‘Come hither, Simon!’ sayes my lord Haward, ‘Looke that thy words be true thou sayd; I’le hang thee att my maine-mast tree If thou misse thy marke past twelve pence bread.’ Simon was old, but his hart itt was bold; Hee tooke downe a peece, and layd itt full lowe; He put in chaine yards nine, Besids other great shott lesse and more. With that hee lett his gun-shott goe; Soe hee well settled itt with his eye, The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe, Hee see his pinnace sunke in the sea. When hee saw his pinace sunke, Lord! in his hart hee was not well: ‘Cutt my ropes! itt is time to be gon! I’le goe ffeitch yond pedlers backe my selfe! ‘When my lord Haward saw Sir Andrew loose, Lord! in his hart that hee was ffaine: ‘Strike on your drummes! spread out your ancyents! Sound out your trumpetts! sound out amaine!’ ‘Fight on, my men!’ sais Sir Andrew Bartton; ‘Weate, howsoever this geere will sway, Itt is my lord Adm[i]rall of England Is come to seeke mee on the sea.’ Simon had a sonne; with shott of a gunne-- Well Sir Andrew might itt ken-- He shott itt in att a privye place, And killed sixty more of Sir Andrews men. Harry Hunt came in att the other syde, And att Sir Andrew hee shott then; He drove downe his fformast-tree, And killed eighty more of Sir Andriwes men. ‘I have done a good turne,’ sayes Harry Hunt; ‘Sir Andrew is not our kings ffreind; He hoped to have undone me yester-night, But I hope I have quitt him well in the end.’ ‘Ever alas!’ sayd Sir Andrew Barton, ‘What shold a man either thinke or say? Yonder ffalse theeffe is my strongest enemye, Who was my prisoner but yesterday. ‘Come hither to me, thou Gourden good, And be thou readye att my call, And I will give thee three hundred pound If thou wilt lett my beames downe ffall.’ With that he swarved the maine-mast tree, Soe did he itt with might and maine; Horseley, with a bearing arrow, Stroke the Gourden through the braine, And he ffell into the haches againe, And sore of this wound that he did bleed; Then word went throug Sir Andrews men, That the Gourden he was dead. ‘Come hither to me, Iames Hambliton, Thou art my sisters sonne, I have no more; I will give [thee] six hundred pound If thou wilt lett my beames downe fall.’ With that hee swarved the maine-mast tree, Soe did hee itt with might and maine Horseley, with another broad arrow, Strake the yeaman through the braine That hee ffell downe to the haches againe; Sore of his wound that hee did bleed. Covetousness getts no gaine, Itt is verry true, as the Welchman sayd.