This vow full well the king perform'd,
After, on Humbledown.

In one day fifty knights were slain,
With lords of great renown:
And of the rest, of small account,
Did many hundreds die.

Thus ended the hunting of Chevy Chase,
Made by the Earl Percy.

God save the king, and bless the land
In plenty, joy, and peace;

And grant henceforth, that foul debate
"Twixt noblemen may cease.

§ 103. Song. Sir Cauline. There is something peculiar in the metre of this old

ballad; it is unusual to meet with redundant stanzas of six lines; but the occasional insertion of a double third or fourth line, as ver. 31, 44, &c. is an irregularity I do not remember to have seen elsewhere. It may be proper to inform the reader before he comes to Pt. 2, ver. 110, 111, that the round table was not peculiar to the reign of king Arthur, but was common in all the ages of chivalry. The proclaiming a great tournament (probably with some peculiar solemnities) was called "holding a Round Table." Dugdale tells

us,

that the great baron Roger de Mortimer, "having procured the honor of knighthood to be conferred 'on his three sons' by king Edward I. he, at his own costs, caused a tournament to be held at Kenilworth, where he sumptuously entertained an hundred knights and as many ladies, for three days; the Kke whereof was never before in England; and there began the round table, (so called by reason that the place wherein they practised those feats was environed with a strong wall made in a round form :) and upon the fourth day, the golden lion, in sign of triumph, being yielded to him, he carried it (with all the company) to Warwick." It may further be added that Matthew Paris frequently

calls justs and tournaments Hastilulia Mensa Rotundæ.

As to what will be observed in this ballad, of the art of healing being practised by a young princess; it is no more than what is usual in all the old romances, and was conformable to real manners; it being a practice derived from the earliest times among all the Gothic and Celtic nations, for women, even of the highest rank, to exercise the art of surgery. In the Northern Chronicles we also find the young damsels stanching the wounds of their lovers, and the wives those of their husbands. And even so late as the time of queen Elizabeth, it is mentioned among the accomplishments of the ladies of her court, that "the eldest of them are skilful in surgery." See Harrison's Description of England, prefixed to Hollingshed's Chronicle, &c.

The First Part.

IN Ireland, ferr over the sea,

There dwelleth a bonnye kinge;
And with him a yong and comlye knighte,
Men call him Syr Cauline.

The kinge had a lady to his daughter,
In fashyon she hath no peere;
And princely wightes that ladye wooed,
To be theyr wedded feere.
Syr Cauline loveth her best of all,
But nothing durst he saye;

Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man
But dearlye he lovde this may.

Till on a daye it so beffell,

Great dill to him was dight;
The maydens love removde his mind,
To care-bed went the knighte.

One while he spred his arms him fro,
One while he spred them nye;
And aye! but I winne that ladyes love,
For dole now I mun dye..
And when our parish-masse was done,
Our kinge was bowne to dyne:
He says, Where is Syr Cauline,
That is wont to serve the wyne ?
Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte,
And fast his handes gan wringe:
Syr Cauline is sick and like to dye
Without a good leechinge.

Fetche me downe my daughter deere,
She is a leeche fulle fine:

Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread,
And serve him with the wyne soe red;

Lothe I were him to tine.

Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes,
Her maydens followyng nye:
O well, she sayth, how doth my lord?
O sicke, thou fayre ladyè.

Now

ryse up wightlye, man, for shame,
Never lye soe cowardlee;
For it is told in my father's halle,
You dye for love of mee.
Fayre ladye, it is for your love
That all this dill I drye:

For if you wold comfort me with a kisse,
Then were I brought from bale to blisse,
No longer would I lye.
Syr knighte, my father is a kinge,
I am his only heire;
Alas! and well you knowe, syr knighte,
I never can be your feere.
O ladye, thou art a kinges daughter,
But let me doe some deedes of armes,
And I am not thy peere,
To be youre bacheleere.

Some deeds of armes if thou wilt doe,
My bacheleere to be,

(But ever and aye my heart would rue,
Giff harm should frappe to thee,)
Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne,
Upon the mores brodínge;

And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte,
Untill the fair morninge?

For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte,
Will examine you beforne;
And never man bare life away,

But he did him scath and scorne.
That knighte he is a foul paynim,

And large of limb and bone;

And but if heaven may be thy specde,
Thy life it is but gone.

Nowe on the Eldridge hills Ile walke,
For thy sake, fair ladie;

And Ile either bring you a ready tokén,
Or Ile never more you see.

The ladye is gone to her own chaumbère,
Her maydens following bright:
Syr Cauline lop'd from care-bed soone,
And to the Eldridge hills is gone,

For to wake there all night.

Unto midnight, that the moone did rise,
He walked up and downe;
Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe
Over the bents soe browne.

Quoth hee, If cryance come till my heart,

I am far from any good towne.

