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It is not strength that always wins,
For wit does strength excell;
Which made our cunning champion

Creep down into a well;

Where he did think, this dragon would drink,

And so he did in truth;

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And as he stoop'd low, he rose up, and cried, Boh!” And hit him in the mouth.

Oh, (quoth the dragon,) pox take thee, come out, Thou that disturb'st me in my drink :'—

And then he turn'd, and s—t at him;

Goodlack how he did stink!

Beshrew thy soul, thy body's foul,

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Thy dung smells not like balsam;

Thou son of a whore, thou stink'st so sore,

'Sure thy diet is unwholesome.'

Our politic knight, on the other side,
Crept out upon the brink,

And gave the dragon such a douse,

He knew not what to think.

By cock, (quoth he,) say you so; do you see?

And then at him he let fly,

With hand and with foot, and so they went to't;

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And the word it was, Hey boys, hey!'

Your words, (quoth the dragon,) I don't understand?'

Then to it they fell at all,

Like two wild boars so fierce, I may

Compare great things with small.

Two days and a night, with this dragon did fight

Our champion on the ground;

Though their strength it was great, yet their skill it was neat,

They never had one wound.

At length the hard earth began for to quake,

The dragon gave him such a knock,

Which made him to reel, and straightway he thought,

To lift him as high as a rock,

And thence let him fall: but More of More-Hall,

Like a valiant son of Mars,

As he came like a lout, so he turn'd him about,
And hit him a kick on the a-e.

Oh! (quoth the dragon, with a deep sigh,
And turn'd six times together,
Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing
Out of his throat of leather :)

'More of More-Hall! O thou rascàl!

'Would I had seen thee never;

With the thing at thy foot, thou hast prick'd my a--e

gut,

And I'm quite undone for ever.

'Murder, murder, (the dragon cried,)

Alack, alack, for grief;

'Had you but miss'd that place, you could

'Have done me no mischief.'

Then his head he shak'd, trembled and quak'd,

And down he laid and cried;

First on one knee, then on back tumbled he,
So groan'd, 'kick'd, s-t, and died.

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BALLAD XXII.

SIR ANDREW BARTON.*

WHEN Flora with her fragrant flowers
Bedeck'd the earth, so trim and gay,
And Neptune with his dainty showers
Came to present the month of May,
King Henry would a progress ride;
Over the river of Thames pass'd he,
Unto a mountain-top also

Did walk, some pleasure for to see;

Where forty merchants he espied,
With fifty sail come towards him,
Who then no sooner were arriv'd,

But on their knees did thus complain :
'An't please your grace, we cannot sail
'To France, a voyage, to be sure;
But sir Andrew Barton makes us quail,
And robs us of our merchant-ware.'

Vex'd was the king, and turning him,

Said to his lords of high degree,

Have I ne'er a lord within my realm,
'Dare fetch that traitor unto me?'

To him replied Lord Charles Howard,
'I will, my liege with heart and hand,
'If it please you grant me leave he said,

'I will perform what you command.'

*The story of this ballad is to be found in most of the English chronicles under the year 1511.

To him then spake king Henry,

'I fear, my lord, you are too young.' 'No whit at all, my liege, (quoth he,)

'I hope to prove in valour strong. 'The Scottish knight I vow to seek, 'In what place soe'er he be, 'And bring ashore with all his might,

Or into Scotland he shall carry me.'

A hundred men, (the king then said,) 'Out of my realm shall chosen be; 'Besides sailors and ship-boys,

'To guide a great ship on the sea; 'Bowmen and gunners of good skill, Shall for this service chosen be; And they, at thy command and will, In all affairs shall wait on thee.'

Lord Howard call'd a gunner then,
Who was the best in all the realm;
His age was threescore years and ten,
And Peter Simon was his name:
My lord call'd then a bowman rare,
Whose active hands had gained fame,

A gentleman born in Yorkshîre,
And William Horsely was his name.

Horsely, (quoth he,) I must to sea,

To seek a traitor with good speed, "Of a hundred bowmen brave, (quoth he,) 'I have chosen thee to be the head.'

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you, my lord, have chosen me

Of a hundred men to be the head,

'Upon the main-mast I'll hanged be,

'If twelve score I miss one shilling's breadth.

Lord Howard then, of courage bold,

Went to the sea with pleasant chear; Not curb'd with winter's piercing cold, Though 'twas the stormy time of year. Not long he had been on the sea,

No more in days than number three, But one Henry Hunt there he espied, A merchant of Newcastle was he,

To him Lord Howard call'd out amain,
And strictly charged him to stand;
Demanding then from whence he came,
Or where he did intend to land?
The merchant then made answer soon,
With heavy heart, and careful mind,
'My lord, my ship it doth belong
Unto Newcastle-upon-Tine.'

'Can'st thou show me, (the lord did say,)
'As thou did'st sail by day and night,
A Scottish rover on the sea,

'His name is Andrew Barton, knight?'
At this the merchant sigh'd and said,
With grieved mind and well-away,
'But over-well I know that knight,
I was his prisoner yesterday.

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'As I, my lord, did sail from France,
A Bourdeaux voyage to take so far,
'I met with Sir Andrew Barton thence,
Who rob'd me of my merchant-ware;

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