man heaped frequent blessings upon him," but Montfort (then a courtier) gained him over to the King's side, and the insurgents were in consequence dispersed. Richard was probably not so base a man as the writer of the ballad would wish us to believe, and a good action is recorded of him which was very ill returned. He interceded for the life of De Montfort's second son Simon, when that youth surrendered to the royal party at Northampton in 1266, and he was successful in his suit. In 1271, Simon and his brother Guy assassinated Henry, Richard's son, then in the suite of Philip of France, on his return from the Holy Land, while he was at mass in the church of St. Lawrence, at Viterbo. Richard himself died in this same year at Berkhampstead, and his estates descended to his son Edmond, Earl of Cornwall. The uncertain manner in which biographic honours are apportioned is noteworthy, and a writer in the Quarterly Review (vol. cxix. p. 26) very justly points out a deficiency in English literature, when he writes that Simon de Montfort V., second Earl of Leicester, "the founder of the English House of Commons, has had no biographer." Mr. Freeman, however, promises to do full honour to his memory in a forthcoming volume of his history. This is not the place to give any detailed account of De Montfort, but a few words on the great leader may be allowable, more particularly as Percy's introduction does injustice to the anti-royalist party. Simon de Montfort, fourth son of Simon de Montfort IV., fourth Comte de Montfort, married Eleanor, Countess of Pembroke, the daughter of King John. She had made a vow of widowhood, and although her brother Henry III. gave her away when she was married, by one of the royal chaplains, in the king's private chapel at Westminster, 6th January, 1238, Edmund, Archbishop of Canterbury, remonstrated strongly against the marriage. It is said that when the prelate left England, he stood on a hill which commanded a view of London, and, extending his hands towards the city, pronounced a parting blessing on his country, and a curse on the countess and the offspring of her unholy union. Events so came about that the courtier and alien became the representative leader of Englishmen, with the famous war-cry of "England for the English." The battle of Lewes placed everything in the power of Simon de Montfort, but in his prosperity many of his followers fell away from him. The last scene of the great man's life is truly pathetic. He lay at Evesham awaiting the troops which his son was to bring from Kenilworth. He did not know, however, that the garrison of that town had been surprised by Prince Edward, who had escaped from confinement. The army that marched upon Evesham bore the banners of Simon's son, but they were flying in the van of an enemy. Simon's first words, when he saw the force approach, were those of soldierly pride: "By the arm of St. James they come on well; they learnt that order from me." Before he spoke again, however, he had realized his position, and he cried out: "May God have mercy on our souls, for our bodies are Prince Edward's." When he died liberty seemed to have been crushed out of existence, but it was not so, for his spirit lived though his body died, and the real victory was with him. The fate of Simon de Montfort was a subject of general lamentation, but none of the songs upon it that have come down to us are in English. In an Anglo-Norman lament he is likened to Thomas of Canterbury, and described as "a precious flower." Priest and layman united in his praise, and he was revered as a saint and martyr. Prayers were said in his honour, and a hymn was sung at his shrine, beginning: "Salve Symon Montis-Fortis Totius flos militiæ Duras pœnas passus mortis, Protector gentis Angliæ." Miracles were supposed to be worked by the power of his name, and the character of these miracles may be judged by the following samples. The "old Countess of Gloucester" had a palfrey, which was asthmatic for two years, until one day in journeying from Tewkesbury to Evesham, it drank from the earl's well and was restored to perfect health. The next instance of miraculous healing is still more remarkable. A chick, which belonged to Agnes of Selgrave, fell into a pond and was drowned. Its mistress pulled it out and commended it to "blessed Simon," whereupon it got up and walked as usual. Simon had six children by his wife Eleanor, viz., Henry, Simon, Guy, Amauri, Richard, and Eleanor. Henry was slain with his father, but the countess and the other children escaped out of England. Simon and Guy went to Tuscany; Amauri accompanied his mother to France, was taken prisoner in 1276, and kept in confinement by Edward for a time, but set at liberty in 1280; Richard went to Bigorre, but nothing certain is known of his after career, and it is said that he settled in England under the assumed name of Wellysborne, an assertion founded on two or three deeds of doubtful authenticity. Eleanor was married to Llewellyn, Prince of Wales, in 1279, Edward I. paying all the expenses of the ceremony, which was performed with great pomp.] Sitteth alle stille, ant herkneth to me; The kyn[g] of Alemaigne, bi mi leaute, Thritti thousent pound askede he For te make the pees in the countre, Ant so he dude more. 5 Richard, thah thou be ever trichard, Tricthen shalt thou never more. Richard of Alemaigne, whil that he wes kyng, He spende al is tresour opon swyvyng, Haveth he nout of Walingford o ferlẏng, 10 Let him habbe, ase he brew, bale to dryng, Maugre Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c. The kyng of Alemaigne wende do ful wel, He saisede the mulne for a castel, 15 With hare sharpe swerdes he grounde the stel, He wende that the sayles were mangonel To helpe Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c. The kyng of Alemaigne gederede ys host, 20 Makede him a castel of a mulne post, Wende with is prude, ant is muchele bost, Brohte from Alemayne monẏ sori gost To store Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c. 25 By God, that is aboven ous, he dude muche sẏnne, That lette passen over see the erl of Warynne: He hath robbed Engelond, the mores, ant th[e] fenne, The gold, ant the selver, and ẏ-boren henne, For love of Wyndesore. 