And soon he spyde on the mores so broad
A furyous wight and fell;
A ladye bright his brydle led,

Clad in a fayre kyrtèll :

And soe fast he called on syr Cauline,
O man, I reede thee flye,
For but if cryance come till thy heart,
I weene but thou mun dye.

He sayth, No cryance comes till my heart,
Nor, in fayth, I will not flee;

For, cause thou minged not Christ before, The less me dreadeth thee.

The Eldridge knighte he pricked his steed;
Syr Cauline bold abode':

Then either shooke his trustye speare,
And the timber these two children * bare
So soon in sunder slode.

Then took they out theyr two good swordes,
And layden on full faste,

Till helme and hawk bere, mail and sheelde, They all were well-nye brast.

The Eldridge knight was mickle of might, And stiffe in stower did stand;

But Cauline with a backward stroke syr

He smote off his right hand;

That soone he with paine and lacke of bloud
Fell downe on that lay-land.

Then up syr Cauline lift his brande
All over his head so hye:
And here I sweare by the holy roode,
Nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye.
Then up and came that ladye brighte,
Faste wringing of her hande :
For the maydens love, that most you love,
Withhold that deadly brande:

For the maydens love, that most you love,
Now smyte no more I praye;
And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord,
He shall thy hests obaye.

Now swear to mee, thou Eldridge knighte,
And here on this lay-land,
That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye,
And thereto plight thy hand :

And that thou never on Eldridge come
To sporte, gamon, or playe;
And that thou here give up thy armes
Until thy dying day.

The Eldridge knighte gave up

his armes

With many a sorrowfulle sighe;
And sware to obey syr Caulines hest,
Till the time that he shold dye.
And he then up, and the Eldridge knighte
Sett him in his saddle anuone,
And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye
To theyr castle they are gone.
Then he tooke up the bloudy hand,

That was so large of bone,
And on it he founde five ringes of gold
Of knightes that had been slone.
Then he tooke up the Eldridge sworde,
As hard as any flint;

And he took off those ringès five
As bright as fire and brent.
Home then pricked syr
Cauline

As light as leafe on tree:
I wys he neither stint ne blanne,
Till he his ladye see.
Then downe he knelt
Before that ladye gay:

upon

his knee

O ladye, I have been on the Eldridge hills:
These tokens I bring way.

Now welcome, welcome, syr Cauline,
Thrice welcome unto mee,

For now I perceive thou art a true knighte,
Of valor bold and free.

O ladye, I am thy own true knighte,
Thy hests for to obaye;

And mought I hope to winne thy love!-
Ne more his tonge colde say.

The ladye blushed scarlette redde,
And fette a gentill sighe:
Alas! sir knighte, how may this bee,
For my degree's soe highe?

But sith thou hast hight, thou comely youth,
To be my batchilere,

Ile promise if thee I may not wedde
I will have none other fere.

Then shee held forthe her lily-white hand
Towards that knighte so free:

He gave to it one gentill kisse,
His heart was brought from bale to blisse,
The teares sterte from his ee.

But keep my counsayl, syr Cauline,

Ne let no man it knowe;

For an ever my father sholde it ken,
I wot he wolde us sloe.

From that day forthe that ladye fayre

Lovde syr Cauline the knighte: From that daye forthe he only joyde Whan shee was in his sight.

Part the Second.

EVERYE white will have its blacke,
And every sweete its sowre:
This found the ladye Christabelle
In an untimely howre.

For so it befelle, as syr Cauline
Was with that ladye faire,
The king her father walked forthe
To take the evenyng aire :
And into the arboure as he went

To rest his wearye feet,

He found his daughter and syr Cauline
There sette in daliaunce sweet.

The kinge hee sterted forth, iwys,

And an angrye man was hee:

Now, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe,
And rewe shall thy ladie.

Then forth syr Cauline he was ledde,
And throwne in dungeon deepe;
And the ladye into a towre so hye,
There left to wayle and weepe.

The queene she was syr Caulines friend,
And to the kinge said she :
I pray you save syr Caulines life,
And let him banisht bee.

Now, dame, that traitor shall be sent
Across the salt sea fome:

But here I will make with thee a band,
If ever he come within this land,

A foule deathe is his doome.
All woe-begone was that gentill knight
To parte from his ladyè;
And many a time he sighed sore,
And caste a wistfulle

eye:

Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte,
Farre lever had I dye.

Faire Christabelle, that ladye brighte,
Was had forthe of the towre:
But ever shee droopeth in her minde,
As, nipt by an ungentle winde,

Doth some faire lillye flowre.

And ever shee doth lament and weepe
To tint her lover soe;

Syr Cauline, thou little think'st on mee,
But I will still be true.

