Read Ebook: Reliques of Ancient English Poetry Volume 1 (of 3) Consisting of Old Heroic Ballads Songs and Other Pieces of Our Earlier Poets Together With Some Few of Later Date by Percy Thomas Editor Wheatley Henry B Henry Benjamin Editor

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Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John, He thought to loose him belive; The sheriffe and all his companye 215 Fast after him did drive.

Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin; Why draw you mee soe neere? Itt was never the use in our country?, Ones shrift another shold heere. 220

But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe, And losed John hand and foote, And gave him sir Guyes bow into his hand, And bade it be his boote.

Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand, 225 His boltes and arrowes eche one: When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, He fettled him to be gone.

Towards his house in Nottingham towne, He fled full fast away; 230 And soe did all his companye: Not one behind wold stay.

But he cold neither runne soe fast, Nor away soe fast cold ryde, But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad, 235 He shott him into the 'backe'-syde.

FOOTNOTES:

See also the following ballad, v. 147.

Num. D. 5. 2.

help.

"And by his side he bare a rusty blade."

"And in his hand he had a rousty sword."

AN ELEGY ON HENRY FOURTH EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

POETA SKELTON LAUREATUS LIBELLUM SUUM METRICE ALLOQUITUR.

Ad dominum properato meum mea pagina Percy, Qui Northumbrorum jura paterna gerit, Ad nutum celebris tu prona repone leonis, Quaeque suo patri tristia justa cano. Ast ubi perlegit, dubiam sub mente volutet Fortunam, cuncta quae male fida rotat. Qui leo sit felix, & Nestoris occupet annos; Ad libitum cujus ipse paratus ero.

SKELTON LAUREAT UPON THE DOLORUS DETHE AND MUCH LAMENTABLE CHAUNCE OF THE MOOST HONORABLE ERLE OF NORTHUMBERLANDE.

I wayle, I wepe, I sobbe, I sigh ful sore The dedely fate, the dolefulle destenny Of him that is gone, alas! withoute restore, Of the blode royall descendinge nobelly; Whos lordshepe doutles was slayne lamentably 5 Thorow treson ageyn hym compassyd and wrought; Trew to his prince, in word, in dede, and thought.

Of hevenly poems, O Clyo calde by name In the college of musis goddess hystoriall, Adres the to me, whiche am both halt and lame 10 In elect uteraunce to make memoryall: To the for soccour, to the for helpe I call Myne homely rudnes and drighnes to expelle With the freshe waters of Elyconys welle.

In sesons past who hathe harde or sene Of formar writinge by any presidente That vilane hastarddis in ther furious tene, Fulfyld with malice of froward entente, 25 Confeterd togeder of commoun concente Falsly to slo ther moste singular goode lorde? It may be registerde of shamefull recorde.

So noble a man, so valiaunt lorde and knight, Fulfilled with honor, as all the worlde dothe ken; 30 At his commaundement, whiche had both day and night Knyghtis and squyers, at every season when He calde upon them, as menyall houshold men: Were no thes commones uncurteis karlis of kynde To slo their owne lorde? God was not in their minde. 35

And were not they to blame, I say also, That were aboute hym, his owne servants of trust, To suffre hym slayn of his mortall fo? Fled away from hym, let hym ly in the dust: They bode not till the rekening were discust. 40 What shuld I flatter? what shulde I glose or paynt? Fy, fy for shame, their harts wer to faint.

In Englande and Fraunce, which gretly was redouted; Of whom both Flaunders and Scotland stode in drede; To whome grete astates obeyde and lowttede; 45 A mayny of rude villayns made him for to blede: Unkindly they slew hym, that holp them oft at nede: He was their bulwark, their paves, and their wall, Yet shamfully they slew hym; that shame mot them befal.

I say, ye commoners, why wer ye so stark mad? 50 What frantyk frensy fyll in youre brayne? Where was your wit and reson, ye shuld have had? What willfull foly made yow to ryse agayne Your naturall lord? alas! I can not fayne. Ye armed you with will, and left your wit behynd; 55 Well may you be called comones most unkynd.

