Читать книгу The Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire - Various - Страница 8

"Like the mast of some tall ammiral,"

which Thurstan, archbishop of York, brought from the convent of Beverley. This was drawn on a four-wheeled carriage; and had on the top of it a silver crucifix, under which were suspended the banners of St. Peter of York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfred of Ripon, and above all, in a silver pix, the consecrated host. The following ballad was first printed, by Mr. Evans, in 1784.

The welkin[2] darke o'er Cuton Moore

With drearye cloudes did low're—

The woeful carnage of that daye

Sall Scotlande aye deplore.

The river Tees full oft dyd sighe,

As she roll'd her wynding floode,

That ever her sylver tyde soe cleare

Shoulde bee swell'd with human bloode!

Kyng Davyd hee stode on the rising hille,

And the verdante prospecte view'd;

And hee sawe that sweete river that o'er the moore

Roll'd on her sylver floode.

Oh then bespake that noble kyng,

And with griefe hys hearte was woo'd:

"And ever I mourne that yon fayre streame

Shoulde be swell'd with human bloode!"

Kynge Davyd hee sawe the verdante moore,

With wilde flow'res all bestrow'de:

"And ever I'm griev'd that soe greene a moore

Sholde be stayn'd with human bloode!

"But more am I griev'd, alas!" he cry'd,

"And more my hearte is woo'd,

That soe manye warriours young and brave

Muste thys daye shed theyr bloode!"

As princely a hoste that kyng dyd leade

As ever march'd on playne:

Alas! that soe manye a warriour brave

Should be soe soone yslayne!

And firste march'd forthe the Galloway men,

Of the antiente Picts they sprange;

Theyr speares all soe brighte and bucklers strong

For manye myles yrang.

And then cam on the Norman troopes,

With Englishe them amonge:

For the empresse Maud they cam to fighte,

To righte that ladye's wronge.

And then march'd forthe the Scottish foote,

And then march'd forthe the horse;

In armoure stronge, all those warriours came,

A greate and warlike force.

Kynge Davyd look'd athawart the moore,

And prince Henry hys brave sonne,

And they were aware of the Englishe hoste,

Com merrilye marching on.

Oh then call'd forthe kynge Davyd,

And loudelye called hee,

"And whoo is heare in alle mye campe,

Can descrybe yon hoste to mee?"

Then came a bearne, besyde the tente,

An Englisheman was hee;

'Twas not long since from the Englishe hoste,

That traiterous wighte dyd flee.

"Nowe tell mee yon hostes," the kyng hee cry'd,

"And thou shalte have golde and fee—

And whoo is yon chiefe that rydes along

With hys lockes soe aged greye?"

"Oh that is Walter de Gaunte[3] you see,

And hee hath beene greye full long,

But manye's the troope that hee dothe leade,

And they are stoute and stronge."

"And whoo is yon chiefe soe brighte of blee,

With hys troopes that beate the playne?"

"Oh that's the younge earle of Albermarle,[4]

Yleading hys gallante trayne.

"A more gallante warrioure than that lorde

Is not yon hostes among;

And the gallante troopes that hee doth leade,

Like hym, are stoute and younge."

"And who yon shynny warriours twoo,

With theyre troopes yclade the same?"

"Oh they're the Bruces,[5] that in thys fighte

Have com t'acquire them fame."

Oh then call'd oute kynge Davyd,

And fulle of woe spake hee:

"And ever I hold those Bruces false,

For muche they owe to mee.

"And who's yon chiefe of giante heighte,

And of bulke so huge to see?"

"Walter Espec[6] is that chiefe's name,

And a potente chiefe is hee.

"Hys stature's large as the mountaine oake,

And eke as strong hys mighte:

There's ne'ere a chiefe in alle the northe

Can dare with hym to fighte."

"And whoo's yon youthe, yon youthe I see,

A galloping o'er the moore?

Hys troopes that followe soe gallantelye

Proclayme hym a youthe of pow're."

