An arrow that was a cloth-yard long To the hard steel halèd[1115] he, A dint that was both sad and sair He set on Montgomerye. XLIII The dint it was both sad and sair That he on Montgomerye set; The swan-feathers that his arrow bare With his heart-blood they were wet. XLIV There was never a freykè one foot would flee, But still in stoure[1116] did stand; Hewing on each other, while they might dree[1117], With many a baleful brand. XLV This battle began in Cheviot An hour before the noon, And when the even-song bell was rung The battle was not half done. XLVI They took [their stand] on either hand By the [lee][1118] light of the moon; Many had no strength for to stand In Cheviot the hills abune. XLVII Of fifteen hundred archers of England Went away but seventy-and-three; Of twenty hundred spearmen of Scotland But even five-and-fiftỳ. XLVIII There was slain with the bold Percye Sir John of Agerstoune, Sir Roger, the hendè[1119] Hartley, Sir William, the bold Herone. XLIX Sir George, the worthy Loumlye, A knight of great renown, Sir Ralph, the richè Rabye, With dints were beaten down. L For Witherington my heart was woe That ever he slain should be: For when both his legs were hewn in two Yet he kneel’d and fought on his knee. LI There was slayn with the doughty Douglas Sir Hugh the Montgomerye, Sir Davy Lambwell, that worthy was, His sister’s son was he. LII Sir Charles a Murray in that place, That never a foot would flee: Sir Hew Maxwell, a lord he was, With the Douglas did he dee. LIII So on the morrow they made them biers Of birch and hazel so gray; Many widows with weeping tears Came to fetch their makes[1120] away. LIV Teviotdale may carp[1121] of care, Northumberland may make moan, For two such captains as slain were there On the March-parts shall never be none. LV Word is come to Edinboro’, To Jamie the Scottish King, Earl Douglas, lieutenant of the Marches, Lay slain Cheviot within. LVI His hands the King did weal[1122] and wring, Said, ‘Alas! and woe is me! Such another captain Scotland within I’ faith shall never be!’ LVII Word is come to lovely London, To the fourth Harry, our King, Lord Percy, lieutenant of the Marches, Lay slain Cheviot within. LVIII ‘God have mercy on his soul,’ said King Harry, ‘Good Lord, if thy will it be! I’ve a hundred captains in England,’ he said, ‘As good as ever was he: But Percy, an I brook[1123] my life, Thy death well quit shall be.’ LIX