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Oh then bespake the kyng of Scotts,
And so heavylie spake hee;

"And had I but yon holye Standarde,
Right gladsom sholde I bee.

And had I but yon holye Standarde,
That there so hie doth tow're.
I would not care for yon Englishe hoste,
Nor alle yon chieftaynes pow're.

Oh had I but yon holie roode,

That there soe brighte doth showe;
I wolde not care for yon Englishe hoste,
Nor the worste that theye colde doe."

Oh then bespake prince Henrye,

And like a brave prince spake hee:
"Ah let us but fighte like valiante men,
And wee'l make yon hostes to flee.

Oh let us but fighte like valiante men,
And to Christe's wyll ybowe,

And yon hallow'd Standarde shall bee ours,
And the victorie alsoe."

Prince Henrye was as brave a youthe
As ever fought in fielde;

Full many a warrioure that dreade day
To hym hys lyfe dyd yeilde.

Prince Henrye was as fayre a youthe
As the sunne dyd e're espye;

Full manye a ladye in Scottishe lande
For that young prince dyd sighe.

Prince Henrye call'd his young foot page,
And thus to hym spake hee:

"Oh heede my wordes, and serve mee true,
And thou sall have golde and fee.

Stand thou on yonder rising hylle,
Fulle safe I weene the syte :

And from thence oh marke thee well
In all the thickeste fighte.

my creste

And if, o'ercome with woundes, I falle,
Then take thee a swifte swifte steede,
And from thys moore to Dumfries towne.
Oh ryde thee awaye with speede.

There to the ladye Alice wende;
(You'll knowe that lovelye fayre,

For the fayreste mayde in all that towne,
Cannot with her compare);

And tell that ladye of my woe,
And telle her of my love;

And give to her thys golden ring,

My tender faythe to prove.

And stryve to cheare that lovelye mayde

In alle her griefe and care:

For well I knowe her gentle hearte

Dyd ever holde mee deare."

And nowe the Englishe hoste drewe neare,
And alle in battle arraye;

Theire shyning swordes and glitt'ring speares
Shot rounde a brilliante raye.

And nowe both valiante hostes cam neare,
Eache other for to slaye;

Whyle watchfulle hovered o'er their heades
Full manye a byrde of preye.

The sun behynde the darke darke cloudes
Dyd hyde each bermy raye,

As fearfulle to beholde the woe

That mark'd that doleful daye.

The thund'ring wyndes of heaven arose,
And rush'd from pole to pole,

As stryving to drowne the groanes and sighes
Of manye a dyeing soule.

Sterne deathe he hearde tae shoutes of warre,
That ecchoed arounde soe loude;

And hee rous'd hym to th' embattled fielde,
To feaste on human bloode.

And fyrste the Pictish race began

The carnage of that daye;

The cries they made were like the storme
That rends the rocks awaye.

Those fierce fierce men of Gallowaye

Began that day of dole;

And their shoutes were like the thunder's roare, That's heard from pole to pole.

Nowe bucklers rang 'gainst swordes and speares, And arrows dimn'd the playne;

And manye a warrioure laye fulle lowe,

And manye a chiefe was slayne.

Oh woeful woeful was that daye,

To chylde and wydow dreare !

For there fierce deathe o'er human race

Dyd triumphe 'farre and neare.

Dreare was the daye-in darke darke cloudes

The Welkin alle endrown'd;

But farre more dreare the woeful scene

Of carnage alle arounde.

Drear was the sounde of warring wyndes

That foughte along the skyes;

But farre more dreare the woeful sounde
Of dying warriours sighes.

Laden with deathe's unpitying arme,
Swordes fell and arrowes flewe;

The wydow'd wyfe and fatherlesse chylde
That day of dole sall rue.

Ten thousande Scotts, who on that morne

Were marching alle soe gaye,

By nighte, alas! on that drearye moore
Poor mangled corps ylaye.

Weepe, dames of Scotlande, weepe and waile
Let your sighes reecho rounde;

Ten thousande brave Scotts that hail'd the morne,
At night laye deade on grounde.

And yee fayr dames of merrye Englande,
As faste youre teares must poure;
For manye's the valiante Englisheman
That yee sall see noe more.

Sighe, dames of Englande and lamente,
And manye a salte teare shed;

For manye an Englishman hail'd that morne,
That ere the nyghte was deade.

The Scotts they fled; but still their kynge,
With hys brave sonne by hys syde,
Foughte long the foe (brave kynge and prince,
Of Scotland aye the pryde).

The Scotts they fled; but stille their kyng,
With hys brave sonne, foughte full welle,
Till o'er the moore an arrowe yflewe-
And brave prynce Henrye felle.

Alle thys espy'd his young foote page,
From the hille whereon he stode;

And soone hath hee mounted a swifte swifte steede,
And soone from the moore hath rode.

And hee hath cross'd the Tees fayre streame,

Now swell'd with human bloode;

Th' affrighted page he never stay'de,
Tyll to Dumfries hee hath rode.

