake and bost, Lyke a cowarde knyght, He fledde, and durst nat fyght, 70 He ranne awaye by night. But now must I Your Duke ascry Of Albany With a worde or twayne In sentence playne. Ye duke so doutty, So sterne, so stoutty, In shorte sentens, Of your pretens 80 What is the grounde, Breuely and rounde To me expounde, Or els wyll I Euydently Shewe as it is; For the cause is this, Howe ye pretende For to defende The yonge Scottyshe kyng, 90 But ye meane a thyng, And ye coude bryng The matter about, To putte his eyes out And put hym downe, And set hys crowne On your owne heed Whan he were deed. Such trechery And traytory 100 Is all your cast; Thus ye haue compast With the Frenche kyng A fals rekenyng To enuade Englande, As I vnderstande: But our kyng royall, Whose name ouer all, Noble Henry the eyght, Shall cast a beyght, 110 And sette suche a snare, That shall cast you in care, Bothe Kyng Fraunces and thé, That knowen ye shall be For the moost recrayd Cowardes afrayd, And falsest forsworne, That euer were borne. O ye wretched Scottes, Ye puaunt pyspottes, 120 It shalbe your lottes To be knytte vp with knottes Of halters and ropes About your traytours throtes! O Scottes pariured, Vnhaply vred, Ye may be assured Your falshod discured It is and shal be From the Scottish se 130 Vnto Gabione! For ye be false echone, False and false agayne, Neuer true nor playne, But flery, flatter, and fayne, And euer to remayne In wretched beggary And maungy misery, In lousy lothsumnesse And scabbed scorffynesse, 140 And in abhominacion Of all maner of nacion, Nacion moost in hate, Proude and poore of state. Twyt, Scot, go kepe thy den, Mell nat with Englyshe men; Thou dyd nothyng but barke At the castell of Warke. Twyt, Scot, yet agayne ones, We shall breke thy bones, 150 And hang you vpon polles, And byrne you all to colles; With, twyt, Scot, twyt, Scot, twyt, Walke, Scot, go begge a byt Of brede at ylke mannes hecke: The fynde, Scot, breke thy necke! Twyt, Scot, agayne I saye, Twyt, Scot of Galaway, Twyt, Scot, shake thy dogge,[260] hay! Twyt, Scot, thou ran away. 160 We set nat a flye By your Duke of Albany; We set nat a prane By suche a dronken drane; We set nat a myght By suche a cowarde knyght, Suche a proude palyarde, Suche a skyrgaliarde, Suche a starke cowarde, Suche a proude pultrowne, 170 Suche a foule coystrowne, Suche a doutty dagswayne; Sende him to F[r]aunce agayne, To bring with hym more brayne From Kynge Fraunces of Frauns: God sende them bothe myschauns! Ye Scottes all the rable, Ye shall neuer be hable With vs for to compare; What though ye stampe and stare? 180 God sende you sorow and care! With vs whan euer ye mell, Yet we bear away the bell, Whan ye cankerd knaues Must crepe into your caues Your heedes for to hyde, For ye dare nat abyde. Sir Duke of Albany, Right inconuenyently Ye rage and ye raue, 190 And your worshyp depraue: Nat lyke Duke Hamylcar, With the Romayns that made war, Nor lyke his sonne Hanyball, Nor lyke Duke Hasdruball Of Cartage in Aphrike; Yet somwhat ye be lyke In some of their condicions, And their false sedycions, And their dealyng double, 200 And their weywarde trouble: But yet they were bolde, And manly manyfolde, Their enemyes to assayle In playn felde and battayle; But ye and your hoost, Full of bragge and boost, And full of waste wynde, Howe ye wyll beres bynde, And the deuill downe dynge, 210 Yet ye dare do nothynge, But lepe away lyke frogges, And hyde you vnder logges, Lyke pygges and lyke hogges, And lyke maungy dogges. What an army were ye? Or what actyuyte Is in you, beggers braules, Full of scabbes and scaules, Of vermyne and of lyce, 220 And of all maner vyce? Syr duke, nay, syr ducke, Syr drake of the lake, sir ducke Of the donghyll, for small lucke Ye haue in feates of warre; Ye make nought, but ye marre; Ye are a fals entrusar, And a fals abusar, And an vntrewe knyght; Thou hast to lytell myght 230 