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He bare a bend-bow in his hand
Was made of trusty tree.

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

A dint he set, was both sad and sore,
On Sir Hugh the Montgomerie.

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

The swan feathers the arrow bore

With his heart's-blood they were wet.

There was never a freke one foot would flee,

But still in stour 24 did stand,

Hewing on each other, while they might dree 25

With many a baleful brand.

This battle began in Cheviot

An hour before the noon,

And still when evensong bell was rung

The battle was not half done.

They took (off) 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.

That were not slain in Cheviot ;

They had no strength to stand on hie.

The child may rue that is unborn:

It was the more pitie.

25 endure.

24 turmoil of fight.

There was slain with Lord Percy,
Sir John of Agerstone;

Sir Roger, the hindè 26 Hartley;
Sir William, the bold Heron.

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

So on the morrow they made them biers
Of birch and hazel gray;

Many widows with weeping tears

Came to fetch their makès 27 away.

Tivydale may carp of 28 care,
Northumberland make great moan;

For two such captains as there were slain
On the Marches shall never be none.

Word is come to Edinborough,

To Jamie the Scottish king,

26 courteous.

27 mates. 28 complain through care.

Doughty Douglas, lieutenant of the Marches,29
Lay slain Cheviot within.

His handès did he weal and wring:

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"Such another captain in Scotland wide

"There is not left," said he.

Word is come to lovely London,

To Harry the fourth our king,

Lord Percy, lieutenant of the Marches,

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,

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Thy death well quit shall be."

And now may Heaven amend us all,
And into bliss us bring!

This was the Hunting of the Cheviot:

GOD send us all good ending!

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A GOOD Sword and a trusty hand!
A merry heart and true!

King James's men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do!

And have they fix'd the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die?

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Here's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!

Out spake their captain brave and bold;
A merry wight was he;

"If London Tower were Michael's Hold,
"We'll set Trelawny free!

"We'll cross the Tamar, land to land,

"The Severn is no stay,

"With one and all, and hand to hand,
"And who shall bid us nay!

"And when we come to London Wall,
"A pleasant sight to view;

"Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all,
“Here's men as good as you!

"Trelawny he's in keep and hold,

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"Trelawny he may die ;

"But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold

"Will know the reason why!

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Old Ballad.

46. A SONG FOR THE TIMES.

A SONG for the times when the sweet church chimes
Called rich and poor to pray,

As they opened their eyes, by the bright sunrise
And when daylight died away.

The squire came out of his rich old hall,

And the peasants by two and by three,

The woodman let his hatchet fall,

And the shepherd left his tree.

Through the churchyard dew, by the churchyard yew

They went both old and young,

And with one consent, in prayer they bent,
And with one consent they sung.

Christmas was merry Christmas then,

And Easter-tide the same

And they welcom'd well, with merry bell

Each Saint's day as it came.

They thought with love on the Saints above,

In the pious days of old

We toil and we slave, till we drop in the grave
And all for the lust of gold.

But little we'll care, what wicked men

May say or think of ill,

They kept the Saints' days holy then,

And we will keep them still.

We'll cherish them now in times of strife

As a holy and peaceful thing;

They were bought by a faithful prelate's life

And the blood of a martyr'd king.

Neale.

47. LOCHINVAR.

O, YOUNG LOCHINVAR is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steel was the best ;
And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river, where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:

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