‘Holde’ the, Persé, sayd the Doglas, And i feth I shall the brynge, Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis Of Jamy our ‘Scottish’ kynge. Thoue shalte have thy ransom fre, I hight the hear this thinge; For the manfullyste man yet art thowe, That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng. Nay, sayd the lorde Persé, I tolde it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be To no man of a woman born. With that ther cam an arrowe hastely Forthe off a myghtté wane, Hit hathe strekene the yerle Doglas In at the brest bane. Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe The sharpe arrowe ys gane, That never after in all his lyffe days He spayke mo wordes but ane, That was, Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may, For my lyff days ben gan. The Persé leanyde on his brande, And sawe the Doglas de; He tooke the dede mane be the hande, And sayd, Wo ys me for the! To have savyde thy lyffe I wold have pertyde with My landes for years thre; For a better man of hart, nare of hande, Was not in all the north contrè. Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, Was callyd sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry, He sawe the Doglas to the deth was dyght; He spendyd a spear a trusti tre: He rod uppon a corsiare Throughe a hondrith archery; He never stynttyde, nar never blane, Tyll he cam to the good lorde Persé. He set uppone the lorde Persé A dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghtté tre Clean thorow the body he the Persé ‘bore.’ Athe tothar syde, that a man myght se, A large cloth yard and mare; Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiantè, Then that day slain wear ther. An archar of Northomberlonde Say slean was the lord Persé, He bar a bende bow in his hand, Was made off trusti tre: An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, Toth hard stele hayld he; A dynt that was both sad and soar, He sat on sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry. The dynt yt was both sad and sar, That he of Monggonbyrry 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 balfull brande. This battell begane in Chyviat,[40] And owar before the none, And when even-song bell was rang, The battell was nat haff done. The tooke on ethar hand, Be the lyght off the mone; Many had no strength for to stande, In Chyviat the hillys abone. Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde Went away but fifti and thre; Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, But even five and fifti.[41] But all wear slayne Chyviat within: The had no strengthe to stand on hy: The chylde may rue that ys unborne, It was the mor pitté. Thear was slayne with the lord Persé, Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly, Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.