Imágenes de páginas

Then Horsley 'spied a private place,

with a perfect eye in a secret part, His arrow swiftly flew apace,

and smote Sir Andrew to the heart: “Fight on, fight on, my merry men all,

a little I am hurt, yet not slain; I'll but lie down and bleed awhile,

and come and fight you again :

“ And do not,” said he, “ fear English rogues,

and of your foes stand not in awe, But stand fast by St. Andrew's crosse, until you hear my

whistle blow.” They never heard his whistle blow,

which made them all full sore afraid. Then Horsley said, "My Lord aboard,

for now Sir Andrew Barton's dead;"

Thus boarded they this gallant ship,

with right good will and all their main, Eighteen score Scots alive in it,

besides as many more was slain. The Lord went where Sir Andrew lay,

and quickly thence cut off his head ; “I should forsake England many a day,

if thou wert alive as thou art dead.”

Thus from the wars Lord Howard came,

with mickle joy and triumphing; The pirate's head he brought along

for to present unto our King :

Who briefly unto him did say,

before he knew well what was done, “ Where is the knight and pirate gay,

that I myself may give the doom?" “ You may thank God,” then said the Lord,

“and four men in the ship,” quoth he, “ That we are safely come ashore,

sith you never had such an enemy: That is, Henry Hunt, and Peter Simon,

William Horsely and Peter's son ; Therefore reward them for their pains,

for they did service at their turn."

To the merchant therefore the King he said,

“ In lieu of what he hath from thee tane, I give thee a noble a-day;

Sir Andrew's whistle and his chain : To Peter Simon a crown a day ;

and half-a-crown a-day to Peter's son. And that was for a shot so gay,

which bravely brought Sir Andrew down :

Horsely, I will make thee a knight,

and in Yorkshire thou shalt dwell: Lord Howard shall Earl Bury hight,

for this act he deserveth well : Ninety pound to our English men,

who in this fight did stoutly stand; And twelve pence a-day to the Scots till they

come to my brother king's high land.

Printed by and for W. O. and sold by the Booksellers. IN PRAIS OF SEAFARINGE MEN, IN HOPE OF


The two following ballads are taken from MS. Sloane, 2497, fol. 47, a manuscript in the British Museum of the time of Queen Elizabeth. The note at the end of this ballad enables us to determine its date, for it can scarcely refer to any other “farewell” than that of Sir Richard Greenville, who fitted out a squadron for foreign discovery in the spring of the year 1585. As usual in the manuscript documents of the time of Queen Elizabeth, the orthography of the gallant officer's name is strangely metamorphosed; and, were I induced to follow the example of many writers of the present day, I might reasonably take to myself the credit of having discovered the proper mode of writing it, and be the first to commence an innovation, which, on account of its novelty alone, would be certain of meeting with a numerous body of supporters.

Whoe siekes the waie to win renowne,
Or flies with whinges of hie desarte,
Whoe seikes to wear the lawrea crouen,
Or hath the mind that would espire,
Lett him his native soylle eschew,
Lett him go rainge and seeke a newe.

Eche hawtie harte is well contente,
With everie chance that shal betyde ;
No hap can hinder his entente;
He steadfast standes, though fortune slide.
The sunn, quoth he, doth shine as well
Abrod, as earst where I did dwell.

In chaynge of streames each fish can live,
Eche foule content with everie ayre,
Eche hautie hart remainethe still,
And not be dround in depe dispaire :
Wherfor I judg all landes alicke,
To hautie hartes whom fortune sicke.

Too pas the seaes som thinkes a toille,
Sum thinkes it strange abrod to rome,
Sum thinkes it a grefe to leave their soylle,
Their parents, cynfolke, and their whome.
Thinke soe who list, I like it nott;
I must abrod to trie



Whoe list at whome at carte to drudge,
And carke and care for worldlie trishe,
With buckled sheoes let him goe trudge,
Instead of launce a whip to slishe;
A mynd that base his kind will show,
Of caronn sweete to feed a crowe.

If Jasonn of that mynd had bine,
The Gresions when thay cam to Troye,
Had never so the Trogian's foylde,
Nor never put them to such anoye :
Wherfore who lust to live at whome,
To purchas fame I will go rome.

Finis, Sur Richard Grinfilldes farewell.



[MS. Sloane, 2497, fol. 47.]

What pen can well reporte the plighte
Of those that travell on the seaes ?
To pas the werie winters nighte
With stormie cloudes wisshinge for daie,
With waves that toss them to and fro,
Thair pore estate is hard to show.

When boistering windes begins to blowe
On cruell costes, from haven wee,
The foggie mysts soe dimes the shore,
The rocks and sandes we maie not see,
Nor have no rome on seas to trie,
But praie to God and yeld to die.

When shauldes and sandie bankes apears,
What pillot can direct his course ?
When fominge tides draueth us so nere,
Alas ! what forteun can be worse ?
Then ankers haald must be our staie,
Or ellce we falle into decaye.

We wander still from loffe to lie,
And findes no steadfast wind to blow;
We still remaine in jeopardie,
Each perelos poynt is hard to showe;
In time we hope to find redresse,
That longe have lived in hevines.

« AnteriorContinuar »