|
Skelton Laureate, &c
HOW THE DOUTY DUKE OF ALBANY lyke a cowarde knyght, ran awaye shamfully with an hundred thousande tratlande Scottes and faint harted Frenchemen, beside the water of Twede, &c.
Rejoyse, Englande,
And understande
These tidings newe,
Whiche be as trewe As the gospel:
This Duke so fell
Of Albany,
So cowardly,
With all his hoost
Of the Scottyshe coost,
For all theyr boost
Fledde lyke a beest.
Wherefore to jeste
Is my delyght
Of this cowarde knyght
And for to wright
In the dispyght
Of the Scottes ranke
Of Huntley banke,
Of Lowdyan,
Of Locryan,
And the ragged ray
Of Galaway.
Dunbar, Dunde,
Ye shall trowe me,
False Scottes are ye:
Your hartes sore faynted
And so attaynted,
Lyke cowardes starke,
At the castell of Warke,
By the water of Twede,
Ye had evill spede.
Lyke cankerd curres
Ye loste your spurres;
For in that fraye
Ye ranne awaye
With ‘hey, dogge, hay’.
For Sir William Lyle
Within shorte whyle,
That valiaunt knyght,
Putte you to flyght
By his valyaunce
Two thousande of Fraunce.
There he putte backe
To your great lacke
And utter shame
Of your Scottyshe name.
Your chefe cheftayne
Voyde of all brayne,
Duke of Albany,
Than shamefuly
He reculed backe,
To his great lacke,
Whan he herde tell
That my Lorde Amrell.
Was comyng downe
To make hym frowne
And to make hym lowre
With the noble powre
Of my Lorde Cardynall.
As an hoost royall
After the auncient manner
With Sainct Cutberdes banner
And Sainct Williams also.
Your capitayne ranne to go.
To go, to go, to go,
And brake up all his hoost;
For all his crake and bost
Lyke a cowarde knyght,
He fledde and durst nat fyght;
He ranne awaye by night.
But now must I
Your Duke ascry,
Of Albany
With a worde or twayne
In sentence playne.
Ye Duke so doutty,
So sterne, so stoutty,
In shorte sentens,
Of your pretens
What is the grounde
Brevely and rounde
To me expounde.
Or els wyll I
Evydently
Shewe as it is,
For the cause is this:
Howe ye pretende
For to defende
The yonge Scottyshe Kyng,
But ye meane a thyng,
And ye coude bryng
The matter about,
To putte his eyes out
And put hym downe,
And set hys crowne
On your owne heed.
Whan he were deed.
Such trechery
And traytory
Is all your cast.
Thus ye have compast
With the Frenche Kyng
A fals rekenyng
To envade Englande,
As I understand
But our Kyng royall
Whose name over all
Noble Henry the Eyght
Shall cast a beyght
And sette suche a snare
That shall cast you in care,
Bothe Kyng Fraunces and the,
That knowen ye shall be
For the moost recrayd
Cowardes afrayd
And falsest forsworne
That ever were borne.
O, ye wretched Scottes,
Ye puaunt pyspottes,
It shalbe your lottes
To be knytte up with knottes
Of halters and ropen
About your traytours throtes!
O Scottes parjured,
Unhaply ured,
Ye may be assured
Your falshod discured
It is, and shal be,
From the Scottish se
Unto Gabione,
For ye be false echone,
False and false agayne,
Never true nor playne,
But flery, flatter, and fayne;
And ever to remayne
In wretched beggary
And maungy misery,
In lousy lothsumnesse,
And scabbed scorffynesse,
And in abhominacion
Of all maner of nacion.
Nacion moost in hate,
Proude and poore of state.
Twyt, Scot, go kepe thy den,
Mell nat with Englyshe men.
Thou dyd nothyng but barke
At the castell of Warke.
Twyt, Scot, yet agayne ones,
We shall breke thy bones
And hang you upon polles
And byrne you all to colles
With ‘twyt Scot, twyt Scot, twyt.
Walke Scot, go begge a byt
Of brede, at ylke mannes hecke.
The fynde, Scot, breke thy necke.’
‘Twyt, Scot’, agayne I saye,
‘Twyt, Scot of Galaway
Twyt Scot, shake the dogge, hay
Twyt Scot thou ran away.’
We set nat a flye
By your Duke of Albany.
We set nat a prane
By suche a dronken drane.
We set nat a mygth
By such a cowarde knyght,
Suche a proude palyarde,
Suche a skyrgaliarde,
Suche a starke cowarde,
Suche a proude pultrowne,
Suche a foule coystrowne,
Suche a doutty dagswayne,
Sende him to Fraunce agayne
To bring with hym more brayne
From Kyge Fraunces of Frauns.
God sende them bothe myschauns!
Ye Scottes all the rable,
Ye shall never be hable,
With us for to compare.
What though ye stampe and stare?
God sende you sorow and care!
With us, whan ever ye mell
Yet we bear away the bell,
Whan ye cankerd knaves
Must crepe into your caves
Your heedes for to hyde
For ye dare nat abyde.