Fayre Alice was gone to the holye kirke,
With a sad hearte dyd shee goe;

And ever soe faste dyd she crye to heav'n,
Prynce Henrye save from woe."

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Fayre Alice shee hied her to the choire,

Where the priestes dyd chaunte soe slowe;
And ever shee cry'd, "May the holye sayntes
Prynce Henrye save from woe!"

Fayre Alice, with manye a teare and sighe,
To Mary's shrine dyd goe;

And soe faste shee cry'de,

"Sweete Mary mylde,

Prynce Henrye save from woe!"

Fayre Alice she knelte bye the hallow'd roode,

Whyle faste her teares dyd flowe;

And ever shee cry'd, "Oh sweete sweete Savioure, Prynce Henrye save from woe! "

Fayre Alice look'd oute at the kirke doore,

And heavye her hearte dyd beate;

For shee was aware of the prynce's page,
Com galloping thro' the streete.

Agayne fayre Alice look'd out to see,
And well nighe did shee swoone;
For nowe shee was sure it was that page
Com galloping thro' the towne.

"Nowe Christe thee save, thou sweete young page,

Nowe Christe thee save and see!

And howe dothe sweete prynce Henrye?

I pray thee tell to me.

The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,
And hys hearte was fulle of woe;
The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,
Tylle hys teares faste 'gan to flowe.

"Ah woe is me!" sad Alice cry'd,
And tore her golden hayre;

And soe fast shee wrang her lilly handes,
Alle woo'd with sad despayre.

"The Englishe keepe the bloodye fielde,
Full manye a Scott is slayne,

'But lyves prynce Henrye?' the ladye cry'd Alle else to mee is vayne.—

'Oh lives the prynce? I pray thee tell,'
Fayre Alice still dyd calle:

These eyes dyd see a keen arrowe flye,
Dyd see prynce Henrye falle."

Fayre Alice she sat her on the grounde,
And never a worde shee spake;
But like the pale image dyd shee looke,
For her hearte was nighe to breake.

The rose that once soe ting'd her cheeke,
Was now, alas! noe more;

But the whiteness of her lillye skin
Was fayrer than before.

"Fayre ladye, rise," the page exclaym'de,
Nor laye thee here thus lowe."-
She answered not, but heav'd a sighe,
That spoke her hearte felte woe.

Her maydens came and strove to cheare,
But in vaine was all their care;
The townesfolke wept to see that ladye
Soe 'whelm'd in dreade despare.

They rais'de her from the danky grounde,
And sprinkled water fayre;

But the coldest water from the spring
Was not soe colde as her.

And nowe came horsemen to the towne,
That the prynce had sente with speede;
With tydings to Alice that he dyd live,
To ease her of her dreade.

For when that hapless prince dyd falle,
The arrowe dyd not hym slaye;
But hys followers bravelye rescued hym,
And convey'd hym safe away.

Bravelye theye rescued that noble prince,
And to fayre Carlile hym bore;

And there that brave young prynce dyd live,
Tho' wounded sad and sore.

Fayre Alice the wond'rous tydings hearde,
And thrice for joye shee sigh'd:

That hapless fayre, when shee hearde the newes,
She rose-she smiled-and dy'd.

The teares that her fayre maydens shed,
Ran free from their brighte eyes;
The ecchoing wynde that then dyd blowe,
Was burden'd with theyre sighes.

The page hee saw the lovelye Alice

In a deepe deepe grave let downe,

And at her heade a green turfe ylayde,
And at her feet a stone!

Then with manye a teare and manye a sighe
Hathe hee hy'd hym on hys waye;

And hee hath come to Carlile towne,
All yclad in blacke arraye.

And now hath he come to the prince's halle,
And lowlye bente hys knee;

"And howe is the ladye Alice so fayre,

My page com telle to mee."

"Oh, the ladye Alice, so lovelye fayre,
Alas! is deade and gone;

And at her heade is a green grass turfe,
And at her foote a stone.

The ladye Alice is deade and gone,

And the wormes feede by her syde;

And alle for the love of thee, oh prynce,

That beauteous ladye dy'd.

And where shee's layde the greene turfe growes, And a colde grave-stone is there;

But the dew-clad turfe, nor the colde colde stone,
Is not soe colde as her."

Oh then prince Henrye sad dyd sighe,
Hys hearte alle fulle of woe:

That haplesse prince ybeate hys breaste,
And faste hys teares 'gan flowe.

"And art thou gon, my sweet Alice ?
And art thou gone?" he cry'd:

"Ah woulde to heav'n that I with thee
My faythful love, had dy'd!

And have I loste thee, my sweet Alice ?
And art thou dead and gon?

And at thy deare heade a green grass turfe,
And at thy foote a stone?

The turfe that's o'er thy grave, deare Alice!

Sall with my teares be wet;

And the stone at thy feete sall melte, love,

Ere I will thee forget."

And when the newes cam to merrye Englande

Of the battle in the northe;

Oh then kynge Stephen and hys nobles
So merrylie marched forthe.

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