Rhymes of Northern Bards / Being a Curious Collection of Old and New Songs and Poems, Peculiar to the Counties of Newcastle upon Tyne, Northumberland, and Durham

THE HUNTING OF THE CHYVIAT.

Percy says this old ballad was wrote by one Richard Sbeale, about the time of Henry VI. in whose reign several James’s were kings of Scotland. See his Notes on this Poem.

The PersÉ owt off Northomberlonde,

And a vowe to God mayd he,

That he wold hunte in the mountayns

Of Chyviat within dayes thre;

In the magger of doughtÉ Dogles,

And all that ever with him be.

The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat,

He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away.

By my feth, sayd the doughtÉ Doglas agayn,

I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.

Then the PersÉ owt of Bamborowe cam,

With him a myghtee meany;

With fifteen hondrith archares bold, off blood and bone,

The wear chosen owt of shayrs thre.

This beganne on a Monday at morn,

In Chyviat the hillys so he;

The chyld may rue that ys unborn,

It was the mor pittÉ.

The dryvers thorowe the woodes went

For to reas the deare;

Bomen byckarte uppone the bent

With ther browd aras cleare.

Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went

On every syde shear;

Grea hondes thorowe the grevis glent

For to kyll thear dear.

The beganne in Chyviat the hyls above,

Yerly on a sonny’tn day;

Be that it drewe to the oware off none

A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.

The blewe a mort uppone the bent,

The semblyd on sydes shear;

To the quyrry then the PersÉ went

To se the bryttlynge off the deare.

He sayd, It was the Doglas promys

This day to met me hear;

But I wyste he wold faylle verament:

A great oath the PersÉ swear.

At the last a squyar of ‘Northomberlonde,’

Lookyde at his hande full ny,

He was war ath the doughetie Doglas commynge,

With him a myghttÉ meany.

Both with spear, byll, and brande:

Yt was a myghti sight to se,

Hardyar men both off harte nar hande

Wear not in ChristiantÈ.

The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good,

Withowte any feale;

The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde,

Yth bowndes of Tividale.

Leave off the brytlyng of the deare, he sayde,

And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed;

For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne

Had ye never so mickle ned.

The dougheti Dogglas on a stede

He rode all his men beforne;

His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;

A bolder barne was never born.

Tell me ‘what’ men ye ar, he says,

Or whos men that ye be:

Who gave youe leave to hunte in this

Chyviat chays in the spyt of me?

The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,

It was the good lord PersÉ:

We wyll not tell the ‘what’ men we ar, he says,

Nor whos men that we be;

But we will hount hear in this chays

In the spyt of thyne and of the.

The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat

We have kyld, and cast to carry them away.

Be my troth, sayd the doughtÉ ‘Dogglas’ agayn,

Ther for the ton of us shall de this day.

Then sayd the doughtÉ Dogglas,

Unto the lord PersÉ:

To kyll all these giltles men,

Alas! it wear great pittÉ.

But, PersÉ, thowe art a lorde of lande,

I am a yerle callyd within my contrÈ;

Let all our men uppone a parti stande;

And do the battell off the and of me.

Now Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd the lord PersÉ,

Who soever ther to says nay.

Be my troth, doughtÉ Doglas, he says,

Thow shalt never se that day;

Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,

Nor for no man of a woman born,

But and fortune be my chance,

I dar met him on man for on.

Then bespayke a squyar of Northombarlonde,

Ric. Wytheryngton was his nam;

It shall never be tolde in Sothe Ynglonde, he says,

To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.

I wat youe byn great lordes twaw,

I am a poor squyar of lande;

I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,

And stande myselffe, and loocke on,

But whyll I may my weppone welde

I wyll not [fayl] bothe harte and hande.

That day, that day, that dredfull day,

The first fit here I fynde:

And youe wyll here any mor athe hountyng athe Chyviat,

Yet ys ther more behynd.

(FIT THE SECOND.)

The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,

Ther hartes were good yenoughe;

The first off arros that the shote off,

Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.

Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent,

A captayne good yenoughe,

And that was sene verament,

For he wrought them hom both woo and wouche.

The Doglas pertyd his ost in thre,

Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde,

With suar speares off myghttÉ tre,

The cum in on every syde.

Thrugke our Yngglyshe archery

Gave many a wounde full wyde;

Many a doughete the garde to dy,

Which ganyde them no pryde.

The Yngglyshe men let thear ‘bowys’ be.

And pulde owt brandes that wer bright;

It was a hevy syght to se

Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.

Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple,

Many sterne the stroke done streght:

Many a freyke, that was full fre,

Ther undar foot dyd lyght.

At last the Doglas and the PersÉ met,

Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;

The swapte togethar tyll the both swat

With swordes that wear of fyn myllan.

Thes worthÉ freckys for to fyght

Ther to the wear full fayne,

Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,

As ever dyd heal or ran.

‘Holde’ the, PersÉ, sayd the Doglas,

And i feth I shall the brynge,

Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis

Of Jamy our ‘Scottish’ kynge.

Thoue shalte have thy ransom fre,

I hight the hear this thinge;

For the manfullyste man yet art thowe,

That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng.

