V.

BISHOP THURSTAN, and the KING of SCOTS, A Ballad.

Now firft printed.

A. D. 1137. Soon after Stephen's departure for Normandy, the King of Scots entered England in a hoftile manner.- Stephen's government was at this time in no con. dition to have refifted the invafion, and nothing could have broke the form, but the venerable Thurftan (archbishop of York) working upon the piety of king David. Though this prelate was now very old, yet he prevailed with David and his fon to meet him at Roxburgh, a caffle lying near the frontiers of both the kingdoms; where his remonftrances bad fuch an effect, that the Scottish Princes generously put a top to boftilities, till Stephen Should return to England, and be once more applied to for a definitive answer con cerning the investiture of Northumberland.

T

GUTHRIE, book 5th, page 467.

HRO' the fayre countrie of Tiviotdale,
Kyng David marched forthe;

Kyng David and hys princelye fonne,
The heroes of the northe,

1

And

And holye Thurftan fro' merrye Carlyle,
In hafte hys waye dothe winde;
With manye a croffe-bearer going before,
And manye a knighte behynde.

And manye did bleffe that holye byshopp,
As evermore they maye;

For we'le they knewe 'twas for holye peace
That hee dyd wend that waye.

And at the caftyl of fayre Roxburghe
The kyng and byfhop drewe neare,
Their hornes refoundyng o'er the hylls,
Their banners fhyning farre.

"Now welcom, welcom, holye Thurstan,

"Righte welcom unto mee,

"And ever it cheares mee, foothe to faye, "Soe holye a man to fee."

"No kyng is welcom unto mee,

"Nor for hym wyll I praye,

"Who comes to ravage a helpless lande, "When its kyng is farre awaye."

Oh then befpake kyng David,

And full of wroth fpake hee:

"Nowe I sweare by the roode, th' English kynge

"Hath evermore injur'd mee.

Fro' my fonne hee keepes th' inveftiture "O Northumberlande, hys ryghte: "And ever I'll harrowe that unjuste kynge, "By Curifte in heav'n hys myghte."

Oh then befpake the holye Thurstan,

And full of woe fpake hee:

"Oh Chrifte, thy kyngdom of heav'nlye blyffe, "Alaffe! when fall wee fee?

For heare on earthe is noughte but finne, "'en kyngs for pryde doe ill;

And when they with each other warre, "The poore folke's bloode must spill.

What hath the hufbandman done wrong, "That yee muit fpoile bys grayne?

"And what the poore wydowe, and what the chylde, "That they mufte alle bee flayne.

And what is the fymple mayde to blame, "To bee made of lufte the preye :

And what the lowelye village prieste, "That yee foe ofte doe flaye?

Ah! tyrante kyngs, fhall not the Lorde
"Revenge the poore diftrefte;

The fimple fwayne, the helplesse mayde,
The wydowe, and the priefte?

And

"And when the doleful daye of doome

"Sall calle y ee fro' the grave;

Fro' the crying bloode of thofe innocents, "What, tyrantes, fall yee fave?

ແ Thynke yee that Chrifte, (whofe gentyl lawes Aye breathe foe mylde a ftrayne,)

"Thynke you that Chrifte (of mercye kynge) "Wyll free you fro' the pay ne?

"Did hee not dye alle on the roode, "And alle for the love of man?

"And wyll hee then fave theyr guiltye foules, "Who foe manye men have y flane?

"Farre fooner, oh kyng! woulde I laye in myre, "Than fyt upon a throne;

Far fooner, oh kynge! woulde I beg my breade, "Than weare a golden crowne,

"For fall not the judge of alle doe ryghte,

"At the doleful doome's daye?

"Then what wyll avayl your crownes and thrones, " And your ftates and courtiers gaye?

"Nowe thynke thee well, oh mortal kyng!
"And thy proude mifdeedes bemoane;
Oh thynke what wyll fave thy hapless foule,
"When thy pompe fall alle bee gone,

"NOF

Nor fancye that almes wyll fave thy foule,

"Tho' bounteous they bee giv'n;

"Nor the rearing of abbies, alle riche endow'de,

Wyll carrye thy foule to heav'n.

"Fulle welle I knowe the craving monkes

"Have manye a one beguil'd;

"And ofte, when a man's layde on hys deathe bed, "They robbe the wydowe and chylde.

"But rouze thy reafon, oh noble kyng!
"Nor heed the cloyster'd drone;
"For nothyng ther is a man can doe,
"For bloodefhedd fall attone :

"Save the meryts of hym, who for our fynnes

"Dy'd on the precious roode;

"And ever the cryme that most hee hates, "Is fheddyng of man's bloode."

All woebegone then fpoke the kynge,
And the teares ran fro' hys eyne:

"And ever I thanke thee, holye Thurstan,
"For thy counfayle foe dyvyne.

But heav'n doth knowe that, from my hearte,

"I hate to kylle and flaye;

And ever I hynder my men at armes,

"As evermore I

maye:

"And