They rais'de her from the danky grounde, And sprinkled water fayre; But the coldest water from the spring Was not soe colde as her. And nowe came horsemen to the towne, That the prynce had sente with speede; With tydyngs to Alice that he dyd live, To ease her of her dreade. For when that hapless prince dyd falle, The arrowe dyd not hym slaye; But hys followers bravelye rescued hym, And convey'd hym safe away. Bravelye theye rescued that noble prince,[10] And to fayre Carlile hym bore; And there that brave young prynce dyd lyve, Tho' wounded sad and sore. Fayre Alice the wond'rous tydings hearde, And thrice for joye shee sigh'd: That haplesse fayre, when shee hearde the newes She rose--she smiled--and dy'd. The teares that her fayre maydens shed, Ran free from their brighte eyes; The ecchoing wynde that then dyd blowe, Was burden'd with theyre sighes. The page hee saw the lovelye Alice In a deepe deepe grave let downe, And at her heade a green turfe ylade, And at her feete a stone! Then with manye a teare and manye a sighe Hathe hee hy'd hym on hys waye; And hee hath come to Carlile towne, All yclad in blacke arraye. And now hath he com to the prince's halle, And lowelye bente hys knee; "And howe is the ladye Alice so fayre, My page com telle to mee." "O, the ladye Alice, so lovelye fayre, Alas! is deade and gone; And at her heade is a green grass turfe, And at her foote a stone. "The ladye Alice is deade and gone, And the wormes feede by her syde; And alle for the love of thee, oh prynce, That beauteous ladye dy'd. "And where shee's layde the greene turfe growes, And a colde grave-stone is there; But the dew-clad turfe, nor the colde colde stone, Is not soe colde as her." Oh then prynce Henrye sad dyd sighe, Hys hearte alle fulle of woe: That haplesse prince ybeate hys breaste, And faste hys teares 'gan flowe. "And art thou gon, my sweet Alice? And art thou gone?" hee cry'd: "Ah woulde to heav'n that I with thee, My faythful love, had dy'd! "And have I loste thee, my sweet Alice? And art thou dead and gon? And at thy deare heade a green grass turfe, And at thy foote a stone? "The turfe that's o'er thy grave, deare Alice! Sall with my teares bee wet; And the stone at thy feete sall melte, love, Ere I will thee forget." And when the newes cam to merrye Englande Of the battle in the northe; Oh then kynge Stephen and hys nobles So merrylie marched forthe. And theye have had justes and tournamentes, And have feasted o'er and o'er; And merrylie merrylie have they rejoic'd, For the victorye of Cuton Moore. But manye a sighe adds to the wynde, And many a teare to the show're, And manye a bleedyng hearte hath broke, For the battle of Cuton Moore.