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: But all wear slayne Cheviat within; The hade no strengthe to stand on hie; The chylde may rue that ys unborne, It was the mor pittè. Thear was slayne with the lord Persè Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly, Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone. Sir Jorg the worthè Lovele, A knyght of great renowen, Sir Raff the ryche Rugbè, With dyntes wear beaten dowene. For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, That ever he slayne shulde be; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, Yet he knyled and fought on hys kne. Ther was slayne with the dougheti Douglas, Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry, Sir Davye Lwdale, that worthè was, His sistars son was he: His Charls a Murrè in that place, That never a foot wolde fle; Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was, With the Duglas dyd he dey. So on the morrowe the mayde them byears Off birch and hasell so gray; Many wedous with wepyng tears Cam to fach ther makys away. Tivydale may carpe off care, Northombarlond may mayk grat mon, For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear, On the march perti shall never be non. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches, He lay slean Chyviot with-in. His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, He sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me! "Such an othar captayn Skotland within," He sayd, "y-feth shall never be." Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, Till the fourth Harry our kyng, That lord Persè, lyffe-tennante of the Merchis, He lay slayne Chyviat within. "God have merci on his soil," sayd kyng Harry, "Good lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd, "As good as ever was hee: But Persè, and I brook my lyffe, Thy deth well quyte shall be." As our noble kyng mayd his a-vowe, Lyke a noble prince of renowen, For the deth of the lord Persè He dyde the battell of Hombyll-down: Wher syx and thrittè Skottishe knyghtes On a day wear beaten down; Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, Over castill, towar, and town.