59v]    5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 60v] 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 61r] 165 170 175 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 61v] 226 230

Lystneth, lordynges! A newe song Ichulle bigynne Of the traytours of Scotlond that take beth wyth gynne.      Mon that loveth falsnesse ant nule never blynne Sore may him drede the lyf that he is ynne,            Ich understonde.       Selde wes he glad       That never nes asad       Of nythe ant of onde. That Y sugge by this Scottes that bueth nou todrawe, The heuedes o Londone Brugge, whose con yknawe. He wenden han buen kynges, ant seiden so in sawe; Betere hem were han ybe barouns ant libbe in Godes lawe            Wyth love.       Whose hateth soth ant ryht       Lutel he douteth Godes myht,       The heye kyng above. To warny alle the gentilmen that bueth in Scotlonde, The Waleis wes todrawe, seththe he was anhonge, Al quic biheueded, ys boweles ybrend. The heued to Londone Brugge wes send            To abyde.       After Simond Frysel,       That wes traytour ant fykel       Ant ycud ful wyde. Sire Edward, oure kyng, that ful ys of piete, The Waleis quarters sende to is oune contre On four half to honge, huere myrour to be Theropon to thenche, that monie myhten se            Ant drede.       Why nolden he be war,       Of the bataile of Donbar,       Hou evele hem con spede? Bysshopes ant barouns come to the kynges pes, Ase men that weren fals, fykel, ant les; Othes hue him sworen in stude ther he wes, To buen him hold ant trewe for alles cunnes res,            Thrye,       That hue ne shulden ageyn him go.       So hue were “temed” tho.       Weht halt hit to lye? To the Kyng Edward hii fasten huere fay — Fals wes here foreward so forst is in May, That sonne from the southward wypeth away! Moni proud Scot therof mene may,            To yere.       Nes never Scotlond       With dunt of monnes hond       Allinge aboht so duere! The Bisshop of Glascou, Ychot he was ylaht; The Bisshop of Seint Andre, bothe, he beth ycaht; The Abbot of Scon with the kyng nis nout saht. Al here purpos ycome hit ys to naht,            Thurh ryhte.       Hii were unwis       When hii thohte pris       Ageyn huere kyng to fyhte. Thourh consail of thes bisshopes ynemned byfore, Sire Robert the Bruyts furst kyng wes ycore. He mai everuche day ys fon him se byfore — Yef hee mowen him hente, Ichot he bith forlore            Sauntz fayle!       Soht forte sugge,       Duere he shal abugge       That he bigon batayle. Hii that him crounede proude were ant bolde. Hii maden Kyng of Somere, so hii ner ne sholde; Hii setten on ys heued a croune of rede golde, Ant token him a kyneyerde, so me kyng sholde,            To deme.       Tho he wes set in see,       Lutel god couthe he       Kyneriche to yeme. Nou Kyng Hobbe in the mures yongeth; Forte come to toune nout him ne longeth. The barouns of Engelond, myhte hue him gripe, He him wolde techen on Englysshe to pype            Thourh streynthe.       Ne be he ner so stout,       Yet he bith ysoht out       O brede ant o leynthe. Sire Edward of Carnarvan (Jesu him save ant see!) Sire Emer de Valence, gentil knyht ant free, Habbeth ysuore huere oht that, par la grace Dee, Hee wolleth ous delyvren of that false contree,            Yef hii conne.       Muche hath Scotlond forlore —       Whet alast, whet bifore —       Ant lutel pris wonne. Nou Ichulle fonge ther Ich er let, Ant tellen ou of Frisel, ase Ich ou byhet. In the batayle of Kyrkenclyf, Frysel wes ytake (Ys continaunce abatede eny bost to make)            Biside Strivelyn —       Knyhtes ant sweynes,       Fremen ant theynes,       Monye with hym. So hii weren byset on everuche halve. Somme slaye were, ant somme dreynte hemselve. Sire Johan of Lyndeseye nolde nout abyde: He wod into the water, his feren him bysyde,            To adrenche.       Whi nolden hii be war?       Ther nis non ageyn star.       Why nolden hy hem bythenche? This wes byfore Seint Bartholomeus Masse, That Frysel wes ytake, were hit more other lasse. To Sire Thomas of Multoun, gentil baroun ant fre, Ant to Sire Johan Jose bytake tho wes he            To honde.       