Sir Andrew Barton
As itt beffell in m[i]dsumer-time,
When burds singe sweetlye on every tree,
Our noble king, King Henery the Eighth,
Over the river of Thames past hee.
Hee was no sooner over the river,
Downe in a fforrest to take the ayre,
But eighty merchants of London cittye
Came kneeling before King Henery there.
‘O yee are welcome, rich merchants,
[Good saylers, welcome unto me!’]
They swore by the rood the were saylers good,
But rich merchants they cold not bee.
‘To Ffrance nor Fflanders dare we nott passe,
Nor Burdeaux voyage wee dare not ffare,
And all for a ffalse robber that lyes on the seas,
And robb[s] us of our merchants-ware.’
King Henery was stout, and he turned him about,
And swore by the Lord that was mickle of might,
‘I thought he had not been in the world throughout
That durst have wrought England such unright.’
But ever they sighed, and said, alas!
Unto King Harry this answere againe:
‘He is a proud Scott that will robb us all
If wee were twenty shipps and hee but one.’
The king looket over his left shoulder,
Amongst his lords and barrons soe ffree:
‘Have I never lord in all my realme
Will ffeitch yond traitor unto mee?’
‘Yes, that dare I!’ sayes my lord Chareles Howard,
Neere to the king wheras hee did stand;
‘If that Your Grace will give me leave,
My selfe wilbe the only man.’
‘Thou shalt have six hundred men,’ saith our king
‘And chuse them out of my realme soe ffree;
Besids marriners and boyes,
To guide the great shipp on the sea.’
‘I’le goe speake with Sir Andrew,’ sais Charles, my lord Haward;
‘Upon the sea, if hee be there;
I will bring him and his shipp to shore,
Or before my prince I will never come neere.’
The ffirst of all my lord did call,
A noble gunner hee was one;
This man was three score yeeres and ten,
And Peeter Simon was his name.
‘Peeter,’ sais hee, ‘I must sayle to the sea,
To seeke out an enemye; God be my speed!
Before all others I have chosen thee;
Of a hundred guners thoust be my head.’
‘My lord,’ sais hee, ‘if you have chosen mee
Of a hundred gunners to be the head,
Hange mee att your maine-mast tree
If I misse my marke past three pence bread.’
The next of all my lord he did call,
A noble bowman hee was one;
In Yorekshire was this gentleman borne,
And William Horsley was his name.
‘Horsley,’ sayes hee, ‘I must sayle to the sea,
To seeke out an enemye; God be my speede!
Before all others I have chosen thee;
Of a hundred bowemen thoust be my head.’
‘My lord,’ sais hee, ‘if you have chosen mee
Of a hundred bowemen to be the head,
Hang me att your maine-mast tree
If I misse my marke past twelve pence bread.’
With pikes, and gunnes, and bowemen bold,
This noble Howard is gone to the sea
On the day before midsummer-even,
And out at Thames mouth sayled they.
They had not sayled dayes three
Upon their iourney they tooke in hand,
But there they mett with a noble shipp,
And stoutely made itt both stay and stand.
‘Thou must tell me thy name,’ sais Charles, my lord Haward,
Or who thou art, or ffrom whence thou came,
Yea, and where thy dwelling is,
To whom and where thy shipp does belong.’
‘My name,’ sayes hee, ‘is Henery Hunt,
With a pure hart and a penitent mind;
I and my shipp they doe belong
Unto the New-castle that stands upon Tine.’
Now thou must tell me, Harry Hunt,
As thou hast sayled by day and by night,
Hast thou not heard of a stout robber?
Men calls him Sir Andrew Bartton, knight.’
But ever he sighed, and sayd, ‘Alas!
Ffull well, my lord, I know that wight;
He robd me of my merchants ware,
And I was his prisoner but yester-night.
As I was sayling upon the sea,
And [a] Burdeaux voyage as I did ffare,
He clasped me to his archborde,
And robd me of all my merchants-ware.
And I am a man both poore and bare,
And every man will have his owne of me,
And I am bound towards London to ffare,
To complaine to my prince Henerye.’
‘That shall not need,’ sais my lord Haward;
‘If thou canst lett me this robber see,
Ffor every peny he hath taken thee ffroe,
Thou shalt be rewarded a shilling,’ quoth hee.
‘Now God fforefend,’ saies Henery Hunt,
‘My lord, you shold worke soe ffarr amisse!
God keepe you out of that traitors hands!
For you wott ffull little what a man hee is.
‘Hee is brasse within, and steele without,
And beames hee beares in his topcastle stronge;
His shipp hath ordinance cleane round about;
Besids, my lord, hee is verry well mand.