He was your chyfteyne, your shelde, your chef defence, Redy to assyst you in every tyme of nede: Your worship depended of his excellence: Alas! ye mad men, to far ye did excede: 60 Your hap was unhappy, to ill was your spede: What movyd you agayn hym to war or to fight? What aylde you to sle your lord agyn all right?

The grounde of his quarel was for his sovereyn lord, The welle concernyng of all the hole lande, 65 Demaundyng soche dutyes as nedis most acord To the right of his prince which shold not be withstand; For whos cause ye slew hym with your awne hande: But had his nobill men done wel that day, Ye had not been hable to have saide him nay. 70

But ther was fals packinge, or els I am begylde: How-be-it the matter was evident and playne, For yf they had occupied ther spere and ther shelde, This noble man doutles had not be slayne. Bot men say they wer lynked with a double chayn, 75 And held with the commouns under a cloke, Whiche kindeled the wyld fyre that made all this smoke.

The commouns renyed ther taxes to pay Of them demaunded and asked by the kinge; With one voice importune, they playnly said nay: 80 They buskt them on a bushment themself in baile to bringe: Agayne the kings plesure to wrastle or to wringe, Bluntly as bestis withe boste and with cry They saide, they forsede not, nor carede not to dy.

The noblenes of the northe this valiant lorde and knyght, 85 As man that was innocent of trechery or trayne, Presed forthe boldly to witstand the myght, And, lyke marciall Hector, he fauht them agayne, Vigorously upon them with myght and with mayne, Trustinge in noble men that wer with hym there: 90 Bot all they fled from hym for falshode or fere.

Barons, knights, squyers, one and alle, Togeder with servaunts of his famuly, Turnid their backis, and let ther master fall, Of whos they counted not a flye; 95 Take up whos wolde for them, they let hym ly. Alas! his golde, his fee, his annuall rente Upon suche a sort was ille bestowde and spent.

He was envyronde aboute on every syde Withe his enemys, that were stark mad and wode; 100 Yet whils he stode he gave them woundes wyde: Alas for routhe! what thouche his mynde were goode, His corage manly, yet ther he shed his bloode! All left alone, alas! he fawte in vayne; For cruelly amonge them ther he was slayne. 105

Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt, The famous erle of Northumberlande: Of knightly prow?s the sworde pomel and hylt, The myghty lyoun doutted by se and lande! O dolorous chaunce of fortuns fruward hande! 110 What man remembring how shamfully he was slayne, From bitter weepinge hymself kan restrayne?

O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war! O dolorous teusday, dedicate to thy name, When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar! 115 O grounde ungracious, unhappy be thy fame, Whiche wert endyed with rede blode of the same! Moste noble erle! O fowle mysuryd grounde Whereon he gat his fynal dedely wounde!

O Atropos, of the fatall systers thre, 120 Goddes mooste cruell unto the lyf of man, All merciles, in the ys no pit?! O homycide, whiche sleest all that thou kan, So forcibly upon this erle thow ran, That with thy sworde enharpid of mortall drede, 125 Thou kit asonder his perfight vitall threde!

My wordis unpullysht be nakide and playne, Of aureat poems they want ellumynynge; Bot by them to knoulege ye may attayne Of this lordis dethe and of his murdrynge. 130 Which whils he lyvyd had fuyson of every thing, Of knights, of squyers, chef lord of toure and toune, Tyl fykkill fortune began on hym to frowne.

Paregall to dukis, with kings he myght compare, Surmountinge in honor all erls he did excede, 135 To all cuntreis aboute hym reporte me I dare. Lyke to Eneas benygne in worde and dede, Valiaunt as Hector in every marciall nede, Provydent, discrete, circumspect, and wyse, 139 Tyll the chaunce ran agyne him of fortunes duble dyse.

What nedethe me for to extoll his fame With my rude pen enkankerd all with rust? Whos noble actis shew worsheply his name, Transcendyng far myne homely muse, that must Yet sumwhat wright supprisid with hartly lust, 145 Truly reportinge his right noble astate, Immortally whiche is immaculate.