30 Richard, thah thou be ever, &c. Sire Simond de Mountfort hath suore bi ẏs chẏn, Hevede he nou here the erl of Warẏn, Shulde he never more come to is ẏn, Ne with sheld, ne with spere, ne with other gẏn, 35 To help of Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c. Sire Simond de Montfort hath suore bi ys cop, Hevede he nou here Sire Hue de Bigot: Al he shulde quite here twelfmoneth scot 40 Shulde he never more with his fot pot To helpe Wyndesore. Richard, thah thou be ever, &c. Be the luef, be the loht, sire Edward, Thou shalt ride sporeles o thy lyard 45 Al the ryhte way to Dovere-ward, Shalt thou never more breke foreward; Ant that reweth sore Edward, thou dudest as a shreward, Forsoke thyn emes lore 50 Richard, &c. ⁂ This ballad will rise in its importance with the reader, when he finds that it is even believed to have occasioned a law in our statute book, viz. "Against slanderous reports or tales, to cause discord betwixt king and people." (Westm. Primer, c. 34, anno 3 Edw. I.) That it had this effect is the opinion of an eminent writer [the Hon. Daines Barrington], see Observations upon the Statutes, &c. 4to. 2nd edit. 1766, p. 71. However, in the Harl. Collection may be found other satirical and defamatory rhymes of the same age, that might have their share in contributing to this first law against libels. FOOTNOTES:  [Robert of Gloucester wrote: "The king of Alemaigne was in a windmulle income."]  [A German has taken upon himself the duty of an Englishman, but Dr. Pauli's life of the hero has not yet been translated out of the German language.]  [Montfort is a small town between Paris and Chartres.]  [See Miracula Simonis de Montfort. MS. Cotton. Vespas. A. vi., annexed to Mr. Halliwell's edition of William de Rishanger's Chronicle of the Barons' Wars (Camden Society), 1840.]  [This tradition is possibly connected with the one to be found in the Beggar's Daughter of Bethnal Green, where the Blind Beggar is said to be Henry de Montfort, who was taken off the battlefield, blind but not dead.]  [Germany.]  [loyalty.]  [peace.]  [though.]  [treacherous.]  [deceive (should be trichen).]  [lechery.]  [He has not of Wallingford one furlong. The MS. reads oferlyng, and Percy and Warton explain that word to mean superior, in opposition to underling, but it has not been met with elsewhere. Mr. Wright's reading of "one furlong" is much more in accordance with the context.]  [have.]  [evil to drink.]  [in spite of.]  [thought to do.]  [he seized the mill.]  [their.]  [steel.]  [a military engine for throwing great stones.]  [pride.]  [great boast.]  [brought.]  [moors.]  [bore them away hence.]  [had.]  [house.]  [engine.]  [sworn by his head.]  [The Hugh Bigod here mentioned, was the cousin of Hugh Bigod, who took part with the barons, and was slain at Lewes.]  [although.]  [tax or revenue.]  [Ver. 40. Percy prints grante here (i.e. grant their), but the MS. reads qte here (i.e. quite or pay here).]  [with his foot push on. Percy prints this sot pot, but it is undoubtedly fot in the MS.]  [whether you like it or loathe it.]  Ver. 44. This stanza was omitted in the former editions.  [ride spurless on thy grey horse.]  [male shrew.]  [forsookest thy uncle's teaching. De Montfort was Prince Edward's uncle.] II. ON THE DEATH OF K. EDWARD THE FIRST. WE have here an early attempt at elegy. Edward I. died July 7, 1307, in the 35th year of his reign, and 69th of his age. This poem appears to have been composed soon after his death. According to the modes of thinking peculiar to those times, the writer dwells more upon his devotion than his skill in government, and pays less attention to the martial and political abilities of this great monarch, in which he had no equal, than to some little weaknesses of superstition, which he had in common with all his contemporaries. The king had in the decline of life vowed an expedition to the Holy Land, but finding his end approach, he dedicated the sum of £32,000 to the maintenance of a large body of knights (140 say historians, eighty says our poet), who were to carry his heart with them into Palestine. This dying command of the king was never performed. Our poet, with the honest prejudices of an Englishman, attributes this failure to the advice of the king of France, whose daughter Isabel, the young monarch, who succeeded, immediately married. But the truth is, Edward and his destructive favourite, Piers Gaveston, spent the money upon their pleasures. To do the greater honour to the memory of his heroe, our poet puts his eloge in the mouth of the Pope, with the same poetic licence as a more modern bard would have introduced Britannia or the Genius of Europe pouring forth his praises. This antique elegy is extracted from the same MS. volume as the preceding article; is found with the same peculiarities of writing and orthography; and tho' written at near the distance of half a century contains little or no variation of idiom: whereas the next following poem by Chaucer, which was probably written not more than fifty or sixty years after this, exhibits almost a new language. This seems to countenance the opinion of some antiquaries, that this great poet made considerable innovations in his mother tongue, and introduced many terms, and new modes of speech from other languages. [When Henry III. died, highly laudatory songs were sung in honour of the new king, but when Edward I. died the people were too grieved at their loss to sing the praise of his successor. The present song is printed by Mr. Thomas Wright in his Political Songs of England (Camden Society, 1839, p. 246), where he also prints a French version, and points out that the one is clearly translated from the other, adding that the French song was probably the original. In verse 27, Percy printed hue (i.e. she) with a capital H, under the impression that it was "the name of the person who was to preside over the business."] Alle, that beoth of huerte trewe, A stounde herkneth to my song Of duel, that Deth hath diht us newe, That maketh me syke, ant sorewe among; Of a knyht, that wes so strong, 5 Of wham God hath don ys wille; Me-thuncheth that deth hath don us wrong, That he so sone