Nay, sayd the lorde PersÉ,

I tolde it the beforne,

That I wolde never yeldyde be

To no man of a woman born.

With that ther cam an arrowe hastely

Forthe off a myghttÉ wane,

Hit hathe strekene the yerle Doglas

In at the brest bane.

Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe

The sharpe arrowe ys gane,

That never after in all his lyffe days

He spayke mo wordes but ane,

That was, Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may,

For my lyff days ben gan.

The PersÉ leanyde on his brande,

And sawe the Doglas de;

He tooke the dede mane be the hande,

And sayd, Wo ys me for the!

To have savyde thy lyffe I wold have pertyde with

My landes for years thre;

For a better man of hart, nare of hande,

Was not in all the north contrÈ.

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght,

Was callyd sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry,

He sawe the Doglas to the deth was dyght;

He spendyd a spear a trusti tre:

He rod uppon a corsiare

Throughe a hondrith archery;

He never stynttyde, nar never blane,

Tyll he cam to the good lorde PersÉ.

He set uppone the lorde PersÉ

A dynte that was full soare;

With a suar spear of a myghttÉ tre

Clean thorow the body he the PersÉ ‘bore.’

Athe tothar syde, that a man myght se,

A large cloth yard and mare;

Towe bettar captayns wear nat in CristiantÈ,

Then that day slain wear ther.

An archar of Northomberlonde

Say slean was the lord PersÉ,

He bar a bende bow in his hand,

Was made off trusti tre:

An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang,

Toth hard stele hayld he;

A dynt that was both sad and soar,

He sat on sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and sar,

That he of Monggonbyrry sete;

The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar,

With his hart blood the wear wete.

Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle,

But still in stour dyd stand,

Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre,

With many a balfull brande.

This battell begane in Chyviat,[40]

And owar before the none,

And when even-song bell was rang,

The battell was nat haff done.

The tooke on ethar hand,

Be the lyght off the mone;

Many had no strength for to stande,

In Chyviat the hillys abone.

Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde

Went away but fifti and thre;

Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,

But even five and fifti.[41]

But all wear slayne Chyviat within:

The had no strengthe to stand on hy:

The chylde may rue that ys unborne,

It was the mor pittÉ.

Thear was slayne with the lord PersÉ,

Sir John of Agerstone,

Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly,

Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.

Sir Jorg the worthÉ Lovele,

A knyght of great renowen,

Sir Raff the ryche RugbÈ,

With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharrynton my harte was wo,

That ever he slayne shulde be;

For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,

Yet he knyled and fought on his kny.

Ther was slayne with the doughti Doglas,

Sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry,

Sir Davy Lwdale that worthÈ was,

His sisters son was he.

Sir Charles a MurrÈ, in that place,

That never a foot wolde fle;

Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was,

With the Doglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the mayde them byears

Off birch, and hasell so gray;

Many wedous, with wepyng tears,

Cam to fach ther makys away.

Tivydale may carpe off care,

Northombarlonde may mayke great mon,

For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear,

On the march perti shall never be non.

Word ys commyn to Eddenburrowe

To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,

That dougheti Doglas, lyff tenante of the merches,

He lay slean Chyviot within.

His handdes dyd he weal and wryng,

He says, Alas, and woe ys me!

Such another captayn Skotland within,

He sayd, yefeth shuld never be.

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone

Till the fourth Harry our kyng,

That lord PersÉ, ‘leyff’-tenante of the merchis,

He lay slayne Chyviat within.

God have merci on his soll, sayd kyng Harry,

Good lord, yf thy will it be!

I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde, he sayd,

As good as ever was he:

But, PersÉ, and I brook my lyffe,

Thy deth well quyte shall be.

As our noble kyng made his avowe,

Lyke a noble prince of renowen,

For the deth of the lord PersÉ,

He dyde the battel of Hombyll-down:[42]

Wher syx and thrittÉ Skottish knyghtes

On a day wear beaten down:

Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght,

Over castill, towar, and town.

This was the hontynge off the Chyviat;

That tear begane this spurn:

Old men, that knowen the grownde well yenoughe,

Call it the battell of Otterburn.

At Otterburn began this spurne

Uppon a Monnyn day:

Ther was the doughtÉ Doglas slean,

The PersÉ never went away.

Ther was never a tym on the march partes,

Sen the Doglas and the PersÉ met,

But yt was mervele, and the rede blude ronne not,

As the reane doys in the stret.

Jhesue Crist our balys bete,

And to the blys us brynge!

Thus was the hountynge of the Chyviat;

God send us all good endyng!

[40] The Cheviot, or Tiviot Hills, were formerly the boundary between England and Scotland.

[41] The English were the first who took the field, and the last to quit it. They brought only 1500 to the battle; and the Scotch 2000. The English kept the field with 53; the Scotch retiring with 55.

[42] The battle of Hombyll-down, or Humbledon, (a village near Wooler, in Northumberland) was fought September 14th, 1402, (anno 3, Hen. IV.) where the English, under the command of the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Hotspur, gained a complete victory over the Scots.

Clyx.com