Sir Duke of Albany
Right inconvenyently
Ye rage and ye rave,
And your worshyp deprave:
Not lyke Duke Hamylcar
With the Romayns that made war,
Nor lyke his sonne Hanyball,
Nor lyke Duke Hasdruball
Of Cartage in Aphrike,
Yet somwhat ye be lyke
In some of their condicions
And their false sedycions
And their dealyng double
And their weywarde trouble.
But yet they were bolde
And manly manyfolde,
Their enemyes to assayle
In playn felde and battayle.
But ye and your hoost,
Full of bragge and boost
And full of waste wynde,
Howe ye wyll beres bynde,
And the devyll downe dynge,
Yet ye dare do nothynge
But lepe away lyke frogges
And hyde you under logges,
Lyke pygges and lyke hogges
And lyke maungy dogges.
What an army were ye?
Or what actyvyte
Is in you, beggers braules,
Full of scabbes and scaules,
Or vermyne and of lyce
And of all maner vyce?
Syr Duke, nay, Syr Ducke,
Syr Drake of the Lake, Sir Ducke
of the Donghyll, for small lucke
Ye have in feates or warre
Ye make nought but ye marre.
Ye are a fals entrusar,
And a fals abusar,
And and untrewe knyght.
Thou hast to lytell myght
Agaynst Englande to fyght.
Thou art a graceles wyght
To put thy selfe to flyght
A vengeaunce and dispight
On the must nedes lyght
That durst nat byde the sight
Of my Lorde Amrell,
Of chivalry the well,
Of knighthode the floure
In every marciall shoure,
That noble Erle of Surrey,
That put the in suche fray.
Thou durst no felde derayne,
Nor no batayle mayntayne,
Against our stronge captaine,
But thou ran home agayne
For feare thou should be slayne
Lyk a Scottyshe keteryng
That durst abyde no reknyng;
Thy hert wolde nat serve the.
The fynde of hell mot sterve the!
No man hath harde
Of such a cowarde
And such a mad ymage
Ye make nought but ye marre.
Caried in a cage,
As it were a cotage,
Or of suche a mawment
Caryed in a tent.
In a tent? Nay, nay,
But in a mountayne gay,
Lyke a great hill,
For a wyndmill
Therein to couche styll
That no man hym kyll;
As it were a gote
In a shepe cote,
About hym a parke
Of a madde warke
Men call it a toyle
Therein, lyke a royle,
Sir Dunkan, ye dared.
And thus ye prepared
Youre carkas to kepe,
Lyke a sely shepe,
A shepe of Cottyswolde,
From rayne and from colde,
And from raynning of rappes,
And suche after clappes
Thus in your cowardly castell
Ye decte you to dwell;
Such a captayne of hors
It made no great fors
If that ye had tane
Your last deedly bane
With a gon stone,
To make you to grone.
But hyde the, Sir Topias ,
Nowe into the castell of Bas,
And lurke there lyke an as
With some Scotyshe las,
With dugges, dugges, dugges,
I shrewe thy Scottishe lugges,
Thy munpynnys and thy crag,
For thou can not but brag,
Lyke a Scotyshe hag.
Adue, nowe, Sir Wrig Wrag!
Adue, Sir Dalyrag!
Thy mellyng is but mockyng.
Thou mayst give up thy cocking.
Gyve it up, and cry ‘creke!’
Lyke an huddy peke.
Whereto shuld I more speke
Of suche a farly freke,
Of suche an horne keke,
Of suche an bolde captayne,
That dare nat turne agayne,
Nor durst nat crak a worde,
Nor durst nat drawe his swerde,
Agaynst the lyon white,
But ran away quyte?
He ran away by nyght
In the owle flyght,
Lyke a cowarde knyght.
Adue, cowarde, adue!
Fals knight and mooste untrue,
I render the, fals rebelle,
To the flingande fende of helle.
Harke yet, Sir Duke, a worde
In ernest or in borde:
What have ye, villayn, forged,
And virulently dysgorged
As though ye wolde parbrake
Your avauns to make,
With words enbosed,
Ungraciously engrosed,
Howe ye wyll undertake
Our royall Kyng to make
His owne realme to forsake?
Suche lewde langage ye spake.
Sir Dunkan, in the devill waye,
Be well ware what ye say.
Ye saye that he and ye –
Whyche he and ye? Let se
Ye meane Fraunces, French Kyng,
Shulde bring about that thing.
I say, thou lewde lurdayne,
That neyther of you twayne
So hardy nor so bolde
His countenance to beholde.
If our moost royall Harry
Lyst with you to varry
Full soone ye should miscary,
For ye durst nat tarry
With hym to stryve a stownde.
If he on you but frounde,
Nat for a thousande pounde
Ye durst byde on the grounde
Ye wolde ryn away rounde
And cowardly tourne your backes
For all your comly crackes.
And for fear par case
To loke hym in the face
Ye wolde defoyle the place
And ryn your way apace.