shall ligge stille. Al Englond ahte for te knowe Of wham that song is, that y synge; 10 Of Edward kyng, that lith so lowe, Yent al this world is nome con springe: Trewest mon of alle thinge, Ant in werre war ant wys, For him we ahte oure honden wrynge, 15 Of Christendome he ber the prys. Byfore that oure kyng was ded, He spek ase mon that wes in care, "Clerkes, knyhtes, barons, he sayde, "Y charge ou by oure sware, 20 "That ye to Engelonde be trewe. "Y deye, y ne may lyven na more; "Helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newe, "For he is nest to buen y-core. "Ich biqueth myn herte aryht, 25 "That hit be write at mi devys, "Over the see that hue be diht, "With fourscore knyhtes al of prys, "In werre that buen war ant wys, "Ayein the hethene for te fyhte, 30 "To wynne the croiz that lowe lys, "Myself y cholde yef that y myhte." Kyng of Fraunce, thou hevedest 'sinne,' That thou the counsail woldest fonde, To latte the wille of 'Edward kyng' 35 To wende to the holy londe: That oure kyng hede take on honde All Engelond to yeme ant wysse, To wenden in to the holy londe To wynnen us heve[n]riche blisse. 40 The messager to the pope com, And seyde that our kynge was ded: Ys oune hond the lettre he nom, Ywis his herte was full gret: The Pope him self the lettre redde, 45 Ant spec a word of gret honour. "Alas! he seid, is Edward ded? "Of Christendome he ber the flour." The Pope to is chaumbre wende, For dol ne mihte he speke na more; 50 Ant after cardinals he sende, That muche couthen of Cristes lore, Bothe the lasse, ant eke the more, Bed hem bothe rede ant synge: Gret deol me myhte se thore, 55 Mony mon is honde wrynge. The Pope of Peyters stod at is masse With ful gret solempnetè, Ther me con the soule blesse: "Kyng Edward honoured thou be: 60 "God lene thi sone come after the, "Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne, "The holy crois y-mad of tre, "So fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne. "Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore 65 "The flour of al chivalrie "Now kyng Edward liveth na more: "Alas! that he yet shulde deye! "He wolde ha rered up ful heyye "Oure banners, that bueth broht to grounde; "Wel longe we mowe clepe and crie 71 "Er we a such kyng han y-founde." Nou is Edward of Carnarvan King of Engelond al aplyht, God lete him ner be worse man 75 Then his fader, ne lasse of myht, To holden is pore men to ryht, And understonde good counsail, Al Engelond for to wysse ant dyht; Of gode knyhtes darh him nout fail 80 Thah mi tonge were mad of stel, Ant min herte y-yote of bras, The godness myht y never telle, That with kyng Edward was: Kyng, as thou art cleped conquerour, 85 In uch bataille thou hadest prys; God bringe thi soule to the honour, That ever wes, ant ever ys. ⁂ Here follow in the original three lines more, which, as seemingly redundant, we chuse to throw to the bottom of the page, viz.: "That lasteth ay withouten ende, Bidde we God, ant oure Ledy to thilke blisse Jesus us sende. Amen." FOOTNOTES:  [are of true heart.]  [for a while hearken ye.]  [grief.]  [wrought.]  [methinketh.]  [lie still.]  [ought.]  [lieth.]  [through.]  [his name spread abroad.]  [in war wary and wise.]  [hands wring.]  [as.]  [I charge you by your oath.]  [I die, I may not live more.]  [next to be chosen.]  [rightly.]  [devise.]  [she be sent (see Glossary).]  [cross.]  [I would if.]  [hadst.]  Ver. 33. sunne, MS.  [try.]  [hinder.]  Ver. 35. kyng Edward, MS.  [govern and teach.]  [heavenly.]  [took.]  Ver. 43. ys is probably a contraction of in hys or yn his.  [verily.]  [grieved.]  [spake.]  [grief.]  [knew.]  [less.]  [great grief might be seen there.]  Ver. 55, 59. Me, i.e. Men, so in Robert of Gloucester, passim.  [Peter's.]  [there they began.]  [give.]  [cross made of wood.]  [lost.]  [high.]  [are brought.]  [very long we may call. Percy printed this incorrectly, Well longe.]  [entirely.]  [to govern and order.]  [need.]  [though.]  [cast.]  [called.]  [each.] III. AN ORIGINAL BALLAD BY CHAUCER. THIS little sonnet, which hath escaped all the editors of Chaucer's works, is now printed for the first time from an ancient MS. in the Pepysian Library, that contains many other poems of its venerable author. The versification is of that species, which the French call rondeau, very naturally Englished by our honest countrymen round O. Tho' so early adopted by them, our ancestors had not the honour of inventing it: Chaucer picked it up, along with other better things, among the neighbouring nations. A fondness for laborious trifles hath always prevailed in the dark ages of literature. The Greek poets have had their wings and axes: the great father of English poesy may therefore be pardoned one poor solitary rondeau.— Geofrey Chaucer died Oct. 25, 1400. [These verses are printed in Morris's Aldine Edition of Chaucer (vol. vi. pp. 304-5), but there is no conclusive evidence that they are really by Chaucer. Mr. Furnivall writes (Trial Forewords, Chaucer Society, 1871, p. 32):—"With the Pity I should like much to class the Roundel ... as one of the poet's genuine works, though it is not assigned to him (so far as I know), by any MS. of authority. It exactly suits the Compleynte of Pite; there is nothing in it (so far as I can see), to make it not Chaucer's, and it is of the same form as his Roundel in the Parliament of Foules." Mr. Hales suggests to me that the poem may have been written by one of Chaucer's followers, and refers to verse 260 of the Knight's Tale: "The freissche beauté sleeth me sodeynly," as having probably given the hint to the writer of this rondeau.] I. 1. Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly, I may the beaute of them not sustene, So wendeth it thorowout my herte kene. 2. And but your words will helen hastely My hertis wound, while that it is grene, Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly. 3. Upon my trouth I sey yow feithfully, That ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene; For with my deth the trouth shal be sene. Youre two eyn, &c. II. 1. So hath youre beauty fro your herte chased Pitee, that me n' availeth not to pleyn; For daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne. 2. Giltless my deth thus have ye purchased; I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to fayn: So hath your beaute fro your herte chased. 