The yerlle of Mentaye, thow art my erne, The fowarde I gyve to thee: The yerlle of Huntley cawte and kene, He schall ‘wyth the be.’ The lorde of Bowghan in armure bryght, On the other hand he schall be: Lorde Jhonstone, and lorde Maxwell, They to schall be wyth me. Swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde, To batell make yow bowen: Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstone.” [38] The Scots, in this inroad, lay before Newcastle three days, where there was an almost continual skirmish. Sir Henry Percy, (with his brother, had come to Newcastle, on the intelligence of the Scots being abroad) in one of these skirmishes, lost his pennon or standard; and pledging himself to redeem it, followed the Scots to Otterburn, where the battle took place. See _Freysart’s Chronicles_. _A FYTTE._ The Perssye came byfore hys oste, Whych was ever a gentyll knyght, Upon the Dowglasse lowde can he crye, I wyll holde that I have hyght: For thou haste brente Northomberlonde, And done me grete envye; For thys trespasse thow haste me done, The tone of us schall dye. The Dowglasse answerde him agayne, With grete wurdes upon hye, And sayd, I have twenty agaynst ‘thy’ one. Byholde and thow maste see. Wyth that the Perssye was grevyd sore, For soth, as I yow saye: He lyghted dowyn upon hys foote, And schoote his horsse clene away. Every man sawe that he dyd soo, That rall was ever in rowght; Every man schoote hys horsse hym froo, And lyght hym rowynde abowght. This syr Harye Perssye toke the fylde, For soth, as I yow saye: Jesu Cryste in heven on hyght Dyd helpe hym well that daye. But nyne thowsande, ther was no moo; The cronykle wyll not layne: Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre That day fowght them agayne. But when the battell byganne to joyne, In hast ther cam a knyght, The letters fayr furth hath he tayne, And thus he sayd full ryght: My lorde, your father he gretes yow well, Wyth many a noble knyght; He desyres yow to byde That he may see thys fyght. The baron of Grastoke ys com owt of the west, Wyth hym a noble companye; All they loge at your fathers thys nyght, And the battell fayne wolde they see. For Jesus love, sayd syr Harye Perssye, That dyed for yow and me, Wende to my lorde my father agayne, And saye thow sawe me not wyth yee. My trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh knyght, Yt nedes me not to layne, That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent, And I have hys trowth agayne: And yf that I wynde off thys growende, For soth onfowghten awaye, He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght Yn hys londe another daye. Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, By Mary that mykell maye, Then ever my manhood schulde be reprovyd, Wyth a Skotte another daye.