His noble blode never disteynyd was, Trew to his prince for to defende his right, Doublenes hatinge, fals maters to compas, 150 Treytory and treson he bannesht out of syght, With trowth to medle was all his hole delyght, As all his kuntrey kan testefy the same: To slo suche a lord, alas, it was grete shame.

If the hole quere of the musis nyne 155 In me all onely wer sett and comprisyde, Enbrethed with the blast of influence dyvyne, As perfightly as could be thought or devysyd; To me also allthouche it were promysyde Of laureat Phebus holy the eloquence, 160 All were to litill for his magnyficence.

O yonge lyon, bot tender yet of age, Grow and encrese, remembre thyn astate, God the assyst unto thyn herytage, And geve the grace to be more fortunate, 165 Agayne rebellyouns arme to make debate. And, as the lyoune, whiche is of bestis kinge, Unto thy subjectis be kurteis and benyngne.

I pray God sende the prosperous lyf and long, Stabille thy mynde constant to be and fast, 170 Right to mayntein, and to resist all wronge: All flattringe faytors abhor and from the cast, Of foule detraction God kepe the from the blast: Let double delinge in the have no place, And be not light of credence in no case. 175

Wythe hevy chere, with dolorous hart and mynd, Eche man may sorrow in his inward thought, Thys lords death, whose pere is hard to fynd Allgyf Englond and Fraunce were thorow saught. Al kings, all princes, all dukes, well they ought 180 Bothe temporall and spirituall for to complayne This noble man, that crewelly was slayne.

More specially barons, and those knygtes bold, And all other gentilmen with hym enterteynd In fee, as menyall men of his housold, 185 Whom he as lord worsheply manteynd: To sorowfull weping they ought to be constreynd, As oft as thei call to ther remembraunce, Of ther good lord the fate and dedely chaunce.

O perlese prince of hevyn emperyalle, 190 That with one worde formed al thing of noughte; Hevyn, hell, and erth obey unto thi kall; Which to thy resemblance wondersly hast wrought All mankynd, whom thou full dere hast boght, With thy blode precious our finaunce thou dyd pay, 195 And us redemed, from the fendys pray;

To the pray we, as prince incomperable, As thou art of mercy and pite the well, Thou bringe unto thy joye etermynable The sowle of this lorde from all daunger of hell, 200 In endles blis with the to byde and dwell In thy palace above the orient, Where thou art lorde, and God omnipotent.

O quene of mercy, O lady full of grace, Maiden moste pure, and goddis moder dere, 205 To sorowfull harts chef comfort and solace, Of all women O floure withouten pere, Pray to thy son above the starris clere, He to vouchesaf by thy mediatioun To pardon thy servant, and bringe to salvacion. 210

In joy triumphaunt the hevenly yerarchy, With all the hole sorte of that glorious place, His soule mot receyve into ther company Thorowe bounte of hym that formed all solace: Well of pite, of mercy, and of grace, 215 The father, the son, and the holy goste In Trinitate one God of myghts moste.

FOOTNOTES:

THE TOWER OF DOCTRINE.

That for the very perfect bryghtnes What of the tower, and of the cleare sunne, I could nothyng behold the goodlines 10 Of that palaice, whereas Doctrine did wonne: Tyll at the last, with mysty wyndes donne, The radiant brightnes of golden Phebus Auster gan cover with clowde tenebrus.

Then to the tower I drewe nere and nere, 15 And often mused of the great hyghnes Of the craggy rocke, which quadrant did appeare: But the fayre tower, so much of ryches Was all about, sexangled doubtles; Gargeyld with grayhoundes, and with manylyons, 20 Made of fyne golde; with divers sundry dragons.

The toure was great and of marvelous wydnes, To whyche ther was no way to passe but one, 30 Into the toure for to have an intres: A grece there was y-chesyled all of stone Out of the rocke, on whyche men dyd gone Up to the toure, and in lykewyse dyd I Wyth bothe the Grayhoundes in my company: 35

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