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Grea-hondes thorowe the grèves glent
The begane in Chyviat the hyls abɔve
Be that it drewe to the oware' off none
The blewe a mort uppone the bent,
He sayd, It was the Duglas promys
At the laste a squyar of Northombelond
He was war ath the doughetie Doglas comynge:
The wear borne a-long be the watter a Twyde,
Leave off the brytlyng of the dear, he sayde,
The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,
We wyll not tell the 'what' men we ar, he says,
But we wyll hount hear in this chays
In the spyte of thyne, and of the.
The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat
We have kyld, and cas: 14 to carry them a-way.
Then sayd the doughtè Doglas
To kyll all thes giltless men,
But, Persè, thowe art a lord of lande,
And do the battell off the and of me.
Now Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd the lord Persè,
Be my troth, doughtè Doglas, he says,
Nethar in Ynglonde. Skottlonde, nar France,
I dar met him on man for on.
Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde,
1 wat " youe byn 18 great lordes twaw,
I will never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
I wyll not 'fayl' both harte and hande.
That day, that day, that dredfull day;
And youe wyll here any mor athe hountyng athe Chyviat
THE SECOND FIT.
The Yngglishe men hade ther bowys yebent,
The first of arros that the shote off,
Yet bydys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent
And that was sene verament,
For he wrought hom both woo and wouche."
The Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre,
Like a cheffe cheften " off pryde,
Thrughe our Yngglishe archery
Gave many a wounde full wyde;
The Yngglishe men let thear bowys be,
Bryght swordes on basnites 25 lyght.
Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple
Many sterne the stroke downe streight:
At last the Duglas and the Persè met,
With swordes, that wear of fyn myllàn.
Thes worthè freckys for to fyght
Tyll the bloode owte off their basnites sprente,"
Holde the, Persè, sayd the Doglas,
Of Jamy our Scottish kynge.
20 Mischief. 5 Helmets.
Thoue shalte have thy ransoin fre,
For the manfullyste man yet art thowe,
Nay then' sayd the lord Persè,
I tolde it the beforne,
With that ther cam an arrowe hastely
Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe3
That never after in all his lyffe days,
He spayke mo wordes but ane,
That was, Fyghte ye, my merry men whyllys" ye may,
The Persè leanyde 34 on his brande,
He tooke the dede man be the hande,
And sayd, Wo ys me for the!
To have sayvde thy lyffe I wold have pertyd” with
For a better man of hart, nare of hande
Of all that se 37 a Skottishe knyght,
Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry,
He rod uppon a corsiare
Throughe a hondrith archery;
30 Ane, one, sc. man. 86 Parted. * Saw.
He set uppone the lord Persè
A dynte that was full soare;
Clean thorow the body he the Persè bore,
31 Both. 32 Whilst. 38 Put. 39 Grasped.
Athe 42 tothar syde, that a man myght se,
An archar off Northomberlonde
An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang,
A dynt, that was both sad and sore,
The dynt yt was both sad and sar,
Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fie,
Heawying on yche othar, whyll the myght dre,