« ПретходнаНастави »
Let thou and I the battle try,
And set our men aside.”
By whom it is denied.”
Witherington was his name,
To Henry our king for shame, That e'er my captain fought on foot,
And I stood looking on; You be two earls," said Witherington,
“ And I a squire alone. I'll do the best that do I may,
While I have power to stand; While I have power to wield my sword,
I'll fight with heart and hand." Our English archers bent their bows;
Their hearts were good and true ; At the first flight of arrows sent,
Full three-score Scots they slew. They closed full fast on every side ;
No slackness was there found, And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.
And likewise for to hear,
And scattered here and there.
Like captains of great might; Like lions moved, they laid on load,
And made a cruel figbt. They fought until they both did sweat,
With swords of temper'd steel; Until the blood, like drops of rain,
They trickling down did feel.
“ Yield thee, lord Percy !” Douglas cried,
“ In faith I will thee bring, Where thou shalt high advanced be
By James our Scottish king.
And thus report of thee,
That ever I did see.”
Thy proffer I do scorn:
That ever yet was born."
Out of an English bow,
A deep and deadly blow.
“ Fight on my merry men all; For why ? my life is at an end;
Lord Percy sees my fall.”
The dead man by the hand;
land. O Christ ! my very heart doth bleed
With sorrow for thy sake;
Mischance did never take."
Which saw earl Douglas die,
Upon the lord Percy.
Who, with a spear most bright,
Ran fiercely through the fight.
And past the English archers all,
Without all dread or fear;
He thrust his hateful spear.
He did his body gore,
spear went through the other side
A large cloth-yard aud more. So thus did both these nobles die,
Whose courage none could stain, An English archer then perceived
The noble earl was slain. He had a bow bent in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long
Up to the head drew he.
So right the shaft he set,
In his heart's blood was wet.
Till sitting of the sun;
The battle scarce was done.
Sir John of Egerton,
Sir James that bold barón.
Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose
prowess did surmount. For Witherington needs must I wail,
As one in doleful dumps :
He fought upon his stumps.