*JOHNNY ARMSTRONGs last Goodnight:

EBBA ID: 31859

University of Glasgow Library Euing 151

http://ebba.english.ucsb.edu/ballad/31859/xml

 

JOHNNY ARMSTRONGs last Goodnight:

[D]eclaring how John Armstrong and his Eightscore Men, fought a bloody Battle with the

Scotch King at Edenborough. To a pretty Northern Tune.

Licensed and Entered according to Order.

IS there never a man in all Scotland,

from the highest estate to the lowest degree,

That can shew himself now before the King,

Scotland is so full of treachery?

 

Yes, there is a man in Westmorland,

and Jonny Armstrong they do him call,

He has no lands nor rents coming in,

yet he keeps eightscore men within his hall.

 

He has horse and harness for them all,

and goodly steeds that be milk-white,

With their goodly belts about their necks,

with hats and feeathers all alike.

 

The King he writes a loving letter,

and with his own hand so tenderly,

And hath sent it unto Jonny Armstrong,

to come and speak with him speedily.

 

When John he looked this letter upon,

good Lord he lookt as blith as a bird in a tree,

I was never before a King in my life,

my father, my grandfather, nor none of us three:

 

But seeing we must go before the King,

Lord, we will go most gallantly;

Ye shall every one have a velvet-coat,

laid down with golden laces three

 

And ye shall every one have a scarlet cloak

laid down with silver laces five,

With your golden belts about your necks,

with hats and brave feathers all alike.

 

But when John he went from Giltknock-hall,

the wind it blew hard, & full fast it did rain,

Now fare thee well thou Giltknock-hall,

I fear I shall never see thee again.

 

Now Jonny is to Edenborough gone,

with his eightscore men so gallantly,

And every one of them on a milk-white steed,

with their bucklers and swords hanging to their knee.

 

But when John came the King before,

with his eightscore men so gallant to see,

The King he movd his bonnet to him,

he thought he had been a King as well as he.

 

O pardon, pardon, my Soveraign Leige,

pardon for my eightscore men and me,

For my name it is Jonny Armstrong,

and a subject of yours, my Leige, said he.

 

Away with thee, thou false traytor,

no pardon will I grant to thee,

But to morrow morning by eight of the clock

I will hang up thy eightscore men and thee.

 

Then Jonny lookt over his left shoulder,

and to his merry men thus said he,

I have asked grace of a graceless face,

no pardon there is for you or me.

 

Then John pulld out his nut-brown sword,

and it was made of mettle so free,

Had not the King movd his foot as he did,

John had taken his head from his fair body.

 

Come follow me my merry men all,

we will scorn one foot for to flye,

It shall ner be said we were hung like dogs,

we will fight it out so manfully.

 

Then they fought on like champions bold,

for their hearts were sturdy, stout and free,

Till they had killed all the Kings good guard,

there was none left alive but two or three.

 

But then rose up all Edenborough,

they rose up by thousands three,

A cowarly Scot came John behind,

and run him thorow the fair body.

 

Said John, Fight on my merry men all,

I am a little wounded but am not slain.

I will lay me down for to bleed a while,

then Ill rise and fight with you again.

 

Then they fought on like mad men all,

till many a man lay dead upon the plain,

For they were resolved before they would yeild,

that every man would there be slain:

 

So there they fought couragiously,

till most of them lay dead there and slain,

But little Musgrove that was his foot-page,

with his bonny grissel got away untain.

 

But when he came to Guiltknock-hall,

the Lady spied him presently,

What news, what news, thou little foot-page,

what news from thy Master and his company?

 

My news is bad, Lady he said,

which I do bring, as you may see,

My Master Jonny Armstrong is slain,

and all his gallant company.

 

Yet thou art welcome home my bonny Grissel,

full oft thou hast been fed with corn and hay

But now thou shalt be fed with bread and wine

and thy sides shall be spurd no more, I say.

 

O then bespake his little son,

as he sat on his nurses knee,

If ever I live to be a man,

my fathers death revengd shall be.

 

 

London: Printed for and by W.O. and sold by the Booksellers of Pye-corner and London-brig

 

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