"Young Roger de Mowbray[7] is that youthe,

And hee's sprang of the royal line;

Hys wealthe and hys followers, oh kyng,

Are allemost as greate as thyne."

"And who's yon aged chiefe I see

All yclad in purple veste?"

"Oh that's the Bishoppe o' th' Orkney isles,[8]

And hee alle the hoste hath bleste.

"And alle the reste are noblemen,

Of fortune and fame ech one:

From Nottingham and from Derbyeshyre

Those valiante chiefetaynes com."[9]

"But what's yon glitt'ring tow're I see

I' the centre o' the hoste?"

"Oh that's the hallow'd Standarde of whyche

The Englishe make suche boaste.

"A maste of a shipp it is so hie,

Alle bedect with golde soe gaye;

And on the topp is a holye crosse,

That shynes as brighte as the daye.

"Around it hang the holye banners

Of manye a blessed saynte;

Saynte Peter, and John of Beverlye,

And Saynte Wilfred there they paynte.

"The aged folke arounde it throng,

With their old hayres alle so greye;

And manye a chiefetayne there bows ydowne,

And so heart'lye dothe hee praye."

Oh then bespake the kyng of Scotts,

And soe heavylie spake hee:

"And had I but yon holye Standarde,

Right gladsom sholde I bee.

"And had I but yon holye Standarde,

That there so his doth tow're,

I would not care for yon Englishe hoste,

Nor alle yon chieftaynes pow're.

"Oh had I but yon holie roode,

That there soe brighte doth showe;

I wolde not care for yon Englishe hoste,

Nor the worste that theye colde doe."

Oh then bespake prince Henrye,

And like a brave prince spake hee:

"Ah let us but fighte like valiante men,

And wee'l make yon hostes to flee.

"Oh let us but fighte like valiante men,

And to Christe's wyll ybowe,

And yon hallow'd Standarde shall bee ours,

And the victorie alsoe."

Prince Henrye was as brave a youthe

As ever fought in fielde;

Full many a warrioure that dreade day

To hym hys lyfe dyd yeilde.

Prince Henrye was as fayre a youthe

As the sunne dyd e're espye;

Full manye a ladye in Scottishe lande

For that young prince dyd sighe.

Prince Henrye call'd his young foot page,

And thus to hym spake hee:

"Oh heede my wordes, and serve mee true,

And thou sall have golde and fee.

"Stande thou on yonder rising hylle,

Fulle safe I weene the syte:

And from thence oh marke thee well my creste

In all the thickeste fighte.

"And if, o'ercome with woundes, I falle,

Then take thee a swifte swifte steede,

And from thys moore to Dumfries towne,

Oh ryde thee awaye with speede.

"There to the ladye Alice wende;

(You'll knowe that lovelye fayre,

For the fayreste mayde in all that towne,

Cannot with her compare;)

"And tell that ladye of my woe,

And telle her of my love;

And give to her thys golden ring,

My tender faythe to prove.

"And stryve to cheare that lovelye mayde

In alle her griefe and care:

For well I knowe her gentle hearte

Dyd ever holde mee deare."

And nowe the Englishe hoste drewe neare,

And alle in battle arraye;

Theire shyning swordes and glitt'ring speares

Shot rounde a brilliante raye.

And nowe both valiante hostes cam neare,

Eache other for to slaye;

Whyle watchfulle hovered o'er their heades

Full manye a byrde of preye.

The sun behynde the darke darke cloudes

Dyd hyde each beamy raye,

As fearefulle to beholde the woe

That mark'd that doleful daye.

The thund'ring wyndes of heaven arose,

And rush'd from pole to pole,

As stryving to drowne the groanes and sighes

Of manye a dyeing soule.

Sterne deathe he hearde the shoutes of warre,

That ecchoed arounde soe loude;

And hee rouz'd hym to th' embattled fielde,

To feaste on human bloode.

And fyrste the Pictish race began

The carnage of that daye;

The cries they made were like the storm

That rends the rocks awaye.

Those fierce fierce men of Gallowaye

Began that day of dole;

And their shoutes were like the thunder's roare,

That's hearde from pole to pole.

