I make a vow, quoth Hud, Tyb, fon fchal thou fe, 100
Whych of all thys bachelery granted' is the gre:
I fchal fcomfet thaym all, for the love of the;
In what place fo I come thay schal have dout of me,
Myn armes ar fo clere :

I bere a reddyl, and a rake,
Poudred wyth a brenand drake,
And three cantells of a cake

In ycha cornere.

105

I vow to God, quóth Hawkyn, yf 'I' have the Gowt, Al that I fynde in the felde thrustand' here aboute, 110 Have I twyes or thryes redyn thurgh the route,

In ycha ftede ther thay me fe, of me thay fchal have doute, When I begyn to play.

I make avowe that I ne schäll,

But yf Tybbe wyl me call,

Or I be thryes don fall,

Ryzt onys com away.

Then fayd Terry, and swore be hys crede;
Saw thou never yong boy forther hys body bede,

115

Ver. 101. grant. MS.

C 2

V. 110. the MS, literally has th3. fand, bere,“

For

109, yf he have, MS,

이

For when thay fyzt fastest and most ar in drede,

I fchall take Tyb by the hand, and hur away lede:
I am armed at the full;

In myn armys I bere wele

A doz trogh, and a pele,

A fadyll wythout a panell,
Wyth a fles of woll.

120

125

I make a vow, quoth Dudman, and swor be the ftra,
Whyls me ys left my merth, thou gets hurr not swa;
For fcho ys wele fchapen, and lizt as the rae,

Ther is no Capul in thys myle befor hur fchal ga; 130
Sche wul ne nozt begyle:

Sche wyl me bere, I dar fay,

On a lang fomerys day,

Fro Hyffylton to Hakenay,

Nozt other half myle.

I make a vow, quoth Perkyn, thow fpeks of cold roft,

I fchal wyrchwyfelyer' withouten any bost:

Five of the beft capulys, that ar in thys oft,

135

I wot I fchal thaym wynne, and bryng thaym to my cost,
And here I grant thaym Tybbe

Wele boyes here ys he,

That wyl fyzt, and not fle,

For I am in my jolyte,

Wyth fo forth, Gybbe.

140

Wher

Ver. 137. fwyfelier, MS.

ANCIENT POEMS..

21

When thay had ther vowes made, furth can thay hie,, 145
Wyth flayles, and hornes, and trumpes mad of tre :
Ther were all the bachelerys of that contre;
Thay were dyzt in aray, as thaymfelfes wold be:
Thayr baners wer ful bryzt

Of an old rotten fell;

The cheveron of a plow-mell;

And the fchadow of a bell,

Quartred wyth the mone lyzt.

I wot yt was' no chylder game, whan thay togedyr met,

150

(Poudred

When icha freke in the feld on hys feloy bet,

155

And layd on fly fly, for nothyng wold thay leṛ,

And foght ferly faft, tyll ther horses swet,

And few wordys fpoken

Ther were flayles al to flatred,

Ther were fcheldys al to fiatred,

160

Bollys and dyfches al to schatred,
And many hedys brokyn.

There was clynkyng of cart-fadellys, & clatteryng of

cannes ;

Of fele frekys in the feld brokyn were their fannes;
Offum were the hedys brokyn, of fum the brayn-pannes,
And yll were thay befene, or thay went thanns,

C 3

166

Wyth