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I overcame him in the feild,

And slewe him soone right valliantlye ; Wherebye this land I did redeeme

From Danish tribute utterlye.

85

And afterwards I offered upp

The use of weapons solemnlye At Winchester, whereas I fought,

In sight of manye farr and nye.

90

• But first,' neare Winsor, I did slaye

A bore of passing might and strength; Whose like in England never was

For hugenesse both in bredth and length.

Some of his bones in Warwicke yett

Within the castle there doe lye : One of his sheeld-bones to this day

Hangs in the citye of Coventrye.

95

On Dunsmore heath I alsoe slewe

A monstrous wyld and cruell beast, Calld the Dun-cow of Dunsmore heath;

Which manye people had opprest.

100

Some of her bones in Warwicke yett

Still for a monument doe lye ; And there exposed to lookers viewe

As wonderous strange, they may espye.

Ver. 94. 102. doth lye. MS.

A dragon

105

A dragon in Northumberland

I alsoe did in fight destroye,
Which did bothe man and beast oppresse,

And all the countrye sore annoye.

At length to Warwicke I did come,

Like pilgrim poore, and was not knowne; 110 And there I lived a hermitts life

A mile and more out of the towne.

Where with my hands I hewed a house

Out of a craggy rocke of stone; And lived like a palmer poore

Within that cave myself alone :

115

castle gate;

And daylye came to begg my bread

Of Phelis att my
Not knowne unto my loved wiffe,

Who dailye mourned for her mate.

120

Till att the last I fell sere sicke,

Yea sicke soe sore that I must dye; I sent to her a ring of golde,

By which shee knew me presentlye.

125

Then shee repairing to the cave

Before that I gave up the ghost; Herself closd up my dying eyes :

My Phelis faire, whom I lovd most.

Thus 130

Thus dreadful death did me arrest,

To bring my corpes unto the grave; And like a palmer dyed I,

Wherby I sought my soule to save.

My body that endured this toyle,

Though now it be consumed to mold;
My statue faire engraven in stone,
In Warwicke still you may

behold.

135 II.

GUY AND AMARANT.

The Editor found this Poem in his ancient folio manuscript among the old ballads; he was desirous, therefore, that it should still accompany them; and as it is not altogether devoid of merit, its insertion here will be pardoned.

Although this piece seems not imperfect, there is reason to believe that it is only a part of a much larger poem, which contained the whole history of sir Guy: for, upon comparing it with the common story book 12mo, we find the latter to be nothing more than this poem reduced to prose : which is only effected by now and then altering the rhyme, and throwing out some few of the poetical ornaments. The disguise is so slight, that it is an easy matter to pick complete stanzas in any page of that book.

The author of this poem has shown some invention. Though he took the subject from the old romance quoted before, he has adorned it afresh, and made the story intirely his own.

Guy journeyes towards that sanctifyed ground,

Whereas the Jewes fayre citye sometime stood,
Wherin our Saviours sacred head was crow

ownd,
And where for sinfull man he shed his blood:
To see the sepulcher was his intent,
The tombe that Joseph unto Jesus lent.

5

With tedious miles he tyred his wearye

feet, And passed desart places full of danger, At last with a most woefull wight* did meet,

A man that unto sorrow was noe stranger: For he had fifteen sonnes, made captives all To slavish bondage, in extremest thrall.

10

A gyant called Amarant detaind them,

Whom noe man durst encounter for his strength: Who in a castle, which he held, had chaind them :

15 Guy questions, where? and understands at length The place not farr.–Lend me thy sword, quoth hee, Ile lend my manhood all thy sonnes to free.

20

:

With that he goes, and lays upon the dore,

Like one that sayes, I must, and will come in : The gyant never was soe rowz'd before :

For noe such knocking at his gate had bin : Soe takes his keyes, and clubb, and cometh out Staring with ireful countenance about.

25

Sirra, quoth hee, what busines hast thou heere ?
Art come to feast the crowes about

my

walls? Didst never heare, noe ransome can him cleere,

That in the compasse of my furye falls :
For making me to take a porters paines,
With this same clubb I will dash out thy braines.

30

Erle Jonas, mentioned in the foregoing ballad.

Gyant,

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