A Minstrelsey of the English Border

The Battle of Hedgeley Moor

The White Rose waves be north the Tyne,

On Yorkis crest, and lo, its thorn.

Has made Northumbria's gallant hearts,

Lament the day or they were born.

Sir Ralph de Percy's trumpets rang.

To gather yeomen from the Glen,

And Simonfide has echoed back;

"Rouse up, and march, my merry men."

"No longer now my yeomen bold,"

Sir Percy said, "must we bide here;

Since England's Red Rose droops her head.

When is her haughty rival near."

To morrow's fun may wistfu' shoot

On mony shields and border crest;

And mony flags may flutter 'boon

The heath whare lies a knight at rest.

The morning air the mist: had chafed

From doun Ros Castl's lofty hill;

The vapours rolled alang the Glen,

And clothed the banks o' fullen Till.

Where stray the bulls by Chillingham,

Where Wooler water rowls its tide.

Where Glen and College to the Till,

The Till to Tweed, does swiftly glide.

O'er Hepbron's oaks, and darksome tower.

Morn threw her weeds o' foggy gray;

Dun Bewick heard the lark's shrill call.

That ushered in the fatal day.

Harehope now shew'd his heath clad brow.

And Eglingham her wild woods shook.

Grim Beanly smiled, and Crawley frown'd.

From cliff and scaur with proudfu' look.

The sun shines coldly in the lift.

To gild Aln's stream it hath no power,

Its rays, they winna warm the ground.

Or tinge the bent on Hedgely Moor.

It shall be tinged with other hue.

It shall be warm't with other heat.

The setting sun that heath shall view.

Changed to the warrior's winding sheet.

The mavis, that now sings fae sweet.

Ere night shall chaunt a deathfu' song;

O'er Chieftains stiffened in their clay.

And strew'd the bluidy broom among.

Instead o' heath bells clad in dew.

Or bonny knowes to please the eye,

The moon shall shed a ghastly light,

Whare bleeding warriors silent lie.

There shall be heard the dying curfe

O' fell revenge, o' muttered prayer.

And maidens sobbing all around.

While search they for some lover there.

And Percy's Crofs o' sculptured stone.

That points this feud of eldern day.

Shall fade, for time with constant pace

Doth bring with it its own decay.

The trumpets sang in waefu' breath.

Their echoes skud upon the gale.

From lofty Cheviot's mountain fide.

To the green slopes of Teviotdale.

But Alnwick's towers, and Percy's hold.

Are harried by his mortal foe;

And Ida feels the iron hand.

Which lays bauld Dunstan's turretts low.

"Fierce Greyftock," quoth the Percy then,

"Now wastes my father's ancient hall,

Wi' mony fouthrons of renown,

Whose martial names I canna' call.

"De Breze's succours come not up,

Alone I stand upon the lea;

And here maun I in shame retreat.

The bracken bush to shelter me.

"Ill may my father's son now brook

Such shame, it fills my e'en with tears;

Thus forced to loiter north the Tweed,

And tak' up wi' the Scottish spears.

"Beshrew my heart, I'll southward go.

For here no longer may I stay;

Yon caterans' pastime shall be short,

Tho' Alnwick's towers be their prey."

Each archer clafped his Baldrick on.

New strung his bow, new whet his sword.

And Scotland's Chiefs have joined the war.

That good Kynge Henry be restored.

Queen Margaret was a woman bold.

Her troops were all in steel arrayed;

Her standard flew amid the van,

Whare the Red Rose its leaves display'd.

Earl Percy and his men were there.

The Widdringtons, a gallant few;

Keen hunters on the hill and plain.

For deftly could they bend the yew.

Lords Ross, and Hungerford, and Carr,

All Chieftains of a mounted band.

With English bill and Scottish spear.

Were marshall'd 'neath their high command.

Along the ridge of Wooperton

Sir Percy plac'd his archers light;

The Yorkifts they must breast the hill.

