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Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
His sisters sonne was hee;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd,
Yet saved cold not bee.

And the Lord Maxwell in like case
Did with Erle Douglas dye :
Of twenty hundred Scottish speres,
Scarce fifty-five did flye.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three;
The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chase,

Under the greene woode tree.

Next day did many widdowes come,
Their husbands to bewayle;

They washt their wounds in brinish teares,

But all wold not prevayle. Theyr bodyes bathed in purple gore, They bare with them away: They kist them dead a thousand times, Ere they were cladd in clay. The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, Where Scottlands king did raigne, That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye

Was with an arrow slaine:

"O, heavy newes," King James did say, "Scottland may witnesse bee,

I have not any captaine more

Of such account as hee."
Like tydings to King Henry came,
Within as short a space,

That Percy of Northumberland
Was slaine in Chevy-Chese:

"Now, God be with him," said our king,

"Sith it will noe better bee;

I trust I have, within my realme,
Five hundred as good as hee:

Yett shall not Scotts, nor Scotland say,
But I will vengeance take:

I'll be revenged on them all,

For brave Erle Percyes sake." "
This vow full well the king perform'd
After, at Humbledowne;

In one day, fifty knights were slayne,
With lords of great renowne :
And of the rest, of small account,

Did many thousands dye :
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,
Made by the Erle Percy.

God save our king, and bless this land
With plentye, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth, that foule debate
"Twixt noblemen may cease.

34. Sir Patrick Spens.

The king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine;

"O whare will I get a skeely 2 skipper, To sail this new ship o' mine!"—

O up and spake an eldern knight,

Sat at the king's right knee,-
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,
That ever sail'd the sea."

Our king has written a braid letter,
And seal'd it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,

To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway,

'Tis thou maun bring her hame."The first word that Sir Patrick read,

Sae loud loud laughed he; The neist 3 word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e.

"O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me,

To send us out, at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea?

1 Where.

Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway,

'Tis we must fetch her hame."

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,

Wi' a' the speed they may; They ha'e landed in Noroway,

Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week,
In Noroway, but twae,

When that the lords o' Noroway
Began aloud to say-

"Ye Scottishizen spend a' our king's goud,

And a' our queenis fee."→ "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!

Fu' loud I hear ye lie;

For I ha'e brought as much white monie, As gane my men and me,

And I ha'e brought a half-fou of gude red goud,

Out o'er the sea wi' me.

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Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'!

Our gude ship sails the morn.""Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm!

I saw the new moon, late yestreen,
Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
And, if we gang to sea, master,

I fear we'll come to harm."

They hadna sail'd a league, a league,
A league but barely three,

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,

And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn.

"O where will I get a gude sailor,

To take my helm in hand,
Til I get up to the tall top-mast,
To see if I can spy land?"
"O here am I, a sailor gude,

To take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast;
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.”—

He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step but barely ane, When a boult flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in.

"Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine,

5 To wet.

And wap them into our ship's side,
And let nae the sea come in."
They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith,
Another o' the twine,

And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side,

But still the sea came in.


O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords
To weet5 their cork-heel'd shoon !6
But lang or a' the play was play'd,
They wat their hats aboon.8
And mony was the feather bed,
That floated on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord's son,
That never mair cam hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair,
A' for the sake of their true loves,-
For them they'll see nae mair.
O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,
With their goud kaims in their

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6 Shoes.

7 Before.

9 Combs.

35. The Two Corbies.

There were two corbies sat on a tree
Large and black as black might be ;
And one the other gan say,
Where shall we go and dine to-day?
Shall we go dine by the wild salt sea?
Shall we go dine 'neath the greenwood

As I sat on the deep sea sand,
I saw a fair ship nigh at land,

I waved my wings, I bent my beak,
The ship sunk, and I heard a shriek;
There they lie, one, two, and three,
I shall dine by the wild salt sea.
Come, I will show ye a sweeter sight,
A lonesome glen, and a new-slain knight;
His blood yet on the grass is hot,
His sword half-drawn, his shafts unshot,
And no one kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild fowl hame,
His lady's away with another mate,
So we shall make our dinner sweet;
Our dinner's sure, our feasting free,
Come, and dine by the greenwood tree.
Ye shall sit on his white hause-bane,'
I will pick out his bony blue een;
Ye'll take a tress of his yellow hair,
To theak yere nest when it grows bare;
The gowden2 down on his young chin
Will do to sewe my young ones in.

