Therfore song it was wailaway; There lyvys they lost anon right in hast: And oure kyng with riall aray, To the se he past. And landyd in Normandye, at the water of Sayn, At the pyle of Ketecaus, the sothe y yow say, On oure lady even, the assumpcion, the thirdde yer of hys rayn, And boldely hys baner there he gan display. _Wot ye right well, &c._ And to the town of Harflew there he tok the way, And mustred his meyne faire before the town, And many other lordys I dar well say, With baners brighte and many penoun: And there they pyght there tentys a down, That were embroudyd with armys gay; First, the kynges tente with the crown, And all othere lordes in good aray. _Wot ye right well, &c._ My brother Clarence, oure kyng gan say, The tother syde shull ye kepe, With my doughter and hire maydyns gay, To wake the Frensshmen of there slepe. London he seyde shall with here mete, My gonnys shall lyn upon this grene, For they shall play with Harflete, A game at tynes as y wene. _Wot ye right well, &c._ Mine engynes that bethe so kene, They shull be sett be syde this hill, Over all Harflewe that they may sene, For to loke if they play well. Go we to game be Godys grace, Myne children ben redy everych on, Every greet gonne that there was, In his mouth he hadde a ston. _Wot ye right well, &c._ The Capteyn of Harflewe sone anon To oure kyne he sente on hy, To wyte what was his wille to don That he was come with his navy; Delivere me this toune, oure kyng gan say; Nay sire, he seyde, be seynt Denys; Thanne shall y it gete, if y may, Be the grace of God and myn devys. _Wot ye right well, &c._ Myne pleyers that y have hedyr brought, Their ballys beth of stonys round, Be the helpe of hym that me dere bought, They shall youre wall have to ground. The Frensshmen cried 'Amound,' 'Amound;' This toun, they seyde, us moste kepe. The kyng, seith he, will nought fro this ground Or he have yolde this toun Harflete. _Wot ye right well, &c._ Tenys seyde the grete gonne, How felawes go we to game, Among the houses of Harflewe roune, It dide the Frensshmen right gret grame; Fyftene before, seyd London, tho His ball wol faire he gan it throwe, That the stepyll of Harflete and bellys also, With his breth he dide down blowe. _Wot ye right well, &c._ XXX^{ti} is myn, seyd Messagere, And smartly went his way; Ther wallys that were mad right sure, He brast them down the sothe to say. The kynges doughter, seyde here, how thei play, Herkenyth myne maydenys in this tyde; Fyve and forty that is no nay, The wallys wente doun on every syde. _Wot ye right well, &c._ The engynes seide, to longe we abyde, Let us gon to ben on assent; Wherevere that the ball gan glyde, The houses of Harflew they all to rent. An Englyssh man the bulwerk brent, Women cryed alas! that they were bore, The Frensshmen seide now be we shent, From us this toun now it is lore. _Wot ye right well, &c._