O yield thee to yon braken bush, That grows upon yon lilly lee. As in that bush a bier there be, For it I’d save thy life and thee. I winna yield to a braken bush, Nor yet will I unto a bier; But I wad yield to Earl DOUGLAS, Or Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY, if he was here. As soon as he knew it was MONTGOMERY, He stuck his sword’s point in the ground: And Sir HUGH MONTGOMERY was a courteous knight, And he quickly brought him by the hand. The deed was done at Otterbourne, About the breaking o’ the day. Earl DOUGLAS was buried at the braken bush, And PERCY led captive away. THE HUNTING OF THE CHYVIAT. Percy says this old ballad was wrote by one _Richard Sbeale_, about the time of Henry VI. in whose reign several James’s were kings of Scotland. _See his Notes on this Poem._ The Persé owt off Northomberlonde, And a vowe to God mayd he, That he wold hunte in the mountayns Of Chyviat within dayes thre; In the magger of doughté Dogles, And all that ever with him be. The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat, He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away. By my feth, sayd the doughté Doglas agayn, I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may. Then the Persé owt of Bamborowe cam, With him a myghtee meany; With fifteen hondrith archares bold, off blood and bone, The wear chosen owt of shayrs thre. This beganne on a Monday at morn, In Chyviat the hillys so he; The chyld may rue that ys unborn, It was the mor pitté. The dryvers thorowe the woodes went For to reas the deare; Bomen byckarte uppone the bent With ther browd aras cleare. Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went On every syde shear; Grea hondes thorowe the grevis glent For to kyll thear dear. The beganne in Chyviat the hyls above, Yerly on a sonny’tn day; Be that it drewe to the oware off none A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. The blewe a mort uppone the bent, The semblyd on sydes shear; To the quyrry then the Persé went To se the bryttlynge off the deare. He sayd, It was the Doglas promys This day to met me hear; But I wyste he wold faylle verament: A great oath the Persé swear. At the last a squyar of ‘Northomberlonde,’ Lookyde at his hande full ny, He was war ath the doughetie Doglas commynge, With him a myghtté meany. Both with spear, byll, and brande: Yt was a myghti sight to se, Hardyar men both off harte nar hande Wear not in Christiantè. The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good, Withowte any feale; The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, Yth bowndes of Tividale. Leave off the brytlyng of the deare, he sayde, And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed; For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne Had ye never so mickle ned. The dougheti Dogglas on a stede He rode all his men beforne; His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede; A bolder barne was never born.