Clad in their heavy mail to fight.

Lord Montacute's White bannered Rose

Had cross the streams of fullen Till,

Ah! gentle river, didst thou spare

So fell a fiend that came to kill.

The eastern warden eke was he.

And boasted Neville's noble name:

And Howards, and Bracys, Cuthberts and Johnsons

To combat all at Hedgely came.

With them five hundred horsfemen rode.

In martial pomp and gliftering mail;

The yird it shook beneath their hoofs.

Their trumpets flourished on the gale.

Next came his archers, good and true.

Stern men from Tees and Weardale side.

And Border prickers and spearmen.

And Hobiler's with them did ride.

And Reivers wild, who spoil do love,

A motley, mingled roving train;

Moss troopers frae' the Scottish march.

Who only fought for ruth and gain.

Now Montacute has taen his ground.

His bannered White Rose fluttered wide;

His trumpets with a martial din,

Sir Percy's prowess loud defied.

Short space had past, when down the hill,

Upon a fleet and gallant grey.

Sir Percy spurred with right good will.

And thus unto his men did say:

"Now forward for the red, red Rose,

My merry archers, take good aim;"

The bowstrings twanged, as the arrowed shower.

Swept glancing o'er the field o' fame.

Far down the hill the arrows flew,

Like a cloud of driving hail,

And many a knight at stirrup swung,

Girt in his heavy mail.

Three times before that feathered flight

The horsemen backward drew;

They strove in vain to top the hill,

Whilst the archers bent the yew.

"Bring up the spearmen," Neville cried,

And he cursed the broken ground;

"Wheel the light troops ayont the hill,

And Percy's band surround."

Wi' steady step the spearmen came,

The Border prickers shewed their skill.

And dash'd the archers' rear upon.

When they had crept behint the hill.

The Lancasters their bows slang by,

With swords they fiercely ran.

On Neville's spearmen did they fall,

And charg't them in the van.

The men of Tees and Wear were good,

As e'er loot arrow fly;

They wheeled in line, and met the charge.

Of foemen valiantly.

The spears were cast aside in wrath,

They trampled on the useless bow,

And to it hand to hand they went,

'Twas thrust for thrust, and blow for blow.

Sir Percy shouted "Hungerford,

And Ross, upon the Yorkist rank;"

But the coward loons they took to flight.

And galloped o'er the northern bank.

The warden charged the Lancasters,

Their shafts were sped in fight fae vayn,

And Neville's spears are bearing down

Sir Percy and his gallant train.

No arrows hurtled thro' the air.

And useless lay the twanging bow;

But levell't spears were forward bent.

And swords gave many a mortal blow.

On foot the noble Percy fought,

Whole ranks were hewn down by his hand.

And limbs and heads were shred away

Like poppies by his sweeping brand.

Now back to back the warriors flood.

But what might fic a remnant do?

And scattered o'er the bloody moor

Were billmen keen and archers true.

To right and left, before, ahint.

The torrent of the war rolled by;

"The Red Rose yet," Sir Percy cried.

For off the field he scorned to fly.

His shouts rung round the bluidy field,

A spearman thrust his body thro';

But lightly from the ground he fprung

Full thirty English feet or moe.

His death pangs gave him giant strength.

Backward he drave the foe;

What brand with his could stand a wyte.

What shield refist its blow?

The crescent on his helmet top.

No bigger than a bee.

Was hacked to flinders by the swords

Of his bold enemy.

And many a mother's son lay there.

Within that bluidy ring.

And many a banner fell to erthe.

Ere Percy took his spring.

Sore hackit was his golden mayl.

And eke the sword he drew.

And from the chinks of his habergeon

The blood was seeping thro'.

But failed his life, he backward sank.

As Montacute upon him prest;

The last words these, the Percy said,

"I've sav'd the bird within my breast."

A sterner field was never fought.

When York his cause made good;

But dearly was the conquest won:

The white rofe dyed its leaves in blood.