Jean de Waurin's Chronicle of England Volume 6 Books 3-6: The Wars of the Roses
Jean de Waurin was a French Chronicler, from the Artois region, who was born around 1400, and died around 1474. Waurin’s Chronicle of England, Volume 6, covering the period 1450 to 1471, from which we have selected and translated Chapters relating to the Wars of the Roses, provides a vivid, original, contemporary description of key events some of which he witnessed first-hand, some of which he was told by the key people involved with whom Waurin had a personal relationship.
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Metrical Legends of Northumberland is in Late Medieval Books.
The Legend of Percy's Cross
"FAIR morn betide thee, sire of this lonely glen,
"Fair morn betide thee, why stopp'st thou me?"
Up spoke the father then,
"Chief! in this lolely glen,
"Through the dark night hours I've tarried for thee.
"Chief! to the battle plain spur not thy charger,
"Far be from Hedgley thy pennon and plume!
"A vision comes o'er me,
"Hosts gather before me,
"The mighty rush on — but they rush to the tomb."
"Ho gallants! a Seer!" quoth the Lord of the crescent then,
"Knight and squire, page and groom, reck ye the rede?
"The voice of a stranger
"Warns PERCY from danger,
"Fly, fly we like cravens — spur palfrey and steed!"
"Ha!" cried the wizard then, " spurnest thou my counsel?
"Yet again, and but once, list the voice thou hast scorned,
"Trust not the Ross's word,
"Shun the dark Hungerford,
"Fly the proud Montacute — Chief! thou art warned."
"On," said the PERCY, "and heed not the dreamer, "
Burst like a storm on the rebels' array!
"Accurst be the omen
"Parts foeman from foeman,
"Stout hearts for the red roses! — spur and away!"
Darkly they serried their lines on the desert heath,
Darkly they closed, and the battle raged high;
Rung on the sighing gale
Many a dying wail;
Steel clash'd on hauberk — shafts darken'd the sky.
Many a goodly steed masterless galloped there,
Many a rider lay reeking in gore,
Many a bloody hand
Plied the red bill and brand,
Many a knight fell to rise never more!
Chieftains on chieftains rush — lo! where the proudest fight,
Whose barb through the phalanx bounds fearless and first—
n his banner far streaming
The crescent is gleaming,
And fiercely his bands through the serried links burst.
Ha! quenched is the crescent's light — lo! where he bleeding lies!
True were the words he recklessly braved;
Mark ye his glazing eye,
List ye his dying cry!
"Triumph! the bird in my bosom I've saved."