Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne, Thy counsell well it liketh mee, And if we speed and 'scape with life, Well advanced shalt thou bee.
Come you hither, my nine good sonnes, Gallant men I trowe you bee: How many of you, my children deare, Will stand by that good erle and mee?
Eight of them did answer make, Eight of them spake hastilie, O Father, till the day we dye We'll stand by that good erle and thee.
Gramercy, now, my children deare, You shew yourselves right bold and brave, And whethersoe'er I live or dye, A father's blessing you shall have.
But what say'st thou, O Francis Norton, Thou art mine eldest sonne and heire: Somewhat lies brooding in thy breast; Whatever it bee, to mee declare.
Father, you are an aged man, Your head is white, your beard is gray; It were a shame at these your years For you to ryse in such a fray.
Now fye upon thee, coward Francis, Thou never learned'st this of mee; When thou wert young and tender of age, Why did I make soe much of thee?
But, father, I will wend with you, Unarm'd and naked will I bee; And he that strikes against the crowne, Ever an ill death may he dee.
Then rose that reverend gentleman, And with him came a goodlye band To join with the brave Earle Percy, And all the flower o' Northumberland.
With them the noble Nevill came, The erle of Westmoreland was hee; At Wetherbye they mustered their host, Thirteen thousand fair to see.
Lord Westmorland his ancyent raisde, The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye, And three Dogs with golden collars Were there set out most royallye.
Erle Percy there his ancyent spread, The Halfe Moone shining all soe faire; The Nortons ancyent had the Crosse, And the five wounds our Lord did beare.
Then Sir George Bowes he straitwaye rose, After them some spoile to make: Those noble erles turned back againe, And aye they vowed that knight to take.
That baron he to his castle fled, To Barnard castle then fled hee. The uttermost walles were eathe to win. The earles have wonne them presentlie.
The uttermost walles were lime and bricke; But though they won them soon anone, Long ere they wan their innermost walles, For they were cut in rocke and stone.
Then news unto leeve London came In all the speed that ever might bee, And word is brought to our royall queene Of the rysing in the North countrie.