A Lamentable Ballad of a Combate lately perfor-
med neer London, between Sir James Steward, and Sir George Wharton Knights:
who were both slain at that time.
Tune is, Down Plumpton Park, etc.
|
IT grieves my heart to tell the woe,
|
neer London late befall.
|
On Martlemas Eve, O woe is me,
|
I grieve the chance and ever shall:
|
Of two right gallant Gentlemen,
|
who very rashly fell at words,
|
But to their quarrel could not fall,
|
till they fell both by their keen swords.
|
The one was Sir George Wharton cald,
|
the good Lord Whartons Son and Heir,
|
The other Sir James a Scottish Knight,
|
a man that a valiant heart did bear:
|
Neer to the Court these Gallants stout,
|
fell out as they in gaming were;
|
And in their fury grew so hot,
|
they hardly could from blows forbear.
|
Nay, kind intreaties could not stay,
|
Sir James from striking in that place,
|
For in the height and heat of blood
|
he struck young Wharton ore the face:
|
What dost thou mean, said Wharton then,
|
to strike in such unmanly sort,
|
That I will take it at thy hand,
|
the tongue of man shall ner Report.
|
Why, do thy worst then said Sir James,
|
and mark me Wharton what I say;
|
Theres ner a Lord in England breaths,
|
shall make me give an inch of way.
|
This brags too brave, stout Wharton said,
|
let our large English Lords alone,
|
And talk with me that am your foe,
|
for thou shalt find enough of one.
|
Alas Sir! said the Scottish Knight,
|
thy blood and minds too base for me,
|
Thy oppositions be too bold
|
and will thy dire destruction be:
|
Nay, said young Wharton you mistake,
|
my courage and valour equals thine,
|
To makt apparent, cast thy Glove,
|
to gage to try as I do mine.
|
I said Sir James hast thou such spirit,
|
I did not think within thy breast,
|
That such a haughty daring heart
|
as thou makst shew of ere could Rest.
|
I enterchange my Glove with thee,
|
take it and point thy bed of death,
|
The field I mean where we must fight,
|
and one for both lose life and breath.
|
Wel meet neer whaltham, said sir George
|
to morrow that shall be the day,
|
Wel either take a single man,
|
and try who bears the bell away.
|
This done, together hands they shook,
|
and without any envious sign,
|
They went to Ludgate, where they staid,
|
and drank each man his pint of wine.
|
NO kind of anger could be seen,
|
no words of malice might bewray
|
But all was fair, as calm, as cool,
|
as Love within their bosome lay:
|
Till parting time, and then indeed,
|
they shewd some rancor of their heart:
|
George, said sir James, when next we meet
|
so sound I know we shall not part.
|
And so they parted both Resolvd
|
to have their Valor fully t[r]yd:
|
The second part shall briefly show
|
both how they met, and how they dyd.
|
|
|
|
|
The second Part, to the
same Tune.
|
YOung wharton was the first that came,
|
to the appointed place the next day
|
Who presently spid Sir James comming
|
as fast as he could post away:
|
And being met in manly sort,
|
the Scottish Knight did to Wharton say
|
I do not like thy doublet George,
|
it sits so clear on thee today.
|
Hast thou no privy Armour on,
|
nor yet no privy coat of steel,
|
I ner saw Lord in all my Life,
|
become a doublet half so well.
|
Now nay, now nay, stout Wharton said,
|
Sir James Steward that may not be,
|
Ile not an armed man come hither,
|
and thou a naked man truly.
|
Our men shall strip our doublets George,
|
so shall we know whether of us Lye:
|
And then wel to our weapons sharp,
|
ourselves true Gallants for to try:
|
Then they stript off their doublets fair,
|
standing up in their shirts of Lawn,
|
Follow my counsel the Scotchman said,
|
and wharton to thee ile make known.
|
Now follow my counsel, ile follow thine,
|
and wel fight in our shirts (said he)
|
Now nay, now nay, young Wharton said
|
Sir James Steward that may not be,
|
Unless we were drunkards and quarrellers
|
that had no care of our sell,
|
Nor caring what we go about,
|
or whether our souls go to heaven or hel.
|
Wel first to God bequeath our souls,
|
then next our Corps to dust and clay,
|
With that stout Wharton was the first,
|
took Rapier and Poniard there that day.
|
Seven thrusts in turns these gallants had
|
before one drop of blood was drawn:
|
The Scottish Knight then speak valiantly
|
stout Wharton still thou holdst thy own.
|
With the next thrust that Wharton thrust
|
he ran him through the shoulder bone:
|
The next was through the thick oth thigh
|
thinking he had the Scotch Kt. slain.
|
Then wharton said to the Scottish Knight
|
are you a living man? tell me,
|
If there be a Surgeon in England can,
|
he shall cure your wounds right speedily.
|
Now nay, now nay, the Scotch Knight said,
|
Sir George wharton that may not be,
|
The one of us shall the other kill,
|
ere off this ground that we do flie:
|
Then in a maze Sir George lookt back,
|
to see what company was nigh;
|
They both had dangerous marks of death,
|
yet neither would from other flie.
|
But both through body wounded sore,
|
with courage lusty strong and sound:
|
They made a deadly desperate close,
|
and both fe[l]l dead unto the ground.
|
Our English Knight was first that fell,
|
the Scottish Knight fell immediately,
|
Who cryed both to Jesus Christ,
|
receive our souls, O Lord we die.
|
God bless our Noble King and Queen,
|
and all the Noble Progeny:
|
That Brittain all may live in one,
|
in perfect love and unity.
|
Thus to conclude I make an end,
|
wishing that quarrels still may cease:
|
And that we still may live in love,
|
in prosperous state, in joy and peace.
|
|
|
|
|