He wes yfetered weel,       Bothe with yrn ant wyth steel,       To bringen of Scotlonde. Sone therafter the tydynge to the kyng com. He him sende to Londone with mony armed grom; He com yn at Newegate, Y telle yt ou aplyht; A gerland of leves on ys hed ydyht,            Of grene.       For he shulde ben yknowe       Bothe of heye ant of lowe       For treytour, Y wene. Yfetered were ys legges under his horse wombe; Bothe with yrn ant with stel mankled were ys honde; A gerland of peruenke set on ys heued; Muche wes the poer that him wes byreved            In londe.       So God me amende,       Lutel he wende       So be broht in honde. Sire Herbert of Morham, feyr knyht ant bold, For the love of Frysel ys lyf wes ysold. A wajour he made, so hit wes ytold, Ys heued of to smhyte yef me him brohte in hold,            Wat so bytyde.       Sory wes he thenne,       Tho he myhte him kenne       Thourh the toun ryde. Thenne seide ys scwyer a word anon-ryht: “Sire, we beth dede; ne helpeth hit no wyht!” (Thomas de Boys the scwyer wes to nome.) “Nou Ychot oure wajour turneth ous to grome,            So Y bate!”       Y do ou to wyte,       Here heued was ofsmyte       Byfore the Tour gate. This wes on Oure Levedy Even, for sothe, Ych understonde;    The justices seten for the knyhtes of Scotlonde: Sire Thomas of Multoun, an hendy knyht ant wys, Ant Sire Rauf of Sondwyche, that muchel is told in pris,            Ant Sire Johan Abel.       Mo Y mihte telle by tale,       Bothe of grete ant of smale —       Ye knowen suythe wel. Thenne saide the justice, that gentil is ant fre: “Sire Simond Frysel, the kynges traytour hast thou be, In water ant in londe, that monie myhten se. What sayst thou thareto? Hou wolt thou quite the?            Do say.”       So foul he him wiste,       Nede waron truste       Forto segge nay. Ther he wes ydemed so hit wes londes lawe: For that he wes lordswyke, furst he wes todrawe, Upon a retheres hude forth he wes ytuht — Sumwhile in ys time he wes a modi knyht            In huerte.       Wickednesse ant sunne       Hit is lutel wunne;       That maketh the body smerte. For al is grete poer, yet he was ylaht — Falsnesse ant swykedom, al hit geth to naht! Tho he wes in Scotlond, lutel wes ys thoht Of the harde jugement that him wes bysoht            In stounde.       He wes four sithe forswore       To the kyng ther bifore,       Ant that him brohte to grounde. With feteres ant with gyves Ichot he wes todrawe, From the Tour of Londone, that monie myhte knowe, In a curtel of burel, a selkethe wyse, Ant a gerland on ys heued, of the newe guyse,            Thurh Cheepe.       Moni mon of Engelond,       Forto se Symond,       Thideward con lepe. Tho he com to galewes, furst he was anhonge, Al quic, byheueded (thah him thohte longe); Seththe he was yopened, is boweles ybrend, The heued to Londone Brugge wes send,            To shonde.       So Ich ever mote the,       Sumwhile wende he       Ther lutel to stonde. He rideth thourh the site, as Y telle may, With gomen ant wyth solas, that wes here play, To Londone Brugge hee nome the way. Moni wes the wyves chil that theron loketh a day,            Ant seide: “Alas,       That he wes ibore,       Ant so villiche forlore,       So feir mon ase he was!” Nou stont the heued above the tu-brugge, Faste bi Waleis, soth forte sugge, After socour of Scotlond longe he mowe prye, Ant after help of Fraunce. Wet halt hit to lye?            Ich wene       Betere him were in Scotlond       With is ax in ys hond       To pleyen o the grene. Ant the body hongeth at the galewes faste With yrnene claspes, longe to laste. Forte wyte wel the body, ant Scottyshe to gaste, Foure ant tuenti ther beoth, to sothe ate laste,            By nyhte —       Yef eny were so hardi       The body to remuy —       Al so to dyhte. Were Sire Robert the Bruyts ycome to this londe, Ant the Erl of Asseles, that hardé is an honde, Alle the other pouraille, for sothe, Ich understonde, Mihten be ful blythe ant thonke Godes sonde,            With ryhte:       Thenne myhte uch mon       Bothe riden ant gon       In pes, withoute vyhte. The traytours of Scotlond token hem to rede The barouns of Engelond to brynge to dede; Charles of Fraunce, so moni mon tolde, With myht ant with streynthe hem helpe wolde —            His thonkes!       Tprot! Scot! For thi strif!       Hang up thyn hachet ant thi knyf!       Whil him lasteth the lyf       With the longe shonkes!

