Chevy Chase

The Percy out of Northumberland,An avow to God made heThat he would hunt in the mountainsOf Cheviot within days three,In the maugre of doughty Douglas,And all that e’er with him be.

The fattest harts in all CheviotHe would kill and carry away.--‘By my faith,’ said the doughty Douglas again,‘I will let that hunting if I may!’

Then the Percy out of Banborowe came,With him a mighty meinye,With fifteen hundred archers boldChosen out of shirès three.

This began on a Monday at morn,In Cheviot the hills so hye;The child may rue that is unborn,It was the more pitye.

The drivers through the woodès wentBowmen bicker’d upon the bentWith their broad arrows clear.

Then the wild thoro’ the woodès wentOn every sidè shear;Greyhounds thoro’ the grevès glentFor to kill their deer.

This began on Cheviot the hills abuneEarly on a Monenday;By that it drew to the hour of noonA hundred fat harts dead there lay.

They blew a mort upon the bent,They ’sembled on sidès shear;To the quarry then the Percy wentTo the brittling of the deer.

He said, ‘It was the Douglas’ promiseThis day to meet me here;But I wist he would fail, verament!’--A great oath the Percy sware.

At the last a squire of NorthumberlandLookèd at his hand full nigh;He was ware o’ the doughty Douglas coming,With him a great meinye.

Both with speär, bill and brand,--’Twas a mighty sight to see;Hardier men both of heart nor handWere not in Christiantè.

They were twenty hundred spearmen good,Withouten any fail:They were born along by the water o’ TweedI’ the boun’s o’ Teviotdale.

‘Leave off the brittling of deer,’ he said;‘To your bows look ye take good heed,For sith ye were on your mothers bornHad ye never so mickle need.’

The doughty Douglas on a steedRode all his men beforn,His armour glitter’d as did a gleed,Bolder bairn was never born.

‘Tell me whose men ye are,’ he says,‘Or whose men that ye be;Who gave you leave in this Cheviot chaseIn the spite of mine and of me?’

The first man that him answer madeIt was the good Lord Percye:‘We will not tell thee whose men we are,Nor whose men that we be;But we will hunt here in this chaseIn the spite of thine and of thee.

‘The fattest harts in all CheviotWe have kill’d, to carry away.’--‘By my troth,’ said the doughty Douglas again,‘The one of us dies this day.

‘[Yet] to kill allè these guiltless menAlas, it were great pitye!But, Percy, thou art a lord of land,I an earl in my countrye--Let all our men on a party stand,And do battle of thee and me!’

‘Christ’s curse on his crown,’ said the lord Percye,‘Whosoever thereto says nay!By my troth, thou doughty Douglas,’ he says,‘Thou shalt never see that day--

--‘Neither in England, Scotland nor France,Nor for no man of woman born,But, that (and fortune be my chance)I dare meet him, one man for one.’

Then bespake a squire of Northumberland,Richard Witherington was his name;‘It shall never be told in South EnglandTo King Harry the Fourth for shame.

‘I wot you bin great lordès two,I am a poor squire of land;And stand myself and look on.But while that I may my weapon wieldI’ll not fail, both heart and hand.’

That day, that day, that dreadful day!--The first fytte here I find:An you’ll hear any more o’ the hunting of Cheviot,Yet there is more behind.

The Englishmen had their bows y-bent,Their hearts were good enow;The first of arrows that they shot offSeven score spearmen they slew.

Yet bides the Earl Douglas upon the bent,A captain good enoghe;And that was seenè verament,For he wrought them both woe and wouche.

The Douglas parted his host in three,Like a chief chieftain of pride;With surè spears of mighty treeThey came in on every side;

--Throughè our English archeryGave many a woond full wide;Many a doughty they gar’d to dye,Which gainèd them no pride.

The Englishmen let their bowès be,And pull’d out brands that were bright;It was a heavy sight to seeBright swords on basnets light.

Thoro’ rich mail and manoplieMany stern they struck down straight;Many a freyke that was full freeThere under foot did light.

At last the Douglas and the Percy met,Like to captains of might and of main;They swapt together till they both swatWith swordès of fine Milan.

