Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, Volume I: Part III

As they sat in Englyshe wood,Under the green-wode tre,They thought they herd a woman wepe,But her they mought not se.

Sore then syghed the fayre Alyce:'That ever I sawe thys day!'For nowe is my dere husband slayne:Alas! and wel-a-way!

Myght I have spoken wyth hys dere brethren,Or with eyther of them twayne,To show them what him befell,My hart were out of payne.

Cloudeslè walked a lytle beside,He looked under the grene wood lynde,He was ware of his wife, and chyldren three,Full wo in harte and mynde.

Welcome, wyfe, then sayde Wyllyam,Under 'this' trusti tre:I had wende yesterday, by swete saynt John,Thou sholdest me never 'have' se.

"Now well is me that ye be here,My harte is out of wo."Dame, he sayde, be mery and glad,And thanke my brethren two.

Herof to speake, said Adam Bell,I-wis it is no bote:The meate, that we must supp withall,It runneth yet fast on fote.

Then went they downe into a launde,These noble archares all thre;Eche of them slew a hart of greece,The best that they cold se.

Have here the best, Alyce, my wyfe,Sayde Wyllyam of Cloudeslye;By cause ye so bouldly stode by meWhen I was slayne full nye.

Then went they to suppèreWyth suche meate as they had;And thanked God of ther fortune:They were both mery and glad.

And when they had supped well,Certayne withouten lease,Cloudeslè sayd, We wyll to our kyng,To get us a charter of peace.

Alyce shal be at our sojournyngIn a nunnery here besyde;My tow sonnes shall wyth her go,And there they shall abyde.

Myne eldest son shall go wyth me;For hym have 'you' no care:And he shall bring you worde agayn,How that we do fare.

Thus be these yemen to London gone,As fast as they myght 'he,'Tyll they came to the kynges pallàce,Where they woulde nedes be.

And whan they came to the kynges courte,Unto the pallace gate,Of no man wold they aske no leave,But boldly went in therat.

They preced prestly into the hall,Of no man had they dreade:The porter came after, and dyd them call,And with them began to chyde.

The usher sayde, Yemen, what wold ye have?I pray you tell to me:You myght thus make offycers shent:Good syrs, of whence be ye?

Syr, we be out-lawes of the forestCertayne withouten lease;And hether we be come to the kyng,To get us a charter of peace.

And whan they came before the kyng,As it was the lawe of the lande,The kneled downe without lettyng,And eche held up his hand.

The sayed, Lord, we beseche the here,That ye wyll graunt us grace;For we have slayne your fat falow dereIn many a sondry place.

What be your nams, then said our king,Anone that you tell me?They sayd, Adam Bell, Clim of the Clough,And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè.

Be ye those theves, then sayd our kyng,That men have tolde of to me?Here to God I make an avowe,Ye shal be hanged al thre.

Ye shal be dead without mercy,As I am kynge of this lande.He commanded his officers everich-one,Fast on them to lay hande.

There they toke these good yemen,And arested them al thre:So may I thryve, sayd Adam Bell,Thys game lyketh not me.

But, good lorde, we beseche you now,That yee graunt us grace,Insomuche as 'frely' we be to you come,'As frely' we may fro you passe,

With such weapons, as we have here,Tyll we be out of your place;And yf we lyve this hundreth yere,We wyll aske you no grace.

Ye speake proudly, sayd the kynge;Ye shall be hanged all thre.That were great pitye, then sayd the quene,If any grace myght be.

My lorde, whan I came fyrst into this landeTo be your wedded wyfe,The fyrst boone that I wold aske,Ye would graunt it me belyfe:

And I asked you never none tyll now;Therefore good lorde, graunt it me,Now aske it, madam, sayd the kynge,And graunted it shal be.

Then, good my lord, I you beseche,These yemen graunt ye me.Madame, ye myght have asked a boone,That shuld have been worth them all thre.

Ye myght have asked towres, and townes,Parkes and forestes plentè.None soe pleasant to my pay, shee sayd;Nor none so lefe to me.

Madame, sith it is your desyre,Your askyng graunted shal be;But I had lever have geven youGood market townes thre.

The quene was a glad woman,And sayde, Lord, gramarcy:I dare undertake for them,That true men shal they be.

But good my lord, speke som mery word,That comfort they may se.I graunt you grace, then sayd our king;Washe, felos, and to meate go ye.

They had not setten but a whyleCertayne without lesynge,There came messengers out of the northWith letters to our kyng.

And whan the came before the kynge,They knelt downe on theyr kne;And sayd, Lord, your officers grete you well,Of Carleile in the north cuntrè.

How fareth my justice, sayd the kyng,And my sherife also?Syr, they be slayne without leasynge,And many an officer mo.