3. Alas, that nature hath in yow compassed So grete beaute, that no man may atteyn To mercy, though he sterve for the peyn. So hath youre beaute, &c. III. 1. Syn I fro love escaped am so fat, I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene; Syn I am fre, I counte hym not a bene. 2. He may answere, and sey this and that, I do no fors, I speak ryght as I mene; Syn I fro love escaped am so fat. 3. Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat, And he is strike out of my bokes clene: For ever mo 'ther' is non other mene. Syn I fro love escaped, &c. FOOTNOTES:  [complain.]  [holdeth.]  [I tell you truth.]  [bean, a term of contempt.]  [I do not care.]  This, MS. IV. THE TURNAMENT OF TOTTENHAM: OR, THE WOOEING, WINNING, AND WEDDING OF TIBBE, THE REEV'S DAUGHTER THERE. IT does honour to the good sense of this nation, that while all Europe was captivated with the bewitching charms of chivalry and romance, two of our writers in the rudest times could see thro' the false glare that surrounded them, and discover whatever was absurd in them both. Chaucer wrote his Rhyme of Sir Thopas in ridicule of the latter; and in the following poem we have a humorous burlesque of the former. Without pretending to decide, whether the institution of chivalry was upon the whole useful or pernicious in the rude ages, a question that has lately employed many good writers, it evidently encouraged a vindictive spirit, and gave such force to the custom of duelling, that there is little hope of its being abolished. This, together with the fatal consequences which often attended the diversion of the turnament, was sufficient to render it obnoxious to the graver part of mankind. Accordingly the Church early denounced its censures against it, and the State was often prevailed on to attempt its suppression. But fashion and opinion are superior to authority: and the proclamations against tilting were as little regarded in those times, as the laws against duelling are in these. This did not escape the discernment of our poet, who easily perceived that inveterate opinions must be attacked by other weapons, besides proclamations and censures: he accordingly made use of the keen one of ridicule. With this view he has here introduced, with admirable humour, a parcel of clowns, imitating all the solemnities of the tourney. Here we have the regular challenge—the appointed day—the lady for the prize—the formal preparations—the display of armour—the scucheons and devices—the oaths taken on entering the lists—the various accidents of the encounter—the victor leading off the prize—and the magnificent feasting—with all the other solemn fopperies that usually attended the pompous turnament. And how acutely the sharpness of the author's humour must have been felt in those days, we may learn from what we can perceive of its keenness now, when time has so much blunted the edge of his ridicule. The Turnament of Tottenham was first printed from an ancient MS. in 1631, 4to., by the Rev. William Bedwell, rector of Tottenham, who was one of the translators of the Bible. He tells us, it was written by Gilbert Pilkington, thought to have been some time parson of the same parish, and author of another piece, intitled, Passio Domini Jesu Christi. Bedwell, who was eminently skilled in the Oriental and other languages, appears to have been but little conversant with the ancient writers in his own, and he so little entered into the spirit of the poem he was publishing, that he contends for its being a serious narrative of a real event, and thinks it must have been written before the time of Edward III. because turnaments were prohibited in that reign. "I do verily beleeve," says he, "that this turnament was acted before this proclamation of K. Edward. For how durst any to attempt to do that, although in sport, which was so straightly forbidden, both by the civill and ecclesiasticall power? For although they fought not with lances, yet, as our authour sayth, 'It was no childrens game.' And what would have become of him, thinke you, which should have slayne another in this manner of jeasting? Would he not, trow you, have been hang'd for it in earnest? yea, and have bene buried like a dogge?" It is, however, well known that turnaments were in use down to the reign of Elizabeth. In the first editions of this work, Bedwell's copy was reprinted here, with some few conjectural emendations; but as Bedwell seemed to have reduced the orthography at least, if not the phraseology, to the standard of his own time, it was with great pleasure that the Editor was informed of an ancient MS. copy preserved in the Museum (Harl. MSS. 5396), which appeared to have been transcribed in the reign of K. Hen. VI. about 1456. This obliging information the Editor owed to the friendship of Tho. Tyrwhitt, Esq., and he has chiefly followed that more authentic transcript, improved however by some readings from Bedwell's book. [A writer in the Gentleman's Magazine (July, 1794, p. 613), calls attention to the fact that this ballad is "a burlesque upon the feudal custom of marrying an heiress to the knight who should vanquish all his opponents at a solemn assembly holden for the purpose." Bedwell's MS. is now in the Cambridge public library (Ff. 5, 48), and Mr. Thomas Wright, who has printed it in a miniature volume, believes it to have been written as early as the reign of Edward II. Bedwell was chaplain to Sir Henry Wotton in his embassy to Venice, where he is said to have assisted the celebrated Father Paul in the composition of his History of the Council of Trent. The following is a copy of the inscription on Bedwell's monument in the chancel of Tottenham church:—"Here lyes interred in this chancel Mr. William Bedwell, sometime vicar of this church and one of King James's translators of the Bible, and for the Easterne tongues as learned a man as most lived in these moderne times. Aged 70. Dyed May the 5th, 1632."] Of all thes kene conquerours to carpe it were kynde; Of fele feyytyng folk ferly we fynde; The Turnament of Totenham have we in mynde; It were