These worthy freykès for to fightThereto they were full fain,Till the blood out of their basnets sprentAs ever did hail or rain.

‘Yield thee, Percy,’ said the Douglas,‘And i’ faith I shall thee bringWhere thou shalt have an Earl’s wagesOf Jamie our Scottish king.

‘Thou shaltè have thy ransom free,--I hight thee here this thing;For the manfullest man thou art that e’erI conquer’d in field fighting.’

But ‘Nay’, then said the lord Percye,‘I told it thee befornThat I would never yielded beTo man of a woman born.’

With that an arrow came hastilyForth of a mighty wane;And it hath stricken the Earl DouglasIn at the breastè-bane.

Thoro’ liver and lungès bothThe sharp arròw is gone,That never after in his life-daysHe spake mo words but one:’Twas, ‘Fight ye, my merry men, whiles ye may,For my life-days bin gone!’

The Percy leanèd on his brandAnd saw the Douglas dee;He took the dead man by the hand,And said, ‘Woe is me for thee!

‘To have sav’d thy life I’d have parted withMy lands for yearès three,For a better man of heart nor of handWas not in the north countrye.’

Sir Hugh the Montgomerye:When he saw Douglas to the death was dight,Through a hundred archeryeHe never stint nor he never blintTill he came to the lord Percye.

He set upon the lord PercỳA dint that was full sore;With a surè spear of a mighty treeThro’ the body him he bore,O’ the t’other side that a man might seeA large cloth-yard and more.

An archer of NorthumberlandSaw slain was the lord Percye:He bare a bent bow in his hand,Was made of a trusty tree.

An arrow that was a cloth-yard longTo the hard steel halèd he,A dint that was both sad and sairHe set on Montgomerye.

The dint it was both sad and sairThat he on Montgomerye set;The swan-feathers that his arrow bareWith his heart-blood they were wet.

There was never a freykè one foot would flee,But still in stoure did stand;Hewing on each other, while they might dree,With many a baleful brand.

This battle began in CheviotAn hour before the noon,And when the even-song bell was rungThe battle was not half done.

They took [their stand] on either handBy the lee light of the moon;Many had no strength for to standIn Cheviot the hills abune.

Of fifteen hundred archers of EnglandWent away but seventy-and-three;Of twenty hundred spearmen of ScotlandBut even five-and-fiftỳ.

There was slain with the bold PercyeSir John of Agerstoune,Sir Roger, the hendè Hartley,Sir William, the bold Herone.

Sir George, the worthy Loumlye,A knight of great renown,Sir Ralph, the richè Rabye,With dints were beaten down.

For Witherington my heart was woeThat ever he slain should be:For when both his legs were hewn in twoYet he kneel’d and fought on his knee.

There was slayn with the doughty DouglasSir Hugh the Montgomerye,Sir Davy Lambwell, that worthy was,His sister’s son was he.

Sir Charles a Murray in that place,That never a foot would flee:Sir Hew Maxwell, a lord he was,With the Douglas did he dee.

So on the morrow they made them biersOf birch and hazel so gray;Many widows with weeping tearsCame to fetch their makes away.

Teviotdale may carp of care,Northumberland may make moan,For two such captains as slain were thereOn the March-parts shall never be none.

Word is come to Edinboro’,To Jamie the Scottish King,Earl Douglas, lieutenant of the Marches,Lay slain Cheviot within.

His hands the King did weal and wring,Said, ‘Alas! and woe is me!Such another captain Scotland withinI’ faith shall never be!’

Word is come to lovely London,To the fourth Harry, 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,Thy death well quit shall be.’

And as our King made his avowLike a noble prince of renown,For Percy he did it well performAfter, on Homble-down;

Where six-and-thirty Scottish knightsOn a day were beaten down;Glendale glitter’d on their armour brightOver castle, tower and town.

This was the Hunting of the Cheviot;That e’er began this spurn!Old men, that knowen the ground well,Call it of Otterburn.

There was never a time on the Marche-partèsSince the Douglas and Percy met,But ’tis marvel an the red blood run notAs the reane does in the street.

Jesu Christ! our balès bete,And to the bliss us bring!This was the Hunting of the Cheviot:God send us all good endìng!