Nowe bucklers rang 'gainst swordes and speares,

And arrows dimn'd the playne;

And manye a warrioure laye fulle lowe,

And manye a chiefe was slayne.

Oh woeful woeful was that daye,

To chylde and wydowe dreare!

For there fierce deathe o'er human race

Dyd triumphe 'farre and neare.

Dreare was the daye—in darke darke cloudes

The welkin alle endrown'd;

But farre more dreare the woeful scene

Of carnage alle arounde.

Dreare was the sounde of warring wyndes

That foughte along the skyes;

But farre more dreare the woeful sounde

Of dying warriours sighes.

Laden with deathe's unpitying arme,

Swordes fell and arrowes flewe;

The wydow'd wyfe and fatherlesse chylde

That day of dole sall rue.

Ten thousand Scotts who on that morne

Were marching alle soe gaye,

By nighte, alas! on that drearye moore

Poore mangled corps ylaye.

Weepe, dames of Scotlande, weepe and waile,

Let your sighes reecho rounde;

Ten thousande brave Scotts that hail'd the morne,

At night laye deade on grounde.

And yee fayr dames of merrye Englande,

As faste youre teares muste poure;

For manye's the valiante Englisheman

That yee sall see noe more.

Sighe, dames of Englande, and lamente,

And manye a salte teare shed;

For manye an Englisheman hail'd that morne,

That ere the nyghte was deade.

The Scotts they fled; but still their kynge,

With hys brave sonne by hys syde,

Foughte long the foe (brave kynge and prince,

Of Scotlande aye the pryde).

The Scotts they fled; but stille their kynge,

With hys brave sonne, foughte full welle,

Till o'er the moore an arrowe yflewe—

And brave prynce Henrye felle.

Alle thys espy'd his young foote page,

From the hille whereon he stode;

And soone hath hee mounted a swifte swifte steede,

And soone from the moore hath rode.

And hee hath cross'd the Tees fayre streame,

Nowe swell'd with human bloode;

Th' affrighted page he never stay'de,

Tyll to Dumfries hee hath rode.

Fayre Alice was gone to the holye kirke,

With a sad hearte dyd shee goe;

And ever soe faste dyd she crye to heav'n,

"Prynce Henrye save from woe."

Fayre Alice shee hied her to the choire,

Where the priestes dyd chaunte soe slowe;

And ever shee cry'd, "May the holye sayntes

Prynce Henrye save from woe!"

Fayre Alice, with manye a teare and sighe,

To Mary's shrine dyd goe;

And soe faste shee cry'de, "Sweete Mary mylde

Prynce Henrye save from woe!"

Fayre Alice she knelte bye the hallow'd roode,

Whyle faste her teares dyd flowe;

And ever shee cry'd, "Oh sweete sweete Savioure,

Prynce Henrye save from woe!"

Fayre Alice look'd oute at the kirke doore,

And heavye her hearte dyd beate;

For shee was aware of the prynce's page,

Com galloping thro' the streete.

Agayne fayre Alice look'd out to see,

And well nighe did shee swoone;

For nowe shee was sure it was that page

Com galloping thro' the towne.

"Nowe Christe thee save, thou sweete young page,

Nowe Christe thee save and see!

And howe dothe sweete prynce Henrye?

I praye thee telle to me."

The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,

And hys hearte was fulle of woe;

The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,

Tylle hys teares faste 'gan to flowe.

"Ah woe is me!" sad Alice cry'd,

And tore her golden hayre;

And soe faste shee wrang her lilly handes,

Alle woo'd with sad despayre.

"The Englishe keepe the bloodye fielde,

Fulle manye a Scott is slayne,

But lyves prynce Henrye?" the ladye cry'd,

"Alle else to mee is vayne.—

"Oh lives the prynce? I praye thee tell,"

Fayre Alice still dyd calle:

"These eyes dyd see a keen arrowe flye,

Dyd see prynce Henrye falle."

Fayre Alice she sat her on the grounde,

And never a worde shee spake;

But like the pale image dyd shee looke,

For her hearte was nighe to breake.

