The ground of his quarel was for his souerain lord, The well concerning of all the hole lande, Demandyng suche duties as nedes most acord To the ryght of his prince, which shold not be withstand; For whose cause ye slew him with your owne hand: But had his noble men done wel that day, Ye had not bene able to haue sayd hym nay. 70 But ther was fals packing, or els I am begylde; How be it the mater was euydent and playne, For if they had occupied their spere and their shilde, This noble man doutles had not bene[192] slayne. But men say they wer lynked with a double chaine, And held with the comones vnder a cloke, Which kindeled the wild fyr that made al this smoke. The commons renyed ther taxes to pay, Of them demaunded and asked by the kynge; With one voice importune they plainly sayd nay; 80 They buskt them on a bushment themselfe in baile to bring, Againe the kyngs plesure to wrestle or to wring; Bluntly as bestis with boste and with crye They sayd they forsed not, nor carede not to dy. The nobelnes of the north, this valiant lord and knight, As man that was innocent of trechery or traine, Presed forth boldly to withstand the myght, And, lyke marciall Hector, he faught them agayne, Vygorously vpon them with might and with maine, Trustyng in noble men that were with him there; 90 But al they fled from hym for falshode or fere. Barones, knyghtes, squiers, one[193] and all, Together with seruauntes of his famuly, Turned their backis,[194] and let their master fal, Of whos [life] they[195] counted not a flye; Take vp whose wold, for ther[196] they let him ly. Alas, his gold, his fee, his annual rent Upon suche a sort was ille bestowd and spent! He was enuirond aboute on euery syde With his enemyes, that wer starke mad and wode; 100 Yet[197] while[198] he stode he gaue them woundes wyde: Allas for ruth! what thoughe his mynd wer gode, His corage manly, yet ther he shed his blode: Al left alone, alas, he foughte in vayne! For cruelly[199] among them ther he was slayne. Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt, The famous Erle of Northumberland; Of knyghtly prowes the sword, pomel, and hylt, The myghty lyon doutted by se and lande;[200] O dolorus chaunce of Fortunes froward hande! 110 What man, remembryng howe shamfully he was slaine, From bitter weping himself can restrain? O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war! O dolorous tewisday, dedicate to thy name, When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar! O ground vngracious, vnhappy be thy fame, Which wert endyed with rede bloud of the same Most noble erle! O foule mysuryd ground, Whereon he gat his finall dedely wounde!