"Brother, se you marke the justyce wel;
Lo yonder you may him se:
"And at the shyrife shote I wyll
Strongly wyth an arrowe kene;
A better shote in mery Carleile
Thys seven yere was not sene."
They loosed their arrowes both at once,
Of no man had they dread;
The one hyt the justice, the other the sheryfe,
That both theyr sides gan blede.
All men voyded, that them stode nye,
When the justice fell to the grounde,
And the sherife nye hym by;
Eyther had his deathes wounde.
All the citezens fast gan flye,
They durst no longer abyde:
There lyghtly they losed Cloudeslee,
Where he with ropes lay tyde.
Wyllyam start to an officer of the towne,
Hys axe from hys hand he wronge,
On eche syde he smote them downe,
Hee thought he taryed to long.
Wyllyam sayde to hys brethren two,
"Thys daye let us lyve and die,
If ever you have nede, as I have now,
The same shall you finde by me."
They shot so well in that tyde,
Theyr stringes were of silke ful sure,
That they kept the stretes on every side;
That batàyle did long endure.
They fought together as brethren true,
Lyke hardy men and bolde,
Many a man to the ground they threw,
And many a herte made colde.
But when their arrowes were all gon,
Men preced to them full fast,
They drew theyr swordès then anone,
And theyr bowes from them cast.
They went lyghtlye on theyr way,
Wyth swordes and buclers round;
By that it was the mydd of the day,
They made many a wound.
There was an out-horne[7] in Carleil blowen,
And the belles bacwàrd dyd ryng,