Agaynst Englande to fyght; Thou art a graceles wyght To put thy selfe to flyght: A vengeaunce and dispight On thé must nedes lyght, That durst nat byde the sight Of my lorde amrell, Of chiualry the well, Of knighthode the floure In euery marciall shoure, 240 The noble Erle of Surrey, That put thé in suche fray; Thou durst no felde derayne, Nor no batayle[261] mayntayne Against our st[r]onge captaine, But thou ran home agayne, For feare thou shoulde be slayne, Lyke a Scottyshe keteryng, That durst abyde no reknyng; Thy hert wolde nat serue thé: 250 The fynde of hell mot sterue thé! No man hath harde Of suche a cowarde, And such a mad ymage Caried in a cage, As it were a cotage; Or of suche a mawment Caryed in a tent; In a tent! nay, nay, But in a mountayne gay, 260 Lyke a great hill For a wyndmil, Therin to couche styll, That no man hym kyll; As it were a gote In a shepe cote, About hym a parke Of a madde warke, Men call it a toyle; Therin, lyke a royle, 270 Sir Dunkan, ye dared, And thus ye prepared Youre carkas to kepe, Lyke a sely shepe, A shepe of Cottyswolde, From rayne and from colde, And from raynning of rappes, And suche after clappes; Thus in your cowardly castell Ye decte you to dwell: 280 Suche a captayne of hors,[262] It made no great fors If that ye had tane Your last deedly bane With a gon stone, To make you to grone. But hyde thé, sir Topias, Nowe into the castell of Bas, And lurke there, lyke an as, With some Scotyshe [l]as, 290 With dugges, dugges, dugges: I shrewe thy Scottishe lugges, Thy munpynnys, and thy crag, For thou can not but brag, Lyke a Scottyshe hag: Adue nowe, sir Wrig wrag, Adue, sir Dalyrag! Thy mellyng is but mockyng; Thou mayst giue vp thy cocking, Gyue it vp, and cry creke, 300 Lyke an huddypeke. Wherto shuld I more speke Of suche a farly freke, Of suche an horne keke, Of suche an bolde captayne, That dare nat turne agayne, Nor durst nat crak a worde, Nor durst nat drawe his swerde Agaynst the Lyon White, But ran away quyte? 310 He ran away by nyght, In the owle flyght, Lyke a cowarde knyght. Adue, cowarde, adue, Fals knight, and mooste vntrue! I render thé, fals rebelle, To the flingande fende of helle. Harke yet, sir duke, a worde, In ernest or in borde: What, haue ye, villayn, forged, 320 And virulently dysgorged, As though ye wolde parbrake, Your auauns to make, With wordes enbosed, Vngraciously engrosed, Howe ye wyll vndertake Our royall kyng to make His owne realme to forsake? Suche lewde langage ye spake. Sir Dunkan, in the deuill waye, 330 Be well ware what ye say: Ye saye that he and ye,— Whyche he and ye? let se; Ye meane Fraunces, French kyng, Shulde bring about that thing. I say, thou lewde lurdayne, That neyther of you twayne So hardy nor so bolde His countenaunce to beholde: If our moost royall Harry 340 Lyst with you to varry, Full soone ye should miscary, For ye durst nat tarry With hym to stryue a stownde; If he on you but frounde, Nat for a thousande pounde[263] Ye durst byde on the grounde, Ye wolde ryn away rounde, And cowardly tourne your backes, For all your comly crackes, 350 And, for feare par case To loke hym in the face, Ye wolde defoyle the place, And ryn your way apace. Thoughe I trym you thys trace With Englyshe somwhat base, Yet, saue[264] voster grace, Therby I shall purchace No displesaunt rewarde, If ye wele can regarde 360 Your cankarde cowardnesse And your shamfull doublenesse. Are ye nat frantyke madde, And wretchedly bestadde, To rayle agaynst his grace, That shall bring you full bace, And set you in suche case, That bytwene you twayne There shalbe drawen a trayne That shalbe to your payne? 