The Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire. Various
brave sonne by hys syde,
Foughte long the foe (brave kynge and prince,
Of Scotlande aye the pryde).
The Scotts they fled; but stille their kynge,
With hys brave sonne, foughte full welle,
Till o'er the moore an arrowe yflewe—
And brave prynce Henrye felle.
Alle thys espy'd his young foote page,
From the hille whereon he stode;
And soone hath hee mounted a swifte swifte steede,
And soone from the moore hath rode.
And hee hath cross'd the Tees fayre streame,
Nowe swell'd with human bloode;
Th' affrighted page he never stay'de,
Tyll to Dumfries hee hath rode.
Fayre Alice was gone to the holye kirke,
With a sad hearte dyd shee goe;
And ever soe faste dyd she crye to heav'n,
"Prynce Henrye save from woe."
Fayre Alice shee hied her to the choire,
Where the priestes dyd chaunte soe slowe;
And ever shee cry'd, "May the holye sayntes
Prynce Henrye save from woe!"
Fayre Alice, with manye a teare and sighe,
To Mary's shrine dyd goe;
And soe faste shee cry'de, "Sweete Mary mylde
Prynce Henrye save from woe!"
Fayre Alice she knelte bye the hallow'd roode,
Whyle faste her teares dyd flowe;
And ever shee cry'd, "Oh sweete sweete Savioure,
Prynce Henrye save from woe!"
Fayre Alice look'd oute at the kirke doore,
And heavye her hearte dyd beate;
For shee was aware of the prynce's page,
Com galloping thro' the streete.
Agayne fayre Alice look'd out to see,
And well nighe did shee swoone;
For nowe shee was sure it was that page
Com galloping thro' the towne.
"Nowe Christe thee save, thou sweete young page,
Nowe Christe thee save and see!
And howe dothe sweete prynce Henrye?
I praye thee telle to me."
The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,
And hys hearte was fulle of woe;
The page he look'd at the fayre Alice,
Tylle hys teares faste 'gan to flowe.
"Ah woe is me!" sad Alice cry'd,
And tore her golden hayre;
And soe faste shee wrang her lilly handes,
Alle woo'd with sad despayre.
"The Englishe keepe the bloodye fielde,
Fulle manye a Scott is slayne,
But lyves prynce Henrye?" the ladye cry'd,
"Alle else to mee is vayne.—
"Oh lives the prynce? I praye thee tell,"
Fayre Alice still dyd calle:
"These eyes dyd see a keen arrowe flye,
Dyd see prynce Henrye falle."
Fayre Alice she sat her on the grounde,
And never a worde shee spake;
But like the pale image dyd shee looke,
For her hearte was nighe to breake.
The rose that once soe ting'd her cheeke,
Was nowe, alas! noe more;
But the whitenesse of her lillye skin
Was fayrer than before.
"Fayre ladye, rise," the page exclaym'de
"Nor laye thee here thus lowe."—
She answered not, but heav'd a sighe,
That spoke her hearte felte woe.
Her maydens came and strove to cheare,
But in vaine was all their care;
The townesfolke wept to see that ladye
Soe 'whelm'd in dreade despare.
They rais'de her from the danky grounde,
And sprinkled water fayre;
But the coldest water from the spring
Was not soe colde as her.
And nowe came horsemen to the towne,
That the prynce had sente with speede;
With tydyngs to Alice that he dyd live,
To ease her of her dreade.
For when that hapless prince dyd falle,
The arrowe dyd not hym slaye;
But hys followers bravelye rescued hym,
And convey'd hym safe away.
Bravelye theye rescued that noble prince,[10]
And to fayre Carlile hym bore;
And there that brave young prynce dyd lyve,
Tho' wounded sad and sore.
Fayre Alice the wond'rous tydings hearde,
And thrice for joye shee sigh'd:
That haplesse fayre, when shee hearde the newes
She rose—she smiled—and dy'd.
The teares that her fayre maydens shed,
Ran free from their brighte eyes;
The ecchoing wynde that then dyd blowe,
Was burden'd with theyre sighes.
The page hee saw the lovelye Alice
In a deepe deepe grave let downe,
And at her heade a green turfe ylade,
And at her feete a stone!
Then with manye a teare and manye a sighe
Hathe hee hy'd hym on hys waye;
And hee hath come to Carlile towne,
All yclad in blacke arraye.
And now hath he com to the prince's halle,
And lowelye bente hys knee;
"And howe is the ladye Alice so fayre,
My page com telle to mee."
"O, the ladye Alice, so lovelye fayre,
Alas! is deade and gone;
And at her heade is a green grass turfe,
And at her foote a stone.
"The ladye Alice is deade and gone,
And the wormes feede by her syde;
And alle for the love of thee, oh prynce,