By my troth, doughty Douglas," he says, "thou shalt never see that
day!
Neither in England, Scotland, nor France, nor for no man of a woman
born,
But and fortune be my chance, I dare meet him, one man for one."
Then bespake a squire of Northumberland, Richard Witherington was his
name,
"It shall never be told in South England," he says, "to King Harry the
Fourth, for shame.
I wot you ben great lord-es two, I am a poor squire of land;
I will never see my captain fight on a field, and stand myself and
look on;
But while I may my weapon wield I will fight both heart and hand."
That day, that day, that dreadful day: the first fytte here I find,
An you will hear any more of the hunting of the Cheviot, yet is there
more behind.



SECOND FYTTE.

The English men had their bows ybent, their hearts were good enow;
The first of arrows that they shot off, sevenscore spearmen they
slowe.
Yet bides the Earl Douglas upon the bent, a captain good enow,
And that was seene verament, for he wrought them both wo and wough.
The Douglas parted his host in three like a chief chieftain of pride,
With suar spears of mighty tree they come in on every side,
Through our English archery gave many a wound full wide;
Many a doughty they gard to die, which gain-ed them no pride.