Listen, lords! I'll begin a new song About the traitors of Scotland captured by craft.      One who loves treachery and won’t ever quit May bitterly fear the life that he’s in,            I’m certain.       Seldom was he merry       Who was never content       For malice and for envy. I speak of these Scotsmen who’ve now been dismembered, Their heads on London Bridge, for anyone to recognize. They planned to be kings, and said so in speech; Better for them to have been barons and live in God’s law            With love.       Whoever hates truth and right       Little fears God’s power,       The high king above. To warn all the nobles who dwell in Scotland, The Wallace was dismembered, then he was hanged, Beheaded while alive, his bowels burned. The head was sent to London Bridge            To abide.       Afterwards Simon Fraser,       Who was traitor and dangerous       And known very widely. Sir Edward, our king, who’s full of piety, Sent the quarters of Wallace to his own country To hang in four regions, to be their mirror To reflect thereon, so that many might see            And feel dread.       Why wouldn’t they take warning,       By the battle of Dunbar,       How poorly they might fare? Bishops and barons came to the king’s peace, As men who were false, crafty, and untruthful; Oaths to him they swore in the place where he was, To be loyal and true to him in every kind of crisis,            At all times,       That they’d not go against him.       So then were they “tamed.”       What does it profit to lie? To King Edward they plight their faith — Their contract was as false as frost is in May, Which the sun from the south wipes away! Many a proud Scotsman may complain about that,            This year.       Never was Scotland       By dint of human hand       Bought altogether so dear! The Bishop of Glasgow, I know he was captured; The Bishop of St. Andrew, too, he is caught; The Abbot of Scone is not at peace with the king. Their entire plot has come to nothing,            By right.       They were unwise       When they thought it praiseworthy       To fight against their king. Through the counsel of these bishops named before, Sir Robert the Bruce first was chosen king. He may every day see his enemies before him — If they should capture him, I know he’ll be destroyed            Without fail!       To say the truth,       Dearly shall he pay       For having begun battle. They who crowned him were arrogant and bold. They made him King of Summer, as they never should; They set on his head a crown of red gold, And gave him a scepter as one should to a king,            By which to judge.       When he was set on throne,       Little good knew he       How to rule a kingdom. Now King Hob walks on the moors; It doesn’t suit him to come to town. The barons of England, if they might seize him, They would teach him to pipe in English            By force.       Though he be never so brave,       Yet he is hunted out       Far and wide. Sir Edward of Carnarvon (may Jesus save and protect him!) And Sir Aymer de Valence, fine knight and noble, Have sworn their oath that, by the grace of God, They will deliver us from that false country,            If they can.       Much has Scotland lost —       What in the end, what before —       And won little praise. Now I shall resume where I left off, And tell you about Fraser, as I promised you. In the battle of Kirkencliff, Fraser was captured (His countenance ceased to make any boast)            Near Stirling —       Knight and swains,       Freemen and thanes,       Many with him. Thus were they beset on every side. Some were slain and some drowned themselves. Sir John of Lindsay would not wait: He waded into the water, his companions beside him,            To drown.       Why wouldn’t they beware?       There is no opposing star.       Why wouldn’t they reflect? This was before St. Bartholomew’s Mass, That Fraser was captured, or thereabouts. To Sir Thomas of Multon, a fine and noble baron, And to Sir John Jose he was then delivered            Into custody.       