I'll do the best that do I may, While I have strength to stand; Our English archers bent their bows, At the first flight of arrows fent, To drive the deer with hound and horn, They clos'd full faft on every fide, O Chrift! it was a grief to see, The cries of men lying in their gore, At laft these two ftout earls did meet, And made a cruel fight. They They fought until they both did fweat, With fwords of temper'd steel; Until the blood like drops of rain, They trickling down did feel. Yield thee, lord Percy, Douglas faid, Where thou shalt high advanced be Thy ranfom I will freely give, Thou art the moft courageous knight, No, Douglas, quoth earl Percy then, Thy proffer I do fcorn; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born. With that there came an arrow keen, Out of an English bow, Which ftruck earl Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow : Who never spoke more words than these, Fight on my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end, Lord Percy fees my fall. Then Then leaving life, earl Percy took The dead man by the hand, And faid, Earl Douglas, for thy life O Chrift! my very heart doth bleed, A knight amongst the Scots there was, Sir Hugh Montgomery was he call'd; And pafs'd the English archers all, With fuch a vehement force and might The spear went through the other fide So So thus did both these nobles die, Whose courage none could stain : An English archer then perceiv'd The noble earl was flain : He had a bow bent in his hand, Against fir Hugh Montgomery The grey-goofe-wing that was thereon This fight did laft from break of day For when they rung the evening-bell With the earl Percy there was flain Sir Robert Ratcliffe, and fir John, And, with fir George, and good fir James, Both knights of good account, Good fir Ralph Raby there was flain, Whofe prowess did furmount. For For Witherington needs muft I wail, As one in doleful dumps; For when his legs were fmitten off, And with earl Douglas there was flain Sir Charles Currèl, that from the field Sir Charles Murrèl of Ratcliffe too, His fifters fon was he; Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, And the lord Maxwell, in like wife, Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail; They wash'd their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail Their |