The King look’d towards litle Durham, And that hee well beheld, That the Earle Percy was well arm’d, With his battell-axe entred the feild. XL The King look’d again towards litle Durham, Four ancyents[1034] there saw he; There were two standards, six in a valley, He cold not see them with his eye. XLI My Lord of Yorke was one of them, My Lord of Carlile was the other, And my Lord Fitzwilliams, The Bishop came with the other. XLII The Bishop of Durham commanded his men, And shortlye he them bade, That never a man shold goe to fight Till he had served his God. XLIII Five hundred priests said mass that day In Durham in the field, And afterwards, as I hard say, They bare both spear and shield. XLIV The Bishop orders himselfe to fight, With his battell-axe in his hand; He said, ‘This day now I will fight As long as I can stand!’ XLV ‘And soe will I,’ sayd my Lord of Carlile, ‘In this faire morning gay’; ‘And soe will I,’ said my Lord Fitzwilliams, ‘For Mary, that mild may[1035].’ XLVI Our English archers bent their bowes Shortly and anon; They shot over the Scottish oast And scantly toucht a man. XLVII ‘Hold downe your hands,’ sayd the Bishop of Durham, ‘My archers good and true’! The second shootè that they shott, Full sore the Scots it rue. XLVIII The Bishop of Durham spoke on hie, That both partyes might heare: ‘Be of good cheere, my merrymen all, They flyen and changen their cheere!’ XLIX But as they saidden, see they didden, They fell on heapès hie; Our Englishmen laid on with their bowes, As fast as they might drie. L The King of Scotts in a study stood Amongst his companye; An arrow stoke him thoro’ the nose, And thoro’ his armorye. LI The King went to a marsh-side And light beside his steede; He leanèd him downe on his swordhilts, To let his nosè bleede. LII There follow’d him a yeaman of merry England, His name was John of Coplande: ‘Yeeld thee, traytor!’ saies Coplande then, ‘Thy life lies in my hand.’ LIII ‘How shold I yeeld me,’ sayes the King, ‘And thou art noe gentleman?’-- ‘Noe, by my troth,’ sayes Copland there, ‘I am but a poore yeaman. LIV ‘What art thou better then I, Sir King? Tell me if that thou can! What art thou better then I, Sir King, Now we be but man to man?’ LV The King smote angerly at Copland, Angerly in that stonde; Then Copland was a bold yeaman, And bore the King to the ground. LVI He sett the King on a palfrey, Himselfe upon a steede; He tooke him by the bridle-rayne, Towards London he can him lead. LVII