370 To flye ye shalbe fayne, And neuer tourne agayne. What, wold Fraunces, our friar, Be suche a false lyar, So madde a cordylar, So madde a murmurar? Ye muse somwhat to far; All out of ioynt ye iar: God let you neuer thriue! Wene ye, daucockes, to driue 380 Our kyng out of his reme? Ge heme, ranke Scot, ge heme, With fonde Fraunces, French kyng: Our mayster shall you brynge I trust, to lowe estate, And mate you with chekmate. Your braynes are ydell; It is time for you to brydell, And pype in a quibyble; For it is impossible 390 For you to bring about, Our kyng for to dryue out Of this his realme royall And lande imperiall; So noble a prince as he In all actyuite Of hardy merciall actes, Fortunate in all his faytes.[265] And nowe I wyll me dresse His valiaunce to expresse, 400 Though insufficient am I His grace to magnify And laude equiualently; Howe be it, loyally, After myne allegyaunce, My pen I will auaunce To extoll his noble grace, In spyght of thy cowardes face, In spyght of Kyng Fraunces, Deuoyde of all nobles, 410 Deuoyde of good corage, Deuoyde of wysdome sage, Mad, frantyke, and sauage; Thus he dothe disparage His blode with fonde dotage. A prince to play the page It is a rechelesse rage, And a lunatyke ouerage. What though my stile be rude? With trouthe it is ennewde: 420 Trouth ought to be rescude, Trouthe should nat be subdude. But nowe will I expounde What noblenesse dothe abounde, And what honour is founde, And what vertues be resydent In our royall regent, Our perelesse president, Our kyng most excellent: In merciall prowes 430 Lyke vnto Hercules; In prudence and wysdom Lyke vnto Salamon; In his goodly person Lyke vnto Absolon; In loyalte and foy Lyke to Ector of Troy; And his glory to incres, Lyke to Scipiades; In royal mageste 440 Lyke unto Ptholome, Lyke to Duke Iosue, And the valiaunt Machube; That if I wolde reporte All the roiall sorte Of his nobilyte, His magnanymyte, His animosite, His frugalite,[266] His lyberalite, 450 His affabilite, His humanyte, His stabilite, His humilite, His benignite, His royall dignyte, My lernyng is to small For to recount them all. What losels than are ye, Lyke cowardes as ye be, 460 To rayle on his astate, With wordes inordinate! He rules his cominalte With all benignite; His noble baronage, He putteth them in corage To exployte dedes of armys, To the domage and harmys Of suche as be his foos; Where euer he rydes or goos, 470 His subiectes he dothe supporte, Maintayne them with comforte Of his moste princely porte, As all men can reporte. Than ye be a knappishe sorte, Et faitez a luy grant torte, With your enbosed iawes To rayle on hym lyke dawes; The fende scrache out your mawes! All his subiectes and he 480 Moost louyngly agre With hole hart and true mynde, They fynde his grace so kynde; Wherwith he dothe them bynde At all houres to be redy With hym to lyue and dye, And to spende[267] their hart blode, Their bodyes and their gode, With hym in all dystresse, Alway in redynesse 490 To assyst his noble grace; In spyght of thy cowardes face, Moost false attaynted traytour, And false forsworne faytour. Auaunte, cowarde recrayed! Thy pride shalbe alayd; With sir Fraunces of Fraunce We shall pype you a daunce, Shall tourne you to myschauns. I rede you, loke about; 500 For ye shalbe driuen out Of your lande in shorte space: We will so folowe in the chace, That ye shall haue no grace For to tourne your face; And thus, Sainct George to borowe, Ye shall haue shame and sorowe. Lenuoy. Go, lytell quayre, quickly; Shew them that shall you rede, How that ye are lykely 510 Ouer all the worlde[268] to sprede. The fals Scottes for dred, With the Duke of Albany, Beside the water of Twede They fledde full cowardly. Though your Englishe be rude, Barreyne of eloquence, Yet, breuely to conclude, Grounded is your sentence On trouthe, vnder defence 520 Of all trewe Englyshemen, This mater to credence That I wrate with my pen.

Lenuoy. Go, lytell quayre, apace, In moost humble wyse, Before his noble grace, That caused you to deuise This lytel enterprise; And hym moost lowly pray, In his mynde to comprise Those wordes his grace dyd saye Of an ammas gray. Ie foy enterment en sa bone grace.