Sir Roger Robsart of