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With “howe! hissa !" then they cry, “ What, howte! mate, thow stondyst to ny, Thy felow may nat hale the by;"
Thus they begyn to crake.
A boy or tweyne anone up-styen, And overthwarte the sayle-yerde lyen ;“ Y how ! taylia !” the remenaunte cryen,
And pull with all theyr myght.
“ Bestowe the boote, bote-swayne, anon, That our pylgryms may pley thereon; For som ar lyke to cowgh and grone,
Or hit be full mydnyght.”
“ Hale the bowelynel now, vere the shete !-
“Go to the helm ! what, howe ! no nere? Steward, felow ! a pot of bere !" “ Ye shall have, sir, with good chere,
Anone all of the best.”
“ Y howe! trussa ! hale in the brayles !
And thus they say among.
“ Hale in the wartake !” 6. Hit shall be done." “ Steward ! cover the boorde anone, And set bred and salt thereone,
And tarry nat to long."
o be mery;
Then cometh oone and seyth, Ye shall have a storme or a pery." “ Holde thow thy pese! thow canst no whery,
Thow medlyst wondyr sore.”
Thys menewhyle the pylgryms ly,
“ Thow helpe for to restore.”
And som wold have a saltyd tost,
for oo day or twayne.
Som layde theyr bookys on theyr kne,
hede woll cleve on thre !" Thus seyth another certayne.
Then commeth owre owner lyke a lorde,
To see all thyng be well.
Anone he calleth a carpentere,
With many a febyl cell.
A sak of strawe were there ryght good,
Without mete or drynk.
For when that we shall go to bedde,
As smell thereof the stynk.
A TRUE RELATION OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF SIR ANDREW BARTON, A PYRATE
AND ROVER ON THE SEAS.
The present text of the following ballad, which has been printed by Percy and others, is taken from an original black-letter copy preserved in the British Museum. It will be seen that the several versions vary considerably from each other.
Tune—“Come, follow my love,” &c.
WHEN Flora with her fragrant flowers
bedeckt the earth so trim and gay, And Neptune with his dainty showers
came to present the month of May,
King Henry would a hunting ride,
over the river Thames passed he, Unto a mountain-top also
did walk, some pleasure for to see:
Where forty merchants he espy'd,
with fifthy sail came towards him, Who then no sooner were arriv'd,
but on their knees did thus complain : “ An't please your grace, we cannot sail
to France no voyage to be sure, But Sir Andrew Barton makes us quail,
and robs us of our marchant ware.”
Vext was the King, and turning him,
Said to the Lords of high degree, “ Have I ne'er a Lord within my realm,
dare fetch that traytor unto me?" To him reply'd, Charles Lord Howard,
“I will, my liege, with heart and hand; If it will please you grant me leave,” he said,
“I will perform what you command.”
To him then spoke King Henry,
“I fear, my Lord, you are too young.” “No whit at all, my Liege," quoth he;
I hope to prove in valour strong : The Scotch knight I vow to seek,
in what place soever he be, And bring ashore with all his might,
or into Scotland he shall carry me.”
“ A hundred men,” the King then said,
“out of my realm shall chosen be, Besides sailors and ship-boys,
to guide a great ship on the sea : Bow-men and gunners of good skill
shall for this service chosen be, And they at thy command and will,
in all affairs shall wait on thee.”
Lord Howard callid a gunner then,
who was the best in all the realm, His age was threescore years and ten,
and Peter Simon was his name: My Lord call’d then a bow-man rare,
whose active hands had gain'd fame, A gentleman born in Yorkshire,
and William Horsely was his name.
Horsely," quoth he, “I must to sea
to seek a traytor, with good speed ; Of a hundred bow-men brave," quoth he,
“ I have chosen thee to be the head.” “If
you, my Lord, have chosen me of a hundred men to be the head, Upon the main mast I'll hanged be,
if twelve score I miss one shilling's breadth.”
Lord Howard then of courage bold,
went to the sea with pleasant cheer, Not curb’d with winter's piercing cold,
tho’ it was the stormy time of year ;