Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession :
But now, alas! they all are dead,

Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for religion fled,

Or else they take their ease.

A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure;
And whoso kept not secretly

Their mirth, was punish'd sure :
It was a just and christian deed
To pinch such black and blue :
O how the common-wealth doth need
Such justices as you!

Now they have left their quarters ;
A Register they have,

Who can preserve their charters;

A man both wise and grave.
An hundred of their merry pranks,
By one that I could name,

Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
To William for the same.

I marvel who his cloak would turn,*
When Puck had led him round ;

Or where those walking fires would burn
Where Cureton would be found;

*The belief that the turning of the cloak or glove, or any garment, solved the benighted traveller from the spell of the fairies, is alluded to in Corbet's 'Iter Boreale,' and is still retained in some of the western counties. Gilchrist.

How Broker would appear to be,
For whom this age doth mourn;
But that their spirits live in thee,
In thee, old William Chourne.

To William Chourne of Staffordshire,
Give laud and praises due,
Who every meal can mend your cheer
With tales both old and true :

To William all give audience,

And pray ye for his noddle:

For all the fairies' evidence

Were lost, if that were addle.

BALLAD XXVIII.

ON THE DEATH OF SIMON DE MONTFORT, Earl of LEICESTER, AT THE BATTLE OF EVESHAM, 1266.

(Literally versified from the Norman-French)

BY WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.*

In woeful wise my song shall rise,

My heart impells the strain;

Tears fit the song, which tells the wrong

Of gentle Barons slayn.

* [This version was made at the desire of Mr. Ritson, for a projected reprint of his 'Ancient Songs from the time of King Henry the Third to the Revolution;' the new materials for which all perished except this relique, which its highly esteemed Translator has permitted in the most friendly, and therefore flattering manner, to appear in the present publication. The Norman-French original, which ought to have accompanied this ballad, cannot now be retraced.]

CHORUS.

Now lowly lies the flower of pries, *
That could so much of weir:t

Fayr peace to gaine they fought in vayn,
Their house to ruin gave,

And limb and life to butcheryng knyfe,

Our native land to save.

Erle Montfort's scathe, and heavy death,
Shall cost the world a tear.

As I here say, upon Tuesdaye

The battle bold was done;

Each mounted knight there fell in fight,

For ayd of foot was none :

There wounds were felt, and blows were dealt With brands that burnish'd be ;

Sir Edward stoute, his numerous route

Have won the maisterie.

Now lowly lies, &c.

But, though he died, on Montfort's side
The victorye remain'd;

Like Becket's fayth, the Erle's in deathe
The martyr's palm obtain'd;

That holy Saint would never graunt
The Church should fall or slyde;
Like him, the Erle met deadly peril,

And like him dauntless dyed.

Now lowly lies, &c.

The bold Sir Hugh Despencer true,

The kingdom's Justice he,
Was doom'd to dye, unrighteouslye,
By passynge crueltie.

And Sir Henry, the son was he
To Leister's nobile lord,

With many moe, as ye shall know,

Fell by Erle Gloster's sword.

Now lowly lies, &c

He that dares dye, in standing by
The country's peace and lawe,
To him the Saint the meed shall graunt
Of conscience free from flawe.
Who suffers scathe, and faces death,

To save the poor from wrong,

God speed his end, the poor man's friend, For suche we pray, and long!

Now lowly lies, &c.

His bosom nere, a treasure dere,
A sackclothe shirt they founde,-
The felons there full ruthless were
Who stretch'd hym on the grounde.
More wrongs than be in butcherye,
They did the knight who fell,

To wield his sword and keep his worde
Who knew the way so well.

Now lowly lies, &c.

Pray, as is meet, my brethren sweet,

The maiden Mary's Son,

The infant fair, our noble heir,

In

grace to guide him on.

I will not name the habit's* claym,
Of that I will not saye;

But for Jesus' love, that sits above,

For churchmen ever pray.

Now lowly lies, &c.

Seek not to see, of chivalrye
Or count, or baron bold;

Each gallant knight, and squire of might,

They all are bought and sold;

For loyaltie and veritie,

They now are done awaye―

The losel vile may reign by guile,

The fool by his foleye.

Now lowly lies, &c.

Sir Simon wight, that gallant knight,
And his companye eche one,

To heaven above, and joye and love,
And endless life are gone.

May He on rood who bought our good,
And God, their paine relieve,
Who captive ta'en, are kept in chaine,
And depe in dungeon grieve!

Now lowly lies the flower of pries,
That could so much of weir:

* The clerical habit is obviously alluded to; and it seems to be cautiously and obscurely hinted, that the church was endangered by the defeat of De Montfort.