harme sych hardynes were holden byhynde, In story as we rede 5 Of Hawkyn, of Herry, Of Tomkyn, of Terry, Of them that were dughty And stalworth in dede. It befel in Totenham on a dere day, 10 Ther was mad a shurtyng be the hy-way: Theder com al the men of the contray, Of Hyssylton, of Hy-gate, and of Hakenay, And all the swete swynkers. Ther hopped Hawkyn, 15 Ther daunsed Dawkyn, Ther trumped Tomkyn, And all were trewe drynkers. Tyl the day was gon and evyn-song past, That thay schuld reckyn ther scot and ther counts cast; 20 Perkyn the potter into the press past, And sayd Randol the refe, a doyter thou hast, Tyb the dere: Therfor faine wyt wold I, Whych of all thys bachelery 25 Were best worthye To wed hur to hys fere. Upstyrt thos gadelyngys wyth ther lang staves, And sayd, Randol the refe, lo! thys lad raves; Boldely amang us thy doyter he craves; 30 We er rycher men then he, and mor gode haves Of cattell and corn; Then sayd Perkyn, To Tybbe I have hyyt That I schal be alway redy in my ryyt, If that it schuld be thys day sevenyyt, 35 Or elles yet to morn. Then sayd Randolfe the refe, Ever be he waryd, That about thys carpyng lenger wold be taryd: I wold not my doyter, that scho were miscaryd, But at hur most worschip I wold scho were maryd, 40 Therfor a Turnament schal begynne Thys day sevenyyt,— Wyth a flayl for to fyyt: And 'he,' that is most of myght Schal brouke hur wyth wynne. 45 Whoso berys hym best in the turnament, Hym schal be granted the gre be the comon assent, For to wynne my doyter wyth 'dughtynesse' of dent, And 'coppell' my brode-henne 'that' was broyt out of Kent: And my dunnyd kowe 50 For no spens wyl I spare, For no cattell wyl I care, He schal have my gray mare, And my spottyd sowe. Ther was many 'a' bold lad ther bodyes to bede: 55 Than thay toke thayr leve, and homward they yede; And all the weke afterward graythed ther wede, Tyll it come to the day, that thay suld do ther dede. They armed ham in matts; Thay set on ther nollys, 60 For to kepe ther pollys, Gode blake bollys, For batryng of bats. Thay sowed tham in schepeskynnes, for thay schuld not brest: Ilk-on toke a blak hat, insted of a crest: 65 'A basket or a panyer before on ther brest,' And a flayle in ther hande; for to fyght prest, Furth gon thay fare: Ther was kyd mekyl fors, Who schuld best fend hys cors: 70 He that had no gode hors, He gat hym a mare. Sych another gadryng have I not sene oft, When all the gret company com rydand to the croft: Tyb on a gray mare was set up on loft 75 On a sek ful of fedyrs, for scho schuld syt soft, And led 'till the gap.' For cryeng of the men Forther wold not Tyb then, Tyl scho had hur brode hen 80 Set in hur Lap. A gay gyrdyl Tyb had on, borowed for the nonys, And a garland on hur hed ful of rounde bonys, And a broche on hur brest ful of 'sapphyre' stonys, Wyth the holy-rode tokenyng, was wrotyn for the nonys;85 For no 'spendings' thay had spared. When joly Gyb saw hur thare, He gyrd so hys gray mare, 'That scho lete a fowkin' fare At the rereward. 90 I wow to God, quoth Herry, I schal not lefe behynde, May I mete wyth Bernard on Bayard the blynde, Ich man kepe hym out of my wynde, For whatsoever that he be, before me I fynde, I wot I schall hym greve. 95 Wele sayd, quoth Hawkyn. And I wow, quoth Dawkyn, May I mete wyth Tomkyn, Hys flayle I schal hym reve. I make a vow, quoth Hud, Tyb, son schal thou se, 100 Whych of all thys bachelery 'granted' is the gre: I schal scomfet thaym all, for the love of the; In what place so I come thay schal have dout of me, Myn armes ar so clere: I bere a reddyl, and a rake, 105 Poudred wyth a brenand drake, And three cantells of a cake In ycha cornere. I vow to God, quoth Hawkyn, yf 'I' have the gowt, Al that I fynde in the felde 'thrustand' here aboute, 110 Have I twyes or thryes redyn thurgh the route, In ycha stede ther thay me se, of me thay schal have doute, When I begyn to play. I make avowe that I ne schall, But yf Tybbe wyl me call, 115 Or I be thryes don fall, Ryyt onys com away. Then sayd Terry, and swore be hys crede; Saw thou never yong boy forther hys body bede, For when thay fyyt fastest and most ar in drede, 120 I schall take Tyb by the hand, and hur away lede: I am armed at the full; In myn armys I bere wele A doy trogh and a pele, A sadyll wythout a panell, 125 Wyth a fles of woll. I make a vow, quoth Dudman, and swor be the stra, Whyls me ys left my 'mare,' thou gets hurr not swa; For scho ys wele schapen, and liyt as the rae, Ther is no capul in thys myle befor hur schal ga; 130 Sche wul ne noyt begyle: Sche wyl me bere, I dar say, On a lang somerys day, Fro Hyssylton to Hakenay, Noyt other half myle. 135 I make a vow, quoth Perkyn, thow speks of cold rost, I schal wyrch 'wyselyer' withouten any bost: Five of the best capulys, that ar in thys ost, I wot I schal thaym wynne, and bryng thaym to my cost, And here I grant thaym Tybbe. 140 Wele boyes here ys he, That wyl fyyt, and not fle, For I am in my jolyte, Wyth so forth, Gybbe. When thay had ther vowes made, furth can thay hie, 145 Wyth flayles, and hornes, and trumpes mad of tre: Ther were all the bachelerys of that contre; Thay were dyyt in aray, as thaymselfes wold be: Thayr baners were ful bryyt Of an old rotten fell; 150 The cheveron of a plow-mell; And the schadow of a bell, Poudred wyth the mone lyyt. I wot yt 'was' no chylder game, whan thay togedyr met, When icha freke in the feld on hys feloy bet, 155 And layd on styfly, for nothyng wold thay let, And foght ferly fast, tyll ther horses swet, And few wordys spoken. Ther were flayles al to slatred, Ther were scheldys al to flatred, 160 Bollys and dysches al to schatred, And many hedys brokyn There was clynkyng of cart-sadellys, & clatteryng of cannes; Of fele frekys in the feld brokyn were their fannes; Of sum were the hedys brokyn, of sum the braynpannes, 165 And yll were thay besene, or thay went thanns, Wyth swyppyng of swepyls: Thay were so wery for-foght, Thay myyt not fyyt mare oloft, But creped about in the 'croft,' 170 As thay were croked crepyls. Perkyn was so wery, that he began to loute; Help, Hud, I am ded in thys ylk rowte: An hors for forty pens, a gode and a stoute! That I may lyytly come of my noye oute, 175 For no cost wyl I spare. He styrt up as a snayle, And hent a capul be the tayle, And 'reft' Dawkin hys flayle, And wan there a mare. 180 Perkyn wan five, and Hud wan twa: Glad and blythe thay ware, that they had done sa; Thay wold have tham to Tyb, and present hur with tha: The Capulls were so wery, that thay myyt not ga, But styl gon thay stond. 