Who hath them slayne, sayd the kyng;Anone that thou tell me?"Adam Bell, and Clime of the Clough,And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè."

Alas for rewth! then sayd our kynge:My hart is wonderous sore;I had lever than a thousande pounde,I had knowne of thys before;

For I have graunted them grace,And that forthynketh me:But had I knowne all thys before,They had been hanged all thre.

The kyng hee opened the letter anone,Himselfe he red it thro,And founde how these outlawes had slainThre hundred men and mo:

Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe,And the mayre of Carleile towne;Of all the constables and catchipollesAlyve were 'scant' left one:

The baylyes, and the bedyls both,And the sergeauntes of the law,And forty fosters of the fe,These outlawes had yslaw:

And broke his parks, and slayne his dere;Of all they chose the best;So perelous out-lawes, as they were,Walked not by easte nor west.

When the kynge this letter had red,In hys harte he syghed sore:Take up the tables anone he bad,For I may eat no more.

The kyng called hys best archarsTo the buttes wyth hym to go:I wyll se these felowes shote, he sayd,In the north have wrought this wo.

The kynges bowmen buske them blyve,And the quenes archers also;So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen;With them they thought to go.

There twyse, or thryse they shote aboutFor to assay theyr hande;There was no shote these yemen shot,That any prycke myght stand.

Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslè;By him that for me dyed,I hold hym never no good archar,That shoteth at buttes so wyde.

'At what a butte now wold ye shote,'I pray thee tell to me?At suche a but, syr, he sayd,As men use in my countree.

Wyllyam wente into a fyeld,And 'with him' his two brethren:There they set up two hasell roddesTwenty score paces betwene.

I hold him an archar, said Cloudeslè,That yonder wande cleveth in two.Here is none suche, sayd the kyng,Nor no man can so do.

I shall assaye, syr, sayd Cloudeslè,Or that I farther go.Cloudesly with a bearyng aroweClave the wand in two.

Thou art the best archer, then said the king,Forsothe that ever I se.And yet for your love, sayd Wyllyam,I wyll do more maystery.

I have a sonne is seven yere olde,He is to me full deare;I wyll hym tye to a stake;All shall se, that be here;

And lay an apple upon hys head,And go syxe score paces hym fro,And I my selfe with a brode aròwShall cleve the apple in two.

Now haste the, then sayd the kyng,By hym that dyed on a tre,But yf thou do not, as thou hest sayde,Hanged shalt thou be.

And thou touche his head or gowne,In fyght that men may se,By all the sayntes that be in heaven,I shall hange you all thre.

That I have promised, said William,That I wyll never forsake.And there even before the kyngeIn the earth he drove a stake:

And bound thereto his eldest sonne,And bad hym stand styll thereat;And turned the childes face him fro,Because he should not start.

An apple upon his head he set,And then his bowe he bent:Syxe score paces they were meaten,And thether Cloudeslè went.

There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe,Hys bowe was great and longe,He set that arrowe in his bowe,That was both styffe and stronge

He prayed the people, that wer there,That they 'all still wold' stand,For he that shoteth for such a wager,Behoveth a stedfast hand.

Muche people prayed for Cloudeslè,That his lyfe saved myght be,And whan he made hym redy to shote,There was many weeping ee.

'But' Cloudeslè clefte the apple in two,'His sonne he did not nee.'Over Gods forbode, sayde the kinge,That thou shold shote at me.

I geve thee eightene pence a day,And my bowe shalt thou bere,And over all the north countrèI make the chyfe rydère.

And I thyrtene pence a day, said the quene,By God, and by my fay;Come feche thy payment when thou wylt,No man shall say the nay.

Wyllyam, I make the a gentlemanOf clothyng, and of fe:And thy two brethren, yemen of my chambre,For they are so semely to se.

Your sonne, for he is tendre of age,Of my wyne-seller he shall be;And when he commeth to mans estate,Better avaunced shall he be.

And, Wyllyam, bring me your wife, said the quene,Me longeth her sore to se:She shall be my chefe gentlewoman,To governe my nurserye.

The yemen thanked them all curteously.To some byshop wyl we wend,Of all the synnes, that we have done,To be assoyld at his hand.

So forth be gone these good yemen,As fast as they might 'he';And after came and dwelled with the kynge,And dyed good men all thre.

Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen;God send them eternall blysse;And all, that with a hand-bowe shoteth:That of heven may never mysse. Amen.

Clym of the Clough, means Clem. [Clement] of the Cliff: for soClough signifies in the North.

Outhorne, is an old term signifying the calling forth ofsubjects to arms by the sound of a horn. See Cole's Lat. Dict.,