The gallant earl did pay;
When Alfred's better star prevail'd,
And England had her day.
That day the Dane full dearly paid
The price of lovers' blood:
That day in Hubba's cloven helm
The Saxon javelin stood.
The bodies of the hapless three
A single grave contains;
And in the choir, with dirges due,
Are laid their cold remains.
Lord Ardolph on his children's tomb
Inscribed th' applauding verse;
And long the monks, in gothic rhyme,
Their story did rehearse.
And often pointing to the skies,
The cloister'd maids would cry,
"To those bright realms, in bloom of youth,
Did Athelgiva fly."
THE BATTLE OF CUTON MOORE.
In the year 1138, David, king of Scotland, invaded the north of England with a numerous army, in aid of the claim of the empress Matilda, his niece, against king Stephen. The fury of his massacres and ravages enraged the northern barons, who assembled an army and encamped near Northallerton. On Monday the 22nd of August, 1138, the standard was raised on Cowton Moor, three miles north of Northallerton, and after a severe contest the Scots were defeated and ten thousand of their number slain; the rest, with king David and prince Henry his son, retreated with difficulty to Carlisle. This engagement is sometimes called the Battle of Northallerton, but generally the Battle of the Standard, from a long pole,
"Like the mast of some tall ammiral,"
which Thurstan, archbishop of York, brought from the convent of Beverley. This was drawn on a four-wheeled carriage; and had on the top of it a silver crucifix, under which were suspended the banners of St. Peter of York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfred of Ripon, and above all, in a silver pix, the consecrated host. The following ballad was first printed, by Mr. Evans, in 1784.
The welkin[2] darke o'er Cuton Moore
With drearye cloudes did low're—
The woeful carnage of that daye
Sall Scotlande aye deplore.
The river Tees full oft dyd sighe,
As she roll'd her wynding floode,
That ever her sylver tyde soe cleare
Shoulde bee swell'd with human bloode!
Kyng Davyd hee stode on the rising hille,
And the verdante prospecte view'd;
And hee sawe that sweete river that o'er the moore
Roll'd on her sylver floode.
Oh then bespake that noble kyng,
And with griefe hys hearte was woo'd:
"And ever I mourne that yon fayre streame
Shoulde be swell'd with human bloode!"
Kynge Davyd hee sawe the verdante moore,
With wilde flow'res all bestrow'de:
"And ever I'm griev'd that soe greene a moore
Sholde be stayn'd with human bloode!
"But more am I griev'd, alas!" he cry'd,
"And more my hearte is woo'd,
That soe manye warriours young and brave
Muste thys daye shed theyr bloode!"
As princely a hoste that kyng dyd leade
As ever march'd on playne:
Alas! that soe manye a warriour brave
Should be soe soone yslayne!
And firste march'd forthe the Galloway men,
Of the antiente Picts they sprange;
Theyr speares all soe brighte and bucklers strong
For manye myles yrang.
And then cam on the Norman troopes,
With Englishe them amonge:
For the empresse Maud they cam to fighte,
To righte that ladye's wronge.
And then march'd forthe the Scottish foote,
And then march'd forthe the horse;
In armoure stronge, all those warriours came,
A greate and warlike force.
Kynge Davyd look'd athawart the moore,
And prince Henry hys brave sonne,
And they were aware of the Englishe hoste,
Com merrilye marching on.
Oh then call'd forthe kynge Davyd,
And loudelye called hee,
"And whoo is heare in alle mye campe,
Can descrybe yon hoste to mee?"
Then came a bearne, besyde the tente,
An Englisheman was hee;
'Twas not long since from the Englishe hoste,
That traiterous wighte dyd flee.
"Nowe tell mee yon hostes," the kyng hee cry'd,
"And thou shalte have golde and fee—
And whoo is yon chiefe that rydes along
With hys lockes soe aged greye?"
"Oh that is Walter de Gaunte[3] you see,
And