185 Alas! quoth Hudde, my joye I lese; Mee had lever then a ston of chese, That dere Tyb had al these, And wyst it were my sond. Perkyn turnyd hym about in that ych thrang, 190 Among thos wery boyes he wrest and he wrang; He threw tham doun to the erth, and thrast tham amang, When he saw Tyrry away wyth Tyb fang, And after hym ran; Off his horse he hym drogh, 195 And gaf hym of hys flayl inogh: We te he! quoth Tyb, and lugh, Ye er a dughty man. 'Thus' thay tugged, and rugged, tyl yt was nere nyyt: All the wyves of Tottenham came to se that syyt 200 Wyth wyspes, and kexis, and ryschys there lyyt, To fetch hom ther husbandes, that were tham trouth plyyt; And sum bróyt gret harwos, Ther husbandes hom to fetch, Sum on dores, and sum on hech, 205 Sum on hyrdyllys, and som on crech. And sum on whele-barows. Thay gaderyd Perkyn about, 'on' everych syde, And grant hym ther 'the gre,' the more was hys pryde: Tyb and he, wyth gret 'mirth,' homward con thay ryde, 210 And were al nyyt togedyr, tyl the morn tyde; And thay 'to church went:' So wele hys nedys he has sped, That dere Tyb he 'hath' wed; The prayse-folk, that hur led, 215 Were of the Turnament. To that ylk fest com many for the nones; Some come hyphalte, and some trippand 'thither' on the stonys; Sum a staf in hys hand, and sum two at onys; Of sum where the hedes broken, of some the schulder bonys: 220 With sorrow come thay thedyr. Wo was Hawkyn, wo was Herry, Wo was Tomkyn, wo was Terry. And so was all the bachelary, When thay met togedyr. 225 At that fest thay werservyd with a ryche aray, Every fyve & fyve had a cokenay; And so thay sat in jolyte al the lung day; And at the last thay went to bed with ful gret deray: Mekyl myrth was them among; 230 In every corner of the hous Was melody delycyous For to here precyus Of six menys song. FOOTNOTES:  See (Mr. Hurd's) Letters on Chivalry, 8vo. 1762, Memoires de la Chevalerie, par M. de la Curne de Sainte-Palaye, 1759, 2 tom. 12mo. &c.  [talk.]  [fierce fighting.]  [wonder.]  [doughty.]  [stout.]  [dire or sad.]  [sport.]  [Islington.]  [labourers.]  Ver. 20. It is not very clear in the MS. whether it should be conts, or conters.  [bailiff.]  [daughter.]  [know would I.]  [to wed her for his mate.]  [idle fellows.]  [promised.]  [it be to-morrow.]  [accursed.]  [she.]  [shall have possession of her with joy.]  [beareth.]  [prize.]  [blow.]  Ver. 48. Dozty, MS.  V. 49. coppeld. We still use the phrase "a copple-crowned hen."  [expense.]  [bid or offer.]  [went.]  [made ready their clothing.]  V. 57. gayed, PC.  [them.]  [heads.]  [polls.]  [bowls.]  [cudgels.]  [burst.]  [each one.]  V. 66 is wanting in MS. and supplied from PC.  [ready.]  [they began to go forth.]  [shown.]  [much strength.]  [best defend his body.]  V. 72. He borrowed him, PC.  [gathering.]  [riding to the inclosure.]  [sackfull of feathers.]  Ver. 76. The MS. had once sedys, i.e. seeds, which appears to have been altered to fedyrs, or feathers. Bedwell's copy has Senvy, i.e. Mustard-seed.  V. 77. and led hur to cap, MS.  [nonce or occasion.]  [Chaucer uses the expression "rowel boon" in his Tale of Sir Thopas, which is explained as round bone.]  V. 83. Bedwell's PC. has "Ruel-Bones."  V. 84. safer stones, MS.  [token.]  [wrought.]  V. 85. wrotyn, i.e. wrought. PC. reads, written.  V. 86. No catel (perhaps chatel) they had spared, MS.  [crepitus ventris.]  V. 89. Then ... faucon, MS.  [deprive.]  Ver. 101. grant, MS.  [discomfit.]  [fear.]  [riddle or sieve.]  [sprinkled over with firebrands.]  [pieces.]  [each.]  [though I have the gout.]  V. 109. yf he have, MS.  V. 110. the MS. literally has th r. sand, here.  [in each place where they.]  [unless Tib will call me.]  [ere I be thrice made to]  [even once.]  [engage.]  [dough trough.]  [a baker's long-handled shovel.]  [fleece of wool.]  [so.]  V. 128. merth, MS.  [roe.]  [horse.]  [go.]  [work more wisely.]  Ver. 137. fwyselier, MS.  V. 146. flailes and harnisse, PC.  [dressed.]  [hide.]  [a small wooden hammer occasionally fixed to the plough.]  Ver. 151. The chiefe, PC.  [moonlight.]  [child's.]  V. 154. yt ys, MS.  [man.]  [fellow.]  [wonderfully.]  [splintered.]  V. 163. The boyes were, MS.  [many men.]  [skulls.]  [dressed.]  [striking fast of the staffs of the flails.]  [over-fought.]  [on horseback.]  V. 170. creped then about in the croft, MS.  [stoop.]  [hurt.]  [laid hold of.]  Ver. 179. razt, MS.  [them.]  V. 185. stand, MS.  [lose.]  [knew it were my sending.]  V. 189. sand, MS.  V. 190. the PC. reads, ilk throng.  [make off.]  [drew.]  Ver. 199. Thys, MS.  [elder sticks used for candles.]  [rushes.]  [harrows.]  V. 204. hom for to fetch, MS.  [half door of a cottage.]  [crutch.]  V. 208. about everych side, MS.  V. 209. the gre, is wanting in MS.  V. 210. mothe, MS.  V. 212. and thay ifere assent, MS.  V. 214. had wed, MS.  [singing men and women.]  V. 215. The cheefemen, PC.  [lame in the hip.]  V. 218. trippand on, MS.  In the former impressions this concluding stanza was only given from Bedwell's printed edition, but it is here copied from the old MS. wherein it has been since found separated from the rest of the poem, by several pages of a money account, and other heterogeneous matter.  [a lean chicken.]  [a confusion.]  