Manye a kinge, and manye a duke,
And lords of high degree,
Did sue to that fayre ladye of love;
But never she wolde them nee.
When many a daye was past and gone,
Ne comforte she colde finde,
The kinge proclaimed a tourneament,
To cheere his daughters mind:

And there came lords, and there came knightes,
Fro manye a farre countryè

To break a spere for theyr ladyes love,
Before that faire ladye.

And many a ladye there was sette

In purple and in palle;

But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone
Was the fayrest of them all.

Then many a knighte was mickle of might
Before his ladye gaye:

But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe,
He wan the prize eche daye.

His acton it was all of blacke,

His hewberke and his sheelde,
Ne noe man wist whence he did come,
Ne noe man knew where he did gone

When they came out the feelde.
And now three days were prestlye past
In feats of chivalrye,
When lo, upon the fourth morninge
A sorrowfulle sight they see.

A hugye giaunt stiff and starke,

All foule of limbe and lere;
Two goggling eyen like fire farden,
A mouthe from eare to eare.
Before him came a dwarfse full lowe,
That waited on his knee;

And at his backe five heads he bare,
All wan and pale of blee.

Sir, quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe,
Behold that hend soldain!

Behold these heads I bear with me!

They are kings which he hath slain. The Eldridge knighte is his own cousine,

Whom a knighte of thine hath shent a
And hee is come to avenge his wrong;
And to thee, all thy knightes among,
Defiance here hath sent.

But yette he will appease his wrath
Thy daughters love to winne:
And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd,
Thy halls and towers must brenne.
Thy head, syr king, must go with mee;
Or else thy daughter deere;

Or else within these lists soe broad
Thou must find him a peere.
The king he turned him round aboute,
And in his heart was woe;

Is there never a knighte of my round table,
This matter will undergo?

Is there never a knighte amongst yee all
Will fight for my daughter and mee?
Whoever will fight yon grimme soldàn,
Right faire his meede shall be;

For he shall have my broad lay-lands,
And of my crowne be heyre;
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle,
To be his wedded fere.

But every knighte of his round table
Did stand both still and pale;

For whenever they lookt on the grim soldàn,
It made their hearts to quail.
All woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,

When she saw no helpe was nye:
She cast her thought on her own true-love,
And the teares gusht from her eye.
Up then sterte the stranger knighte,
Said, Ladye, be not affray'd;

Ile fight for thee with this grimme soldan,
Though he be unmacklye made.

And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde,
That lyeth within thy bowre,

I trust in Christe for to slay this fiende,
Thoughe he be stiffe in stowre.

Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde,
The kinge he cryde, with speede:
Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte;
My daughter is thy meede.

The gyaunt he stepped into the lists,
And sayd, Awaye, awaye:

I sweare, as I am the hend soldàn,
Thou lettest me here all daye.

Then forth the stranger knighte he came
In his blacke armoure dight:
The ladye sighed a gentle sighe,

"That this were my true knighte!" And now the gyaunt and knighte be mett Within the lists so broad:

And now with swordes so sharp of steele,
They gan to lay on load.

The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke,
That made him reele asyde:
Then woe-begone was that faire ladye,
And thrice she deeply sighde.
The soldan strucke a second stroke,

And made the bloude to flowe:
All pale and wan was that ladye fayre,
And thrice she wept for woe.

The soldan strucke a third fell stroke,
Which brought the knighte on his knee;
Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart,

And she shriekt loud shriekings three. The knighte he leapt upon his feete, All recklesse of the paine; Quoth he, But heaven be now my speede, Or else I shall be slaine.

He grasped his sword with mayne and mighte,

And spying a secrette part,
He drave it into the soldan's syde,
And pierced him to the heart.
Then all the people gave a shoute,
When they sawe the soldan falle :
The ladye wept, and thanked Christ,

That had reskewed her from thrall.
And nowe the kinge with all his barons
Rose uppe from off his seate,
And downe he stepped into the listes,
That curteous knighte to greete.
But he for paine and lacke of bloude
Was fallen into a swounde,
And there all waltering in his gore,
Lay lifelesse on the grounde.

Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare,
Thou art a leeche of skille;
Farre lever had I lose half my landes,

Than this good knighte sholde spille.
Down then stepped that faire ladyè,

To helpe him if she maye;
But when she did his beavere raise,
It is my life, my lord, she sayes,

And shriekte and swound awaye.
Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes
When he heard his ladye crye:
O ladve, I am thine owne true love;
For thee I wisht to dye.

Then giving her one partinge looke,
He closed his eyes in death,
Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde,
Began to draw her breathe.

But when she founde her comelye knighte
Indeed was dead and gone,
She layd her pale cold cheeke to his,
And thus she made her moane:

O staye, my deare and onlye lord,
For me thy faithful feere;
'Tis meet that I shold followe thee,
Who hast bought my love soe deare.
Then fayntinge in a deadly swoune,
And with a deep-fette sighe
That burst her gentle heart in twayne,
Fayre Christabelle did dye.

