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SIR ANDREW BARTON
That hee ffell downe to the haches againe ;
Sore of his wound that hee did bleed. Covetousness getts no gaine,
Itt is verry true, as the Welchman sayd.
But when hee saw his sisters sonne slaine, Lord ! in his heart hee was not well:
' Goe ffeitch me downe my armour of prove, For I will to the topcastle my-selfe.
' Goe ffeitch me downe my armour of prooffe, For itt is gilded with gold soe cleere ;
God be with my brother, Iohn of Bartton ! Amongst the Portingalls hee did itt weare.'
But when hee had his armour of prooffe,
And on his body hee had itt on, Every man that looked att him
Sayd, Gunn nor arrow hee neede feare none.
' Come hither, Horsley !' sayes my lord Haward, ' And looke your shaft that itt goe right;
Shoot a good shoote in the time of need, And ffor thy shooting thoust be made a knight.'
' I'le doe my best,' sayes Horslay then, ' Your Honor shall see beffore I goe;
If I shold be hanged att your maine-mast, I have in my shipp but arrowes tow.'
But att Sir Andrew hee shott then ;
Hee made sure to hitt his marke; Under the spole of his right arme
Hee smote Sir Andrew quite throw the hart.
Yett ffrom the tree hee wold not start,
But hee dinged to itt with might and maine;
Under the coller then of his iacke,
He stroke Sir Andrew thorrow the braine.
' Ffight on, my men,' sayes Sir Andrew Bartton
' I am hurt, but I am not slaine ; I'le lay mee downe and bleed a-while,
And then I'le rise and ffight againe. |
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