Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then, Thy proffer 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, Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, A deepe and deadlye blow: Who never spake more words than these, Fight on, my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end; Lord Percy sees my fall. Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke The dead man by the hand; And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life Wold I had lost my land. O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed With 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 wrath did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percye: Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, Who, with a spere most bright, Well-mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight; And past the English archers all, Without all dread or feare; And through Earl Percyes body then He thrust his hatefull spere; With such a vehement force and might He did his body gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth-yard and more. So thus did both these nobles dye, Whose courage none could staine: An English archer then perceiv'd The noble erle was slaine; He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long Up to the head drew hee: Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, So right the shaft he sett, The grey goose-winge that was thereon, In his harts bloode was wette. This fight did last from breake of day, Till setting of the sun; For when they rang the evening-bell, The battel scarce was done. With stout Erle Percy there was slaine Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James that bold barròn: And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, Whose prowesse did surmount. For Witherington needs must I wayle, As one in doleful dumpes; For when his leggs were smitten off, He fought upon his stumpes. And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine Sir Hugh Montgomerye, Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld One foote wold never flee. Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, His sisters sonne was hee; Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, Yet saved cold not bee. And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Erle Douglas dye: Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, Scarce fifty-five did flye. Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, Under the greene woode tree. Next day did many widowes come, Their husbands to bewayle; They washt their wounds in brinish teares, But all wold not prevayle.