Thoughe I trym you thys trace
With Englyshe somwhat base,
Yet, save voster grace,
Therby I shall purchace
No displesaunt rewarde
If ye wele can regarde
Your cankarde cowardnesse
And you shamfull doublenesse
Are ye nat frantyke madde?
And wretchedly bestadde
To rayle agaynst his grace
That shall bring you full bace
And set you in suche case
That bytwene you twayne
There shalbe drawen a trayne
That shalbe to your payne
To flye ye shalbe fayne
And never tourne agayne.
What wold Fraunces, our Friar,
Be suche a false lyar,
So madde a cordylar
So madde a murmurar?
Ye muse somwat to far
All out of joynt ye jar
God let you never thrive!
Wene ye, daucockes, to drive
Our Kyng, out of his reme
Ge heme, ranke Scot, ge heme
With fonde Fraunces, French Kyng.
Our mayster shall you brynge,
I trust, to lowe estate
And mate you with check mate.
Your braynes are ydell
It is time for you to brydell
And pype in a quibyble
For it is impossible
For you to bring about
Our Kyng for to drive out
Of this realme royall
And lande imperiall
So noble a Prince as he
In all actyvite
Of hardy merciall actes,
Fortunate in his fayctes.
And nowe I wyll me dresse
His valiaunce to expresse,
Though insufficient am I
His grace to magnify
And laude equivalently.
Howe be it loyally
After myne allegyaunce
My pen I will avaunce
To extoll his noble grace
In spyght of thy cowardes face,
In spyght of Kyng Fraunces,
Devoyde of all nobles,
Devoyde of good corage,
Devoyde of wysdome sage,
Mad, frantyke, and savage,
Thus he dothe disparage
His blode with fonde dotage.
A Prince to play the page
It is a rechelesse rage,
And a lunatyke overage.
What though my stile be rude?
With trouthe it is ennewde.
Trouth ought to be rescude;
Trouthe should nat be subdude.
But nowe will I expounde
What noblenesse dothe abounde,
And what honour is founde,
And what vertues be resydent,
In our royall regent,
Our pereless president,
Our Kyng most excellent.
In merciall prowes
Lyke unto Hercules,
In prudence and wysdom
Lyke unto Salamon,
In his goodly person
Lyke unto Absolon ,
In loyalte and foy
Lyke to Ector of Troy,
And his glory to incres
Lyke to Scipiades,
In royal mageste
Lyke unto Ptholome,
Lyke to Duke Josue
And the valiaunt Machube,
That if I wolde reporte
All the royall sorte
Of his nobilyte,
His magnanymyte,
His animosite,
His frugalite,
His lyberalite,
His affabilite,
His humanyte,
His stabilite,
His humilite,
His benignite,
His royall dignyte,
My lernyng is to small
For to recount them all.
What losels than are ye
Lyke cowardes as ye be
To rayle on his astate
With wordes inordinate?
He rules his cominalte
With all benignite.
His noble baronage
He putteth them in corage
To exployte dedes of armys
To the domage and harmys
Of suche as be his foos
Wherever he rydes or goos.
His subjectes he dothe supporte,
Maintayne them with comforte
Of his most princely porte,
As all men can reporte.
Than ye be a knappishe sorte
Et faitez a luy grant torte,
With your enbosed jawes
To rayle on hym lyke dawes;
the fende scrache out your mawes!
All his subjectes and he
Moost lovyngly agre
With hole hart and true mynde,
They fynde his grace so kynde;
Wherwith he dothe them bynde
At all houres to be redy
With hym to lyve and dye,
And to spende their hart blode,
Their bodyes and their gode,
With hym, in all dystresse,
Alway in redynesse
To assyst his noble grace,
In spyght of thy cowardes face,
Moost false attaynted traytour,
And false forsworne faytour.
Avaunte, cowarde recrayed!
Thy pride shalbe alayd,
With Sir Fraunces of Fraunce
We shall pype you a daunce
Shall tourne you to myschauns.
I rede you, loke about;
For ye shalbe driven out
Of your lande in shorte space.
We will so folowe in the chace
That ye shall have no grace
For to tourne your face;
And thus, Sainct George to borowe,
Ye shall have shame and sorowe.
Lenvoy.
Go, lytell quayrye, quicky.
Shew them that shall you rede
How that ye are lykely
Over all the worlde to sprede.
The fals Scottes for dred,
With the Duke of Albany,
Beside the water of Twede
They fled full cowardly.
Though you Englishe be rude
Barreyne of eloquence,
Yet brevely to conclude,
Grounded is your sentence
On trouthe, under defence
Of all trewe Englyshemen,
This mater to credence
That I wrate with my pen.
Skelton Laureat: obsequious and loyal.
To my Lorde Cardynals right noble grace, &c.
Lenvoy.
Go, lyttle quayre, apace,
In moost humble wyse,
Before his noble grace
That caused you to devise
This lytel enterprise;
And hym moost lowly pray,
In his mynde to comprise
Those wordes his grace dyd saye
Of an ammas gray.
Je foy enterment
En sa bone grace
|
