The Hunting of the Chyviat
Percy says this old ballad was wrote by one Richard Sbeale, about the time of Henry VI. in whose reign several James’s were kings of Scotland. See his Notes on this Poem.
The Persé owt off Northomberlonde,
And a vowe to God mayd he,
That he wold hunte in the mountayns
Of Chyviat within dayes thre;
In the magger of doughté Dogles,
And all that ever with him be.
The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat,
He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away.
By my feth, sayd the doughté Doglas agayn,
I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.
Then the Persé owt of Bamborowe cam,
With him a myghtee meany;
With fifteen hondrith archares bold, off blood and bone,
The wear chosen owt of shayrs thre.
This beganne on a Monday at morn,
In Chyviat the hillys so he;
The chyld may rue that ys unborn,
It was the mor pitté.
The dryvers thorowe the woodes went
For to reas the deare;
Bomen byckarte uppone the bent
With ther browd aras cleare.
Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went
On every syde shear;
Grea hondes thorowe the grevis glent
For to kyll thear dear.
The beganne in Chyviat the hyls above,
Yerly on a sonny’tn day;
Be that it drewe to the oware off none
A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.
The blewe a mort uppone the bent,
The semblyd on sydes shear;
To the quyrry then the Persé went
To se the bryttlynge off the deare.
He sayd, It was the Doglas promys
This day to met me hear;
But I wyste he wold faylle verament:
A great oath the Persé swear.
At the last a squyar of ‘Northomberlonde,’
Lookyde at his hande full ny,
He was war ath the doughetie Doglas commynge,
With him a myghtté meany.
Both with spear, byll, and brande:
Yt was a myghti sight to se,
Hardyar men both off harte nar hande
Wear not in Christiantè.
The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good,
Withowte any feale;
The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde,
Yth bowndes of Tividale.
Leave off the brytlyng of the deare, he sayde,
And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed;
For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne
Had ye never so mickle ned.
The dougheti Dogglas on a stede
He rode all his men beforne;
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;
A bolder barne was never born.
Tell me ‘what’ men ye ar, he says,
Or whos men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this
Chyviat chays in the spyt of me?
The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,
It was the good lord Persé:
We wyll not tell the ‘what’ men we ar, he says,
Nor whos men that we be;
But we will hount hear in this chays
In the spyt of thyne and of the.
The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat
We have kyld, and cast to carry them away.
Be my troth, sayd the doughté ‘Dogglas’ agayn,
Ther for the ton of us shall de this day.
Then sayd the doughté Dogglas,
Unto the lord Persé:
To kyll all these giltles men,
Alas! it wear great pitté.
But, Persé, thowe art a lorde of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contrè;
Let all our men uppone a parti stande;
And do the battell off the and of me.
Now Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd the lord Persé,
Who soever ther to says nay.
Be my troth, doughté Doglas, he says,
Thow shalt never se that day;
Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,
Nor for no man of a woman born,
But and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him on man for on.
Then bespayke a squyar of Northombarlonde,
Ric. Wytheryngton was his nam;
It shall never be tolde in Sothe Ynglonde, he says,
To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.
I wat youe byn great lordes twaw,
I am a poor squyar of lande;
I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
And stande myselffe, and loocke on,
But whyll I may my weppone welde
I wyll not [fayl] bothe harte and hande.
That day, that day, that dredfull day,
The first fit here I fynde:
And youe wyll here any mor athe hountyng athe Chyviat,
Yet ys ther more behynd.