At last these two stout Erles did meet Like captaines of great might; Like Lyons wood they layd on lode, They made a cruell fight.
They fought untill they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steele, Till blood a-downe their cheekes like raine They trickling downe did feele.
“O yeeld thee, Percye!” Douglas sayd, And infaith I will thee bringe Where thou shall high advanced bee By James our Scottish King;
“Thy ransome I will freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most couragious Knight That ever I did see.”
“Noe, Douglas!” quoth Erle Percy then, “Thy profer I doe scorne; I will not yeelde to any Scott That ever yett was borne!”
With that there came an arrow keene Out of an English bow, Who scorke Erle Douglas on the brest A deepe and deadlye blow;
Who never sayd more words then these, “Fight on my merrymen all! For why, my life is att an end, Lord Percy sees my fall.”
Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke The dead man by the hand; And said, “Erle Douglas! for thy sake Wold I had lost my land!
“O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed For sorrow for thy sake! For sure, a more redoubted Knight, Mischance cold never take!”
A Knight amongst the Scotts there was, Which saw Erle Douglas dye, Who streight in hart did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percye.
Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he called, Who, with a spere full bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran feircly through the fight,
And past the English archers all, Without all dread or feare, And through Erle Percyes body then He thrust his hatfull spere,
With such a vehement force and might, That his body he did gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth yard and more.
Thus did both those nobles dye, Whose courage none cold staine, An English archer then perceived The noble Erle was slaine,
He had a good bow in his hand Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth yard long To the hard head haled hee,
Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye His shaft full right he sett; The grey goose winge that was there-on, In his harts bloode was wett.
This fight from breake of day did last Till setting of the sun, For when they rung the Evening bell The battele scarse was done.
With stout Erle Percy there was slaine Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Harcliffe and Sir William, Sir James that bold barron;