The rose that once soe ting'd her cheeke,

Was nowe, alas! noe more;

But the whitenesse of her lillye skin

Was fayrer than before.

"Fayre ladye, rise," the page exclaym'de

"Nor laye thee here thus lowe."—

She answered not, but heav'd a sighe,

That spoke her hearte felte woe.

Her maydens came and strove to cheare,

But in vaine was all their care;

The townesfolke wept to see that ladye

Soe 'whelm'd in dreade despare.

They rais'de her from the danky grounde,

And sprinkled water fayre;

But the coldest water from the spring

Was not soe colde as her.

And nowe came horsemen to the towne,

That the prynce had sente with speede;

With tydyngs to Alice that he dyd live,

To ease her of her dreade.

For when that hapless prince dyd falle,

The arrowe dyd not hym slaye;

But hys followers bravelye rescued hym,

And convey'd hym safe away.

Bravelye theye rescued that noble prince,[10]

And to fayre Carlile hym bore;

And there that brave young prynce dyd lyve,

Tho' wounded sad and sore.

Fayre Alice the wond'rous tydings hearde,

And thrice for joye shee sigh'd:

That haplesse fayre, when shee hearde the newes

She rose—she smiled—and dy'd.

The teares that her fayre maydens shed,

Ran free from their brighte eyes;

The ecchoing wynde that then dyd blowe,

Was burden'd with theyre sighes.

The page hee saw the lovelye Alice

In a deepe deepe grave let downe,

And at her heade a green turfe ylade,

And at her feete a stone!

Then with manye a teare and manye a sighe

Hathe hee hy'd hym on hys waye;

And hee hath come to Carlile towne,

All yclad in blacke arraye.

And now hath he com to the prince's halle,

And lowelye bente hys knee;

"And howe is the ladye Alice so fayre,

My page com telle to mee."

"O, the ladye Alice, so lovelye fayre,

Alas! is deade and gone;

And at her heade is a green grass turfe,

And at her foote a stone.

"The ladye Alice is deade and gone,

And the wormes feede by her syde;

And alle for the love of thee, oh prynce,

That beauteous ladye dy'd.

"And where shee's layde the greene turfe growes,

And a colde grave-stone is there;

But the dew-clad turfe, nor the colde colde stone,

Is not soe colde as her."

Oh then prynce Henrye sad dyd sighe,

Hys hearte alle fulle of woe:

That haplesse prince ybeate hys breaste,

And faste hys teares 'gan flowe.

"And art thou gon, my sweet Alice?

And art thou gone?" hee cry'd:

"Ah woulde to heav'n that I with thee,

My faythful love, had dy'd!

"And have I loste thee, my sweet Alice?

And art thou dead and gon?

And at thy deare heade a green grass turfe,

And at thy foote a stone?

"The turfe that's o'er thy grave, deare Alice!

Sall with my teares bee wet;

And the stone at thy feete sall melte, love,

Ere I will thee forget."

And when the newes cam to merrye Englande

Of the battle in the northe;

Oh then kynge Stephen and hys nobles

So merrylie marched forthe.

And theye have had justes and tournamentes,

And have feasted o'er and o'er;

And merrylie merrylie have they rejoic'd,

For the victorye of Cuton Moore.

But manye a sighe adds to the wynde,

And many a teare to the show're,

And manye a bleedyng hearte hath broke,

For the battle of Cuton Moore.

And manye's the wydowe alle forlorne,

And helplesse orphan poore,

And many's the mayden that sall rue

The victorye of Cuton Moore.

The ladye Alice is layd in her grave,

And a colde stone markes the site;

And many's the mayde like her dothe dye,

Cause kynges and nobles wyll fighte.

The ladye Alice is layde full lowe,

And her mayden teares doe poure,

The manye's the wretche with them sall weepe,

For the victorye of Cuton Moore.

The holye prieste doth weepe as he syngs

Hys masses o'er and o'er;

And alle for the soules of them that were slayne,

At the battle of Cuton Moore.