‘He hath a pinnace is deerlye dight,
Saint Andrews crosse, that is his guide;
His pinnace beares nine score men and more,
Besids fifteen cannons on every side.
‘If you were twenty shippes, and he but one,
Either in archbord or in hall,
He wold overcome you everye one,
And if his beames they doe downe ffall.’
‘This is cold comfort,’ sais my Lord Haward,
‘To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea;
I’le bring him and his shipp to shore,
Or else into Scottland hee shall carrye mee.’
‘Then you must gett a noble gunner, my lord,
That can sett well with his eye,
And sinke his pinnace into the sea,
And soone then overcome will hee bee.
’And when that you have done this,
If you chance Sir Andrew for to bord,
Lett no man to his topcastle goe;
And I will give you a glasse, my lord,
’And then you need to ffeare no Scott,
Whether you sayle by day or by night;
And to-morrow, by seven of the clocke,
You shall meete with Sir Andrew Bartton, knight.
‘I was his prisoner but yester night,
And he hath taken mee sworne,’ quoth hee;
‘I trust my L[ord] God will me fforgive
And if that oath then broken bee.
‘You must lend me sixe peeces, my lord,’ quoth hee,
‘Into my shipp to sayle the sea,
And to-morrow, by nine of the clocke,
Your Honour againe then will I see.’
And the hache-bord where Sir Andrew lay
Is hached with gold deerlye dight:
‘Now by my ffaith,’ sais Charles, my lord Haward,
‘Then yonder Scott is a worthye wight!
‘Take in your ancyents and your standards,
Yea that no man shall them see,
And put me fforth a white willow wand,
As merchants use to sayle the sea.’
But they stirred neither top nor mast,
But Sir Andrew they passed by:
‘Whatt English are yonder,’ said Sir Andrew,
‘That can so little curtesye?
‘I have beene admirall over the sea
More then these yeeres three;
There is never an English dog, nor Portingall,
Can passe this way without leave of mee.
‘But now yonder pedlers, they are past,
Which is no little greffe to me:
Ffeitch them backe,’ sayes Sir Andrew Bartton,
‘They shall all hang att my maine-mast tree.’
With that the pinnace itt shott of,
That my Lord Haward might itt well ken;
Itt stroke downe my lords fforemast,
And killed fourteen of my lord his men.
‘Come hither, Simon!’ sayes my lord Haward,
‘Looke that thy words be true thou sayd;
I’le hang thee att my maine-mast tree
If thou misse thy marke past twelve pence bread.’
Simon was old, but his hart itt was bold;
Hee tooke downe a peece, and layd itt full lowe;
He put in chaine yards nine,
Besids other great shott lesse and more.
With that hee lett his gun-shott goe;
Soe hee well settled itt with his eye,
The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe,
Hee see his pinnace sunke in the sea.
When hee saw his pinace sunke,
Lord! in his hart hee was not well:
‘Cutt my ropes! itt is time to be gon!
I’le goe ffeitch yond pedlers backe my selfe!
‘When my lord Haward saw Sir Andrew loose,
Lord! in his hart that hee was ffaine:
‘Strike on your drummes! spread out your ancyents!
Sound out your trumpetts! sound out amaine!’
‘Fight on, my men!’ sais Sir Andrew Bartton;
‘Weate, howsoever this geere will sway,
Itt is my lord Adm[i]rall of England
Is come to seeke mee on the sea.’
Simon had a sonne; with shott of a gunne—
Well Sir Andrew might itt ken—
He shott itt in att a privye place,
And killed sixty more of Sir Andrews men.
Harry Hunt came in att the other syde,
And att Sir Andrew hee shott then;
He drove downe his fformast-tree,
And killed eighty more of Sir Andriwes men.
‘I have done a good turne,’ sayes Harry Hunt;
‘Sir Andrew is not our kings ffreind;
He hoped to have undone me yester-night,
But I hope I have quitt him well in the end.’
‘Ever alas!’ sayd Sir Andrew Barton,
‘What shold a man either thinke or say?
Yonder ffalse theeffe is my strongest enemye,
Who was my prisoner but yesterday.
‘Come hither to me, thou Gourden good,
And be thou readye att my call,
And I will give thee three hundred pound
If thou wilt lett my beames downe ffall.’
With that he swarved the maine-mast tree,
Soe did he itt with might and maine;
Horseley, with a bearing arrow,
Stroke the Gourden through the braine,
And he ffell into the haches againe,
And sore of this wound that he did bleed;
Then word went throug Sir Andrews men,
That the Gourden he was dead.
