The Dowglas turnyd him homewarde agayne,
For soth withowghten naye,
He tooke his logeyng at Oterborne
Uppon a Wedyns-day
And ther he pyght hys standerd dowyn,
Hys gettyng more and lesse,
And syne he warned hys men to goo
To chose ther geldyngs gresse.
A Skottysshe knyght hoved upon the bent,
A wache I dare well saye:
So was he ware on the noble Percy
In the dawnynge of the daye.
He prycked to his pavyleon dore,
As faste as he myght ronne,
"Awaken, Dowglas," cryed the knyght,
"For hys love, that syttes yn trone.
"Awaken, Dowglas," cryed the knyght,
"For thow maiste waken wyth wynne:
Yender have I spyed the prowde Percy,
And seven standardes wyth hym."
"Nay by my trowth," the Douglas sayed,
It ys but a fayned taylle:
He durste not loke on my bred banner,
For all Ynglonde so haylle.
"Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell,
That stands so fayre on Tyne?
For all the men the Percy hade,
He cowde not garre me ones to dyne."
He stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore,
To loke and it were lesse;
"Araye yow, lordyngs, one and all,
For here bygynnes no peysse.
"The yerle of Mentaye,[20] thow arte my eme,
The forwarde I gyve to the:
The yerlle of Huntlay cawte and kene,
He schall wyth the be.
"The Lorde of Bowghan[21] in armure bright
On the other hand he schall be;
Lorde Jhonstone, and Lorde Maxwell,
They to schall be with me.
"Swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde
To batell make yow bowen,
Syr Davy Scotte, Syr Walter Stewarde,
Syr Jhon of Agurstone.
A FYTTE