He was well fettered,       Both with iron and steel,       To be brought out of Scotland. Sone thereafter the news came to the king. He sent him to London with many armed men; He entered Newgate prison, I tell you faithfully; A garland of leaves put on his head,            Of green,       Because he should be displayed       Before both high and low       As a traitor, I think. Fettered were his legs under his horse’s belly; Both with iron and steel his hands were manacled; A garland of periwinkle was set on his head; Great was the power that was taken from him            On earth.       As God may amend me,       Little did he expect       To be brought so into custody. Sir Herbert of Morham, a fair and bold knight, For the love of Fraser his life was sold. A wager he made, as it was told, To have his head cut off if they captured Fraser,            Whatever betide.       Sorry was he then,       When he might see him       Ride through the town. Then his squire spoke a word immediately: “Sir, we’re dead; there’s no creature to help us!” (Thomas de Bois was the squire’s name.) “Now I know that our wager brings us to harm,            So my courage ends!”       I give you to know,       Their heads were cut off       Before the Tower gate. This occurred on Our Lady’s Eve, indeed, I believe; The justices sat for the knights of Scotland: Sir Thomas of Multon, a courteous and wise knight, And Sir Ralph of Sandwich, who’s much praised in worth,            And Sir John Abel.       More I could disclose,       Both great and small —       You know very well. Then said the justice, who’s excellent and noble: “Sir Simon Fraser, you’ve been the king’s traitor, By water and by land, as many might see. How do you answer thereto? How acquit yourself?            Do respond.”       He knew himself to be so foul,       He had no reliable means       By which to say no. There he was judged according to the land’s law: Because he was traitor to his lord, first he was drawn, Upon an ox’s hide he was dragged forth — Once in his life he'd been a brave knight            In heart.       Wickedness and sin       Bring little gain;       They make the body smart. Despite all his great power, still he was taken — Falseness and treachery, it all turns to nothing! When he was in Scotland, little did he consider The hard judgment that was prepared for him            In a short time.       He was four times perjured       There before the king,       And that caused him to fall. With fetters and manacles I know he was dragged, From the Tower of London, so that many might be aware, In a tunic of sackcloth, in a strange manner, And a garland on his head, of the latest fashion,            Through Cheapside.       Many men of England,       In order to see Simon,       Began thither to rush. When he came to the gallows, first he was hanged, While alive, beheaded quickly (though it seemed to him long); Afterwards he was opened, his bowels burned, The head was sent to London Bridge,            To his disgrace.       As ever I may thrive,       Little had he once thought       To stand there. They ride through the city, as I may tell, With game and with fun, that was their play, To London Bridge they took their way. Many a woman’s child looks thereon by day,            And said: “Alas,       That he was born,       And so vilely undone,       So fair a man as he was!” Now the head stands above the drawbridge, Close by Wallace, to tell the truth, Long may they pray for relief from Scotland, And for help from France. What good’s it to lie?,            I suppose       It was better for him in Scotland       With his ax in his hand       To play on the green. And the body hangs fast on the gallows With iron clasps, long to last. To guard well the body and scare the Scottish, There are four and twenty, truly, at least,            By night —       Were any so hardy       As to remove the body —       Ready to attack. Were Sir Robert the Bruce to come to this land, And the Earl of Asceila, who’s strong of might, All the other poor people, truly, I understand, Might be very happy and thank God’s gift,            With good reason:       Then might every man       Both ride and go       In peace without fighting. The traitors of Scotland took counsel among themselves To bring the barons of England to death; Charles of France, as many a man said, Would help them with might and with strength —            Thanks to him!       Fah! Scot! For your strife!       Hang up your hatchet and your knife!       While life lasts to him       With the long shanks!

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