O, cauld and bare will his bed be,
When winter storms sing in the tree;
At his head a turf, at his feet a stone,
He will sleep nor hear the maiden's


O'er his white bones the birds shall fly, The wild deer bound, ard foxes cry.

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36. George Gascoigne. 1530-1577. (Manual, p. 70.)


They course the glass, and let it take no rest;
They pass and spy who gazeth on their face;
They darkly ask whose beauty seemeth best;
They hark and mark who marketh most their grace ;
They stay their steps, and stalk a stately pace;
They jealous are of every sight they see;
They strive to seem, but never care to be.

What grudge and grief our joys may then suppress,
To see our hairs, which yellow were as gold,
Now grey as glass; to feel and find them less;
To scrape the bald skull which was wont to hold
Our lovely locks with curling sticks controul'd;
To look in glass, and spy Sir Wrinkle's chair
Set fast on fronts which erst were sleek and fair.

37. Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. (Manual, p. 71.)


From the Induction to the Mirrour for Magistrates.
And first within the porch and jaws of Hell
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent
With tears; and to herself oft would she tell
Her wretchedness, and cursing never stent1
To sob and sigh; but ever thus lament
With thoughtful care, as she that all in vain
Would wear and waste continually in pain.

1 Stopped.

Her eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there,

Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought, So was her mind continually in fear,

Toss'd and tormented by the tedious thought

Of those detested crimes which she had wrought:
With dreadful cheer and looks thrown to the sky,
Wishing for death, and yet she could not die.

Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook,
With foot uncertain proffer'd here and there;
Benumm'd of speech, and with a ghastly look,
Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear;
His cap upborn with staring of his hair,
Stoyn'd2 and amazed at his shade for dread,
And fearing greater dangers than was need.

And next within the entry of this lake
Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire,
Devising means how she may vengeance take,
Never in rest till she have her desire;
But frets within so far forth with the fire
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she
To die by death, or veng'd by death to be.

When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence,
Had shewed herself, as next in order set,
With trembling limbs we softly parted thence,
Till in our eyes another sight we met,
When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,3
Rewing, alas! upon the woeful plight
Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight.

His face was lean and some-deal pin'd away,
And eke his handes consumed to the bone,
But what his body was I cannot say ;
For on his carcass raiment had he none,
Save clouts and patches, pieced one by one;
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast,
His chief defence against the winters blast.

His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree;
Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share,
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he,
As on the which full daintily would he fare.
His drink the running stream, his cup the bare
3 Fetched.

2 Astonished.

Of his palm closed, his bed the hard cold ground;
To this poor life was Misery ybound.

Whose wretched state, when we had well beheld,
With tender ruth on him and on his feres,*
In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held,
And, by and by, another shape appears,
Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breres,5
His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dented in,
With tawed hands and deep ytanned skin.

The morrow gray no sooner had begun
To spread his light, even peeping in our eyes,
When he is up and to his work yrun;
And let the night's black misty mantles rise,
And with foul dark never so much disguise
The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while,
But hath his candles to prolong his toil.

And next in order sad Old Age we found,
His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind;
With drooping cheer still poring on the ground,
As on the place where Nature him assign'd
To rest, when that the sisters had entwin'd
His vital thread, and ended with their knife,
The fleeting course of fast declining life.

Crook'd-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-ey'd,
Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four;
With old lame bones that rattled by his side,
His scalp all pill'd, and he with eld forlore,
His wither'd fist still knocking at Death's door
Trembling and driv'ling as he draws his breath,
For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.

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Edmund Spenser. 1553-1599. (Manual, pp. 72-78.)

From the Faëry Queen.

38. UNA AND THE LION. Book I., Canto 3.

One day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way,
From her unhastie beast she did alight;
And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay
In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight;

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