The Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire - Various

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which were suspended the banners of St. Peter of York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfred of Ripon, and above all, in a silver pix, the consecrated host. The following ballad was first printed, by Mr. Evans, in 1784.

      The welkin[2] darke o'er Cuton Moore

      With drearye cloudes did low're—

      The woeful carnage of that daye

      Sall Scotlande aye deplore.

      The river Tees full oft dyd sighe,

      As she roll'd her wynding floode,

      That ever her sylver tyde soe cleare

      Shoulde bee swell'd with human bloode!

      Kyng Davyd hee stode on the rising hille,

      And the verdante prospecte view'd;

      And hee sawe that sweete river that o'er the moore

      Roll'd on her sylver floode.

      Oh then bespake that noble kyng,

      And with griefe hys hearte was woo'd:

      "And ever I mourne that yon fayre streame

      Shoulde be swell'd with human bloode!"

      Kynge Davyd hee sawe the verdante moore,

      With wilde flow'res all bestrow'de:

      "And ever I'm griev'd that soe greene a moore

      Sholde be stayn'd with human bloode!

      "But more am I griev'd, alas!" he cry'd,

      "And more my hearte is woo'd,

      That soe manye warriours young and brave

      Muste thys daye shed theyr bloode!"

      As princely a hoste that kyng dyd leade

      As ever march'd on playne:

      Alas! that soe manye a warriour brave

      Should be soe soone yslayne!

      And firste march'd forthe the Galloway men,

      Of the antiente Picts they sprange;

      Theyr speares all soe brighte and bucklers strong

      For manye myles yrang.

      And then cam on the Norman troopes,

      With Englishe them amonge:

      For the empresse Maud they cam to fighte,

      To righte that ladye's wronge.

      And then march'd forthe the Scottish foote,

      And then march'd forthe the horse;

      In armoure stronge, all those warriours came,

      A greate and warlike force.

      Kynge Davyd look'd athawart the moore,

      And prince Henry hys brave sonne,

      And they were aware of the Englishe hoste,

      Com merrilye marching on.

      Oh then call'd forthe kynge Davyd,

      And loudelye called hee,

      "And whoo is heare in alle mye campe,

      Can descrybe yon hoste to mee?"

      Then came a bearne, besyde the tente,

      An Englisheman was hee;

      'Twas not long since from the Englishe hoste,

      That traiterous wighte dyd flee.

      "Nowe tell mee yon hostes," the kyng hee cry'd,

      "And thou shalte have golde and fee—

      And whoo is yon chiefe that rydes along

      With hys lockes soe aged greye?"

      "Oh that is Walter de Gaunte[3] you see,

      And hee hath beene greye full long,

      But manye's the troope that hee dothe leade,

      And they are stoute and stronge."

      "And whoo is yon chiefe soe brighte of blee,

      With hys troopes that beate the playne?"

      "Oh that's the younge earle of Albermarle,[4]

      Yleading hys gallante trayne.

      "A more gallante warrioure than that lorde

      Is not yon hostes among;

      And the gallante troopes that hee doth leade,

      Like hym, are stoute and younge."

      "And who yon shynny warriours twoo,

      With theyre troopes yclade the same?"

      "Oh they're the Bruces,[5] that in thys fighte

      Have com t'acquire them fame."

      Oh then call'd oute kynge Davyd,

      And fulle of woe spake hee:

      "And ever I hold those Bruces false,

      For muche they owe to mee.

      "And who's yon chiefe of giante heighte,

      And of bulke so huge to see?"

      "Walter Espec[6] is that chiefe's name,

      And a potente chiefe is hee.

      "Hys stature's large as the mountaine oake,

      And eke as strong hys mighte:

      There's ne'ere a chiefe in alle the northe

      Can dare with hym to fighte."

      "And whoo's yon youthe, yon youthe I see,

      A galloping o'er the moore?

      Hys troopes that followe soe gallantelye

      Proclayme hym a youthe of pow're."

      "Young Roger de Mowbray[7] is that youthe,

      And hee's sprang of the royal line;

      Hys wealthe and hys followers, oh kyng,

      Are allemost as greate as thyne."

      "And who's yon aged chiefe I see

      All yclad in purple veste?"

      "Oh that's the Bishoppe o' th' Orkney isles,[8]

      And hee alle the hoste hath bleste.

      "And alle the reste are noblemen,

      Of fortune and fame ech one:

      From Nottingham and from Derbyeshyre

      Those valiante chiefetaynes com."[9]

      "But what's yon glitt'ring tow're I see

      I' the centre o' the hoste?"

      "Oh that's the hallow'd Standarde of whyche

      The Englishe make suche boaste.

      "A maste of a shipp it is so hie,

      Alle bedect with golde soe gaye;

      And on the topp is a holye crosse,

      That shynes as brighte as the daye.

      "Around it hang the holye banners

      Of manye a blessed saynte;

      Saynte Peter, and John of Beverlye,

      And Saynte Wilfred there they paynte.

      "The aged folke arounde it throng,

      With their old hayres alle so greye;

      And

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