"Thoue shalte have thy ranson fre, I hight the hear this thinge, For the manfullyste man yet art thowe, That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng."
"Nay," sayd the lord Persè, "I tolde it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be To no man of woman born."
With that ther cam an arrowe hastely Forthe off a myghtte wane; Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas In at the brest bane.
Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe The sharp arrowe ys gane, That never after in all his lyffe-days, He spayke mo wordes but ane: That was, "Fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may, For my lyff-days ben gan."
The Persè leanyde on his brande, And sawe the Duglas de; He tooke the dede man be the hande, And sayd, "Wo ys me for the!
"To have savyde thy lyffe I wolde have pertyde with My landes for years thre, For a better man, of hart nare of hande, Was not in all the north contrè."
Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry; He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght, He spendyd a spear, a trust! tre:--
He rod uppon a corsiare Throughe a hondrith archery: He never styntyde, nar never blane, Tyll he cam to the good lord Persè.
He set uppone the lord Persè A dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghttè tre Clean thorow the body he the Persè bore,
A' the tother syde that a man myght se A large cloth yard and mare: Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Christiantè, Then that day slain wear ther.
An archar off Northomberlonde Say slean was the lord Persè; He bar a bende-bowe in his hande, Was made off trusti tre.
An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, To th' hard stele halyde he; A dynt that was both sad and soar, He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry.
The dynt yt was both sad and sar, That he on Mongonberry sete; The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar, With his hart-blood the wear wete.
Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, But still in stour dyd stand, Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre, With many a balful brande.
This battell begane in Chyviat An owar befor the none, And when even-song bell was rang, The battell was nat half done.
The tooke on ethar hand Be the lyght off the mone; Many hade no strenght for to stande, In Chyviat the hillys aboun.
Of fifteen hondrith archars of Yonglonde Went away but fifti and thre; Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, But even five and fifti: