Which made our cunning champion

Creep down into a well;

Where he did think, this dragon would drink,

And fo he did in truth;

And as he ftoop'd low, he rose up, and cried, Boh!
And hit him in the mouth.

Oh, quoth the dragon, pox take thee, come out,
Thou that disturb'ft me in my drink :
And then he turn'd, and shit at him ;
Goodlack how he did ftink!

"Befhrew thy foul, thy body's foul,
Thy dung smells not like balfam ;
Thou son of a whore, thou ftink'st so sore,
Sure thy diet is unwholesome."

Our politic knight, on the other fide,

Crept out upon the brink,

And gave the dragon fuch a doufe,

He knew not what to think.

By cock, quoth he, fay you fo; do you fee?

And then at him he let fly,

With hand and with foot, and fo they went to't ;

And the word it was, Hey boys, hey!

Your words, quoth the dragon, I don't understand:

Then to it they fell at all,

Like two wild boars so fierce, I may

Compare great things with fmall.

Two days and a night, with this dragon did fight

Our champion on the ground;

Though their strength it was great, yet their skill it

was neat,

They never had one wound.

At length the hard earth began for to quake,
The dragon gave him fuch a knock,

Which made him to reel, and straightway he thought,
To lift him as high as a rock,

And thence let him fall: but More of More-Hall,

Like a valiant son of Mars,

As he came like a lout, fo he turn'd him about,

And hit him a kick on the arfe,

Oh, quoth the dragon, with a deep figh,
And turn'd fix times together,
Sobbing and tearing, curfing and fwearing

Out of his throat of leather:

More of More-Hall! O thou rascàl!

Would I had feen thee never ;

With the thing at thy foot, thou haft prick'd my arfe

gut,

And I'm quite undone for ever.

Murder,

Murder, murder, the dragon cried,
Alack, alack, for grief;

Had you but miss'd that place, you could
Have done me no mischief.

Then his head he fhak'd, trembled and quak'd,
And down he laid and cried;

First on one knee, then on back tumbled he,
So groan'd, kick'd, fhit, and died.

BALLAD XXII.

SIR ANDREW BARTON.

W

HEN Flora with her fragrant flowers
Bedeck'd the earth so trim and gay,

And Neptune with his dainty showers
Came to present the month of May,
King Henry would a progress ride,
Over the river of Thames pass'd he,
Unto a mountain top alfo

Did walk some pleasure for to see;

Where forty merchants he espied,

With fifty fail come towards him,
Who then no fooner were arriv'd,

But on their knees did thus complain :
An't please your grace, we cannot fail
To France a voyage to be fure,
But fir Andrew Barton makes us quail,

And robs us of our merchant-ware.

Vex'd

Vex'd was the king, and turning him,

Said to his lords of high degree,
Have I ne'er a lord within my realm,
Dare fetch that traitor unto me?
To him replied lord Charles Howard,
I will, my liege with heart and hand,
If it please you grant me leave he said,
I will perform what you command.

To him then fpake king Henry,

I fear, my lord, you are too young.
No whit at all, my lege, quoth he,
I hope to prove in valour strong.
The Scotifh knight I vow to feek,
In what place foe'er he be,

And bring afhore with all his might,

Or into Scotland he fhall carry me.

A hundred men, the king then said,
Out of my realm fhall chofen be ;
Befides failors and ship-boys,

To guide a great ship on the fea;
Bowmen and gunners of good skill,
Shall for this fervice chofen be
And they at thy command and will,
In all affairs fhall wait on thee.

Lord Howard call'd a gunner then,
Who was the best in all the realm,

His

age
was threefcore years and ten,
And Peter Simon was his name:

My

My lord call'd then a bow-man rare,
Whose active hands had gained fame,
A gentleman born in Yorkshìre,
And William Horfely was his name.

Horfely, quoth he, I must to fea,
To feek a traitor with good speed,
Of a hundred bow-men brave, quoth he,
I have chofen thee to be the head.
"If you, my lord, have chosen me

Of a hundred men to be the head,
Upon the main-maft I'll hanged be,

If twelvescore I mifs one fhillings breadth."

Lord Howard then, of courage bold,
Went to the fea with pleasant chear,
Not curb'd with winters piercing cold,

Though 'twas the ftormy time of year.
Not long he had been on the sea,

No more in days than number three,
But one Henry Hunt there he espied,
A merchant of Newcastle was he.

To him Lord Howard call'd out amain,
And ftrictly charged him to ftand,
Demanding then from whence he came,
Or where he did intend to land.

The merchant then made answer foon,
With heavy heart, and careful mind,

My lord, my fhip it doth belong
Unto Newcastle upon Tine.

Can't