‘Come hither to me, Iames Hambliton,
Thou art my sisters sonne, I have no more;
I will give [thee] six hundred pound
If thou wilt lett my beames downe fall.’
With that hee swarved the maine-mast tree,
Soe did hee itt with might and maine
Horseley, with another broad arrow,
Strake the yeaman through the braine
That hee ffell downe to the haches againe;
Sore of his wound that hee did bleed.
Covetousness getts no gaine,
Itt is verry true, as the Welchman sayd.
But when hee saw his sisters sonne slaine,
Lord! in his heart hee was not well:
‘Goe ffeitch me downe my armour of prove,
For I will to the topcastle my-selfe.
‘Goe ffeitch me downe my armour of prooffe,
For itt is gilded with gold soe cleere;
God be with my brother, Iohn of Bartton!
Amongst the Portingalls hee did itt weare.’
But when hee had his armour of prooffe,
And on his body hee had itt on,
Every man that looked att him
Sayd, Gunn nor arrow hee neede feare none.
‘Come hither, Horsley!’ sayes my lord Haward,
‘And looke your shaft that itt goe right;
Shoot a good shoote in the time of need,
And ffor thy shooting thoust be made a knight.’
‘I’le doe my best,’ sayes Horslay then,
‘Your Honor shall see beffore I goe;
If I shold be hanged att your maine-mast,
I have in my shipp but arrowes tow.’
But att Sir Andrew hee shott then;
Hee made sure to hitt his marke;
Under the spole of his right arme
Hee smote Sir Andrew quite throw the hart.
Yett ffrom the tree hee wold not start,
But hee clinged to itt with might and maine;
Under the coller then of his iacke,
He stroke Sir Andrew thorrow the braine.
‘Ffight on, my men,’ sayes Sir Andrew Bartton
‘I am hurt, but I am not slaine;
I’le lay mee downe and bleed a-while,
And then I’le rise and ffight againe.
‘Ffight on, my men,’ sayes Sir Andrew Bartton,
‘These English doggs they bite soe lowe;
Ffight on for Scottland and Saint Andrew
Till you heare my whistle blowe!’
But when they cold not heare his whistle blow,
Sayes Harry Hunt, ‘I’le lay my head
You may bord yonder noble shipp, my lord,
For I know Sir Andrew hee is dead.’
With that they borded this noble shipp,
Soe did they itt with might and maine;
They ffound eighteen score Scotts alive,
Besids the rest were maimed and slaine.
My lord Haward tooke a sword in his hand,
And smote of Sir Andrews head;
The Scotts stood by did weepe and mourne,
But never a word durst speake or say.
He caused his body to be taken downe,
And over the hatch-bord cast into the sea,
And about his middle thre hundred crownes:
‘Whersoever thou lands, itt will bury thee.’
With his head they sayled into England againe,
With right good will, and fforce and main,
And the day beffore Newyeeres even
Into Thames mouth they came againe.
My lord Haward wrote to King Heneryes grace,
With all the newes hee cold him bring:
‘Such a Newyeeres gifft I have brought to your Grace
As never did subject to any king.
‘Ffor merchandyes and manhood,
The like is nott to be ffound;
The sight of these wold doe you good,
Ffor you have not the like in your English ground.’
But when hee heard tell that they were come,
Full royally hee welcomed them home;
Sir Andrewes shipp was the kings Newyeeres guifft;
A braver shipp you never saw none.
Now hath our king Sir Andrews shipp,
Besett with pearles and precyous stones;
Now hath England two shipps of warr,
Two shipps of war, before but one.
‘Who holpes to this?’ sayes King Henerye,
‘That I may reward him ffor his paine;’
‘Harry Hunt, and Peeter Simon,
William Horseleay, and I the same.’
‘Harry Hunt shall have his whistle and chaine,
And all his iewells, whatsoever they bee,
And other rich giffts that I will not name,
For his good service he hath done mee.
‘Horslay, right thoust be a knight,
Lands and livings thou shalt have store;
Howard shalbe Erle of Nottingham,
And soe was never Haward before.
‘Now, Peeter Simon, thou art old;
I will maintaine thee and thy son;
Thou shalt have five hundred pound all in gold,
Ffor the good service that thou hast done.’
Then King Henerye shiffted his roome;
In came the Queene and ladyes bright;
Other arrands they had none
But to see Sir Andrew Bartton, knight.
But when they see his deadly fface,
His eyes were hollow in his head;
‘I wold give a hundred pound,’ sais King Henerye,
‘The man were alive as hee is dead!
‘Yett for the manfull part that hee hath playd,
Both heere and beyond the sea,
His men shall have halfe a crowne a day
To bring them to my brother, King Iamye.’