Of fifteen hondrith archers of Ynglonde
Went away but fifti and thre;

Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,
But even five and fifti:

But all wear slayne Cheviat within:

The hade no strengthe to stande on he:
The chylde may rue that is un-borne,
It was the mor pittè.

Thear was slayne with the lord Persè
Sir John of Agerstone,

Sir Roger the hinde Hartly,

Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.

Sir Jorg the worthè Lovele

A knyght of great renowen,

Sir Raff the riche Rugbè

With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharryngton my harte was wo,
That ever he slayne shulde be;

For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
He knyled and fought on hys kne.

Ther was slayne with the dougheti Douglas
Sir Hewe the Mongon-byrry,

Sir Davye Lwdale, that worthè was,
His sistars 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 Duglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the mayde them byears,
Off byrch, and hasell so gray;

Many wedous with wepyng tears,

Cam to fach ther makys a-way.

Tivydale may carpe off care,

Northombarlond may mayk grat mone,
For towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear,
On the march perti shall never be none.

Word ys commen to Edden-burrowe

To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,

That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches He lay slean Chyviot with-in.

His handdes dyd he weal and wryng,
He sayd, Alas, and woe ys me!
Such another captayn Skotland within
He said, y-feth shuld never be.

Word ys commyn to lovly Londone
Till the fourth Harry our kyng,

That lord Persè, leyff-tennante 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 Yynglonde, he sayd,
As good as ever was hee:

But Persè, and I brook my lyffe,
Thy deth well quyte shall be.

As our noble kyng made his a-vowe,
Lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Persè,

He dyd the battel of Hombyll-down:

Wher syx and thritte 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 Cheviat;
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 dougghtè Doglas slean,

The Persè never went away.

Ther was never a tym on the march partes

Sen the Doglas, and the Persè met,

But yt was marvele, 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 Chevyat:

God send us all good ending!

To drive the deere with hound and horne,
Erle Percy took his way;

The child may rue that is unborne
The hunting of that day.

The stout Erle of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summers days to take;

The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chase
To kill and beare away.

These tydings to Erle Douglas came,
In Scotland where he lay:

Who sent Erle Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The English erle, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort,

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold,
All chosen men of might,

Who knew full well in time of neede
To ayme their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran
To chase the fallow deere:
On Munday they began to hunt
Ere daylight did appeare;

And long before high noone they had
An hundred fat buckes slain;

Then having dined, the drovyers went
To rouse the deere again.

The bowmen mustered on the hills,
Well able to endure;

Their backsides all, with speciall care,

That day were guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
The nimble deere to take;

That with their cryes the hills and dales
An eccho shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went,

To view the slaughterd deere; Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised This day to meet me heere:

But if I thought he wold not come,
Noe longer wold I stay.

With that a brave young gentleman
Thus to the erle did say:

Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
All marching in our sight;

All men of pleasant Tivydale,
Fast by the river Tweede:
O cease your sport, Erle Percy said,
And take your bowes with speede:

And now with me, my countrymen,
Your courage forth advance;
For never was there champion yett,
In Scotland or in France,

That ever did on horsebacke come,
But if my hap it were,

I durst encounter man for man,
With him to break a spere.

Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,
Most like a baron bold,

Rode foremost of his company,

Whose armour shone like gold.

Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, That hunt so boldly heere,

That, without my consent, doe chase

And kill my fallow deere.

The first man that did answer make,
Was noble Percy hee;

Who sayd, Wee list not to declare,
Nor show whose men wee bee:

Yet will wee spend our deerest blood,
Thy cheefest harts to slay.
Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe,
And thus in rage did say―

Ere thus I will out-braved bee,
One of us two shall dye :

I know thee well, an erle thou art,

Lord Percy, soe am I.