$104. Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne. "In this time (about the year 1190, in the reign of Richard I.) were many robbers and out-lawes, among the which Robin Hood and Little John, renowned theeves, continued in woods, despoyling and robbing the goods of the rich. They killed none but such as would invade them; or by resistance for their own defence.

"The said Robert entertained an hundred tall men and good archers with such spoiles and thefts as he got, upon whom four hundred (were they ever so strong) durst not give the onset. He suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or otherwise molested; poore men's goods he spared, abundantlie relieving them with that, which by theft he got from abbeys and the houses of rich carles; whom Maior the historian blameth for his rapine and theft, but of all theeves he affirmeth him to be the prince and the most gentle theefe." Stowe's Annals, p. 159.

WHAN shaws beene sheene, and shraddes full fayre,

And leaves both large and longe,
Itt's merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest
To hear the small birdes songe.
The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
Sitting upon the spraye,

So lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood where he lay.
Now by my faye, said jollye Robin,
A sweaven I had this night;
I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
That fast with me gan fight.
Methought they did me beat and binde,
And tooke my bowe me froe;
Iff I be Robin alive in this lande,

Ile be wroken on them towe.
Sweavens are swift, sayd Lyttle John,
As the wind blowes over the hill;
For iff it be never so loude this night,
To-morrow it may be still.

Buske vee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe secke yond wighty yeomen,
In greenwood where they bee.
They then cast on theyr gownes of
And took theyr bowes each one;
And they away to the grene forrest
A shooting forth are gone;

grene,

Untill they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest to bee:
There they were ware of a wight yeoman,
That leaned against a tree.

A sworde and a dagger he wore by hís side,
Of manye a man the bane;
And he was clad in his capull hyde
Top and tayll and mayne.

Stand still, master, quoth Lyttle John,
Under this tree so green,

And I will go to youd wight yeoman
To know what he doth meane.

Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
And that I farley finde:
How often send I my men before,'
And tarry myselfe behinde?

It is no cunning a knave to ken,

An a man but heare him speake;
An it were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I thy head would breake.
As often wordes they breeden bale,
So they parted Robin and John;
And John is gone to Barnesdale,
The gates he knoweth eche one.
But when he came to Barnesdale,

Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
For he found tow of his owne fellowes
Were slaine both in a slade,

And Scarlette he was flying a-foote

Fast over stocke and stone,

For the proud sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.

One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
With Christ his might and mayne;
Ile make yond sheriffe that wends so fast,
To stopp he shall be fayne.

Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
And fettled him to shoote:

The bow was made of tender boughe,

And fell downe at his foote.

Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ever thou grew on a tree;

For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote when thou shold bee.
His shoote it was but loosely shott,

Yet flew not the arrowe in vaine,
For it mett one of the sheriffes men,

And William a Trent was slaine.

It had bene better of William a Trent
To have bene abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the greenwood slade
To meet with Little John's arrowe.
But as it is said, when men be mett,
Fyve can doe more than three,

The sheriffe hath taken Little John,

And bound him fast to a tree.

Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
And hanged hye on a hill.

But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth
If it be Christ his will.

[John,

Lett us leave talking of Little John, And thinke of Robin Hood,

How he is gone to the wight yeomàn,
Where under the leaves he stood.

Good morrow, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,

Good morrow, good fellow, quo he: Methinks, by this bowe thou beares in thy hande,

A good archere thou sholdst bee.

I am wilfulle of my waye, quo' the yeman,
And of my morning tyde.

Ile lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin:
Good fellow, Ile be thy guide.

I seeke an outlawe, the straunger sayd,
Men call him Robin Hood;

Rather I'd meet with that proud outlawe
Than fortye pound soe good.

Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
And Robin thou soone shalt see:
But first let us some pastime find
Under the greenwood tree.

First let us some masterye make
Among the woods so even,

We may chance to meet with Robin Hood
Here at some unsett steven.

They cut them down two summer shroggs,
That grew both under a breere,

And set them threescore rood in twaine
To shoote the prickes y-fere.

Leade on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
Leade on, I do bidd thee.

Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
My leader thou shalt bee.

The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
He mist but an inch it fro :

The yeoman he was an archer good,

But he cold never do soe.

The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
He shot within the garland:
But Robin he shot far better than hee,
For he clave the good prick-wande.

A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;

Goode fellowe, thy shooting is goode: For an thy heart be as good as thy hand, Thou wert better than Robin Hood.

Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
Under the leaves of lyne.

Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,
Till thou have told me thine.

I dwelle by dale and downe, quoth hee,
And Robin to take Ime sworne;
And when I am called by my right name
I am Guy of good Gisborne.

My dwelling is in this wood, says Robin,
By thee I set right nought:

I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
Whom thou so long has sought.