This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun;
For when they rang the evening bell, The battle scarce was done.
With brave Earl Percy, there was slain
Sir John of Egerton,
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
Sir James, that bold baròn:
And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount.
For Witherington my heart is sore That ever he slain should be, For when his legs were hewn in two, He knelt and fought on his knee.
And with Earl Douglas, there was slain Sir Hugh Montgomery.
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field One foot would never flee.
Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, His sister's son was he;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, Yet saved could not be.
And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Earl Douglas die : Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, Scarce fifty-five did fly.
Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest were slain in Chevy Chase, Under the greenwood tree.
Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail;
They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail.
Their bodies, bathed in purple gore,
They bare with them
They kissed them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay.
This news was brought to Edinburgh, Where Scotland's king did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly
Was with an arrow slain.
"Oh heavy news," King James did say, "Scotland can witness be,
I have not any captain more
Of such account as he."
Like tidings to King Henry came, Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland
Was slain in Chevy Chase:
"Now God be with him," said our king, "Since it will no better be;
I trust I have, within my realnı, Five hundred as good as he:
"Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take:
I'll be revenged on them all,
For brave Earl Percy's sake."
This vow full well the king performed After, at Humbledown;
In one day fifty knights were slain, With lords of great renown:
And of the rest, of small account,
Thus ending the hunting of Chevy Chase, Made by the Earl Percy.
God save our king, and bless this land In plenty, joy, and peace;
And grant, henceforth, that foul debate "Twixt noblemen may cease.
THE COMBAT OF FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU.
THE COMBAT OF FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU.
Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain, As what they ne'er might see again; Then foot, and point, and eye opposed; In dubious strife they darkly closed.
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside; For, trained abroad his arms to wield, Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield; He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While, less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon sword drank blood; No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed, Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And showered his blows like wintry rain;
And, as firm rock, or castle roof, Against the winter shower is proof,
THE COMBAT OF FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU. 299
The foe, invulnerable still,
Foiled his wild rage, by steady skill; Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, And, backwards borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. "Now, yield thee, or, by Him who made The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!" "Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! Let recreant yield who fears to die." Like adder darting from his coil, Like wolf that dashes through the toil, Like mountain cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung, Received, but recked not of a wound, And locked his arms his foeman round- Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel Through bars of brass and triple steel !— They tug, they strain !-- down, down, they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed, His knee was planted in his breast; His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew, From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!- -But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide,
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