And when the newes cam to merrye Englande Of the battle in the northe; Oh then kynge Stephen and hys nobles Soe merrylie marched forthe, And theye have had juftes and tournamentes, And merrylie merrylie have they rejoic'd, But many a fighe adds to the wynde, And manye's the wydowe alle forlorne, The ladye Alice is layde in her grave, The lady Alice is layde full lowe, And her mayden tears doe poure, And manye's the wretche with them fall weepe, The The holye priefte doth weepe as he fyngs Hys maffes o'er and o'er; And alle for the foules of them that were flayne At the battle of Cuton Moore. VII. The MURDER of PRINCE ARTHUR in Rouen Cafile. Now first printed. The ballad of prince Arthur is explained by the following extract from the hiftory of England: 66 66 66 "King John, thinking he should have no quiet as long 66 as prince Arthur lived, (for king Philip and the Bretons ftill preffed for his delivery,) refolved to dispatch him privately. Confidering the importance of the affair, and the great mischief and reproach that the difcovery of it might bring upon bim, the king refolved to "trust as few with the knowledge of it as he could help : 66 whereupon, coming one night in a boat to the foot of a tower of the castle of Rouen, he presently ordered him to be brought down and put into the boat; whereupon "the prince, apprehending his approaching fate by his "uncle's filence, prefently abating his former fierceness, flung himself at his feet, in hopes to obtain mercy; "but the cruel king prefently drew his fword, and ran 66 "him feveral times through his body, till he had dispatched "him: then carrying the corps fome few leagues down the fiream, they flung it into the river Seine. 'MONG GUTHRIE (from Tyrrel and others). ONG hilles and woodelandes, manye a myle And, winding, wafh'd the statelye tow'res, Dreare darkneffe, with her mournefulle fhade, And hid from view th' embattled walls No more was hearde the voice of man, Soft flept each wearied hinde : No found fave hapless Arthur's fighes, That murmur'd with the winde. From an old tow'r of drearye heighte, Forlorne, thro' Gothic grate, The hapless prince look'd o'er the floode, "Yee wyndes, that rove the forests free, 66 Why roar ye as ye blowe ? "Ye waves, that dash against these tow'res, "Why murmur as ye flowe? VOL. IV. I " You "You wyndes enjoye the bliffe to rove, "Or is't in pitye to my fighes, "That rounde these tow'res yee roare? And you, faire river, dash youre waves "So oft againfte the shore ? "How blefte were I, yee wyndes and waves, "If I like you coulde rove; "Like you coulde wynde my chearful waye, "Thro' forefte, hille, and grove ! "But woe is mee, here doom'de to waste 66 Mye life in hopelesse woe; "To number fighes-that stille muste heave, "And teares-that ftille mufte flowe! "Fulle manye a daye hath told its houres, "Mye fole employe to counte the woes "That fille up my despaire ; "A mother's teares-I cannot wipe "A crowne-I cannot weare. "A lovelye "A lovelye fifter in my cause, "Debarr'd of libertye; "A thousande friendes, or captive made, "Or flayne in fyghte for mee. My fleepe to me affordes no peace; "Fell fancye ftille wille wake, "And doubles every pang of woe, "Oh then, with every care renew'd, "I wake right fulle of woe ; "Wake-but to mark the dafning wave, "And hear the rude wyndes blowe. "Then, then, diftracted at my fate, "Fulle manye a fun hath fat in miste, "That pitying fun did ryfe. "The gentle moone, when brighte her beames cr Upon these tow'res fhee throwes, "Oft' hydes her face behinde a cloude, "As weeping for my woes. |