Six-men's song, i.e. a song for six voices. So Shakespeare uses three-man song-men, in his Winter's Tale, act iii. sc. 3, to denote men that could sing catches composed for three voices. Of this sort are Weelkes's madrigals mentioned below, book ii. song 9. So again Shakespeare has three-men beetle; i.e. a beetle or rammer worked by three men, 2 Hen. IV. act i. sc. 3. V. FOR THE VICTORY AT AGINCOURT. THAT our plain and martial ancestors could wield their swords much better than their pens, will appear from the following homely rhymes, which were drawn up by some poet laureat of those days to celebrate the immortal victory gained at Agincourt, Oct. 25, 1415. This song or hymn is given meerly as a curiosity, and is printed from a MS. copy in the Pepys collection, vol. i. folio. It is there accompanied with the musical notes, which are copied on the opposite page. [When the news of this great victory arrived in England, the people "were literally mad with joy and triumph," and although Henry V. on his entrance into London after the battle, commanded that no "ditties should be made and sung by minstrels or others" in praise of Agincourt, "for that he would whollie have the praise and thankes altogether given to God," several songs have come down to us on this soul-inspiring theme. Besides the present ballad there are, 1. Agincourte Battell, beginning— "A councell brave our King did hold," in the Percy Folio MS. (see Hales and Furnivall's edition, vol. ii. p. 166). 2. Agincourt, or the English Bowman's Glory, a spirited ballad quoted in Heywood's King Edward IV., the first stanza of which is as follows— "Agincourt, Agincourt! Know ye not Agincourt? Where English slue and hurt All their French foemen? With our pikes and bills brown, How the French were beat downe, Shot by our bowman." 3. King Henry V., his Conquest of France, commencing— "As our King lay musing on his bed." 4. The Cambro-Briton's Ballad of Agincourt, by Michael Drayton. Besides these ballads there is a poem attributed to Lydgate, and Drayton's Battaile of Agincourt. For further information on the subject the reader should see Sir Nicholas Harris Nicolas's History of the Battle, and Hales and Furnivall's edition of the Percy Folio MS. (vol. ii. pp. 158, 595). Dr. Rimbault describes the music attached to the present ballad "as the first English regular composition of which we have any remains."] Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria! Owre kynge went forth to Normandy, With grace and myyt of chivalry; The God for hym wrouyt marvelously, Wherefore Englonde may calle, and cry 5 Deo gratias: Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria. He sette a sege, the sothe for to say, To Harflue toune with ryal aray; That toune he wan, and made a fray, 10 That Fraunce shall rywe tyl domes day. Deo gratias, &c. Then went owre kynge, with alle his oste, Thorowe Fraunce for all the Frenshe boste; He spared 'for' drede of leste, ne most, 15 Tyl he come to Agincourt coste. Deo gratias, &c. Than for sothe that knyyt comely In Agincourt feld he fauyt manly, Thorow grace of God most myyty 20 He had bothe the felde, and the victory. Deo gratias, &c. Ther dukys, and erlys, lorde and barone, Were take, and slayne, and that wel sone, And some were ledde in to Lundone 25 With joye, and merthe, and grete renone. Deo gratias, &c. Now gracious God he save owre kynge, His peple, and all his wel wyllynge, Gef him gode lyfe, and gode endynge, 30 That we with merth mowe savely synge Deo gratias: Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria. FOOTNOTES:  [Harfleur.]  [region.] VI. THE NOT-BROWNE MAYD. THE sentimental beauties of this ancient ballad have always recommended it to readers of taste, notwithstanding the rust of antiquity which obscures the style and expression. Indeed if it had no other merit than the having afforded the groundwork to Prior's Henry and Emma, this ought to preserve it from oblivion. That we are able to give it in so correct a manner, is owing to the great care and exactness of the accurate editor of the Prolusions, 8vo. 1760; who has formed the text from two copies found in two different editions of Arnolde's Chronicle, a book supposed to be first printed about 1521. From the copy in the Prolusions the following is printed, with a few additional improvements gathered from another edition of Arnolde's book preserved in the public library at Cambridge. All the various readings of this copy will be found here, either received into the text, or noted in the margin. The references to the Prolusions will shew where they occur. In our ancient folio MS. described in the preface, is a very corrupt and defective copy of this ballad, which yet afforded a great improvement in one passage. See v. 310. It has been a much easier task to settle the text of this poem, than to ascertain its date. The ballad of the Nutbrowne Mayd was first revived in The Muses Mercury for June, 1707, 4to. being prefaced with a little Essay on the old English Poets and Poetry; in which this poem is concluded to be "near 300 years old," upon reasons which, though they appear inconclusive to us now, were sufficient to determine Prior, who there first met with it. However, this opinion had the approbation of the learned Wanley, an excellent judge of ancient books. For that whatever related to the reprinting of this old piece was referred to Wanley, appears from two letters of Prior's preserved in the British Museum (Harl. MSS. No. 3777). The editor of the Prolusions thinks it cannot be older than the year 1500, because, in Sir Thomas More's tale of The Serjeant, &c., which was written about that time, there appears a sameness of rhythmus and orthography, and a very near affinity of words and phrases with those of this ballad. But this reasoning is not conclusive, for if Sir Thomas More made this ballad his model, as is very likely, that will account for the sameness of measure, and in some respect for that of words and phrases, even tho' this had been written long before; and as for the orthography, it is well known that the old printers reduced that of most books to the standard of their own times. Indeed it is hardly probable that an antiquary like Arnolde would have inserted it among his historical collections, if it had been then a modern piece; at least he would have been apt to have named its author. But to shew how little can be inferred from a resemblance of rhythmus or style, the Editor of these volumes has in his ancient folio MS. a poem on the victory of Flodden-field, written in the same numbers, with the same alliterations, and in orthography, phraseology, and style nearly resembling the Visions of Pierce Plowman, which are yet known to have been composed above 160 years before that battle. As this poem is a great curiosity, we shall give a few of the introductory lines: "Grant gracious God, grant me this time, That I may say, or I cease, thy selven to please; And Mary his mother, that maketh all this world; And all the seemlie saints, that sitten in heaven; I will carpe of kings, that conquered full wide, That dwelled in this land, that was alyes noble; Henry the seaventh, that soveraigne lord," &c. With regard to the date of the following ballad, we have taken a middle course, neither placed it so high as Wanley and Prior, nor quite so low as the editor of the Prolusions; we should have followed the latter in dividing every other line into two, but that the whole would then have taken up more room than could be allowed it in this volume. [The edition of Richard Arnold's Chronicle (1521) mentioned above, is the second; and the first, which is undated, was printed at Antwerp in 1502. This edition is described in Brydges' Censurä Literaria (vol. vi. p. 114), where the Nut-Brown Maid is printed. A copy from the Balliol MS. 354, of about the same date, is printed in Percy's folio manuscript, ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol iii. p. 174. Warton will not allow that the poem was written before the beginning of the sixteenth century, but as Percy says, it is highly improbable that an antiquary would insert a modern piece in his miscellany of curiosities. Percy has inserted the following note in his folio MS.: "From the concluding words of this last stanza— ['but men wold that men shold be kind to them eche one, yett I had rather, god to obay and serve but him alone'] it should seem that the author was a woman." Mr. Skeat remarks that the part of the fourth stanza before the woman speaks, and the first two verses, are still more conclusive on this point. On the other side it is noticeable that the author speaks as a man at line 353: "... that we may To them be comfortable;" but this may only be a blind. Few readers will agree with Percy's estimate of Prior's poem, and Henry and Emma is now only remembered because of its connection with the Nut-Brown Maid. Warton justly points out how the simplicity of the original is decorated, dilated, and consequently spoilt by Prior, who crowds his verses with zephyrs, Chloe, Mars, the Cyprian deity, &c. Such lay figures as these are quite out of keeping with the realities of this most exquisite poem. One instance of Prior's inability to appreciate the beauties of his original will be sufficient. The tender allusion at v. 232-3: "O my swete mother, before all other For you I have most drede," followed by the reflection: "But nowe adue! I must ensue Where fortune doth me lede," is entirely omitted by the later poet, who changes "To shorte my here, a bowe to bere, To shote in tyme of nede," into "Wanting the scissors, with these hands I'll tear (If that obstructs my flight) this load of hair." The Nut-Brown Maid has always been highly popular (a proof of the good taste of the people), and in consequence it figures in Captain Cox's collection described by Laneham. Another proof of its popularity is the existence of various parodies, one of which is of very early date. It was a common practice in the sixteenth century to turn ordinary ballads into religious songs. The New Nutbrowne Maid, printed by John Skot about 1520, reprinted by George Isted in 1820 for the Roxburghe Club, and again reprinted by Dr. Rimbault for the Percy Society (vol. iv.), 1842, is an instance of this practice. It is a close parody of the original, and purports to be "upon the passion of Cryste." The he and she are changed to Maria the mayde and Jesus. Another version is given in the Percy folio MS. (ed. Hales and Furnivall, vol. ii. p. 334), which is entitled A Jigge. The incidents are vulgarized, "but," Mr. Hales observes, "the beauty of the original is too great to be altogether destroyed, however rude the hands that handle it. Something of the charm of the Nut Brown Maid lingers around this Jig."] Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among On women do complayne: Affyrmynge this, how that it is A labour spent in vayne, To love them wele; for never a dele 5 They love a man agayne: For late a man do what he can, Theyr favour to attayne, Yet, yf a newe do them persue, Theyr first true lover than 10 Laboureth for nought; for from her thought He is a banyshed man. I say nat nay, but that all day It is bothe writ and sayd That womans faith is, as who sayth, 15 All utterly decayd; But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnèsse In this case might be layd, That they love true, and continùe: Recorde the Not-browne Mayde: 20 Which, when her love came, her to prove, To her to make his mone, Wolde nat depart; for in her hart She loved but hym alone. Than betwaine us late us dyscus 25 What was all the manere Betwayne them two: we wyll also Tell all the payne, and fere, That she was in. Nowe I begyn, So that ye me answère; 30 Wherfore, all ye, that present be I pray you, gyve an ere. "I am the knyght; I come by nyght, As secret as I can; Sayinge, Alas! thus standeth the case, 35 I am a banyshed man." And I your wyll for to fulfyll In this wyll nat refuse; Trustying to shewe, in wordès fewe, That men have an yll use 40 (To theyr own shame) women to blame, And causelesse them accuse: Therfore to you I answere nowe, All women to excuse,— SHE. Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? 45 I pray you, tell anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. It standeth so; a dede is do Wherof grete harme shall growe: 50 My destiny is for to dy A shamefull deth, I trowe; Or elles to fle: the one must be. None other way I knowe, But to withdrawe as an outlawe, 55 And take me to my bowe. Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true! None other rede I can: For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. 60 SHE. O lord, what is thys worldys blysse, That changeth as the mone! My somers day in lusty may Is derked before the none. I here you say, farewell: Nay, nay 65 We dèpart nat so sone. Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go? Alas! what have ye done? All my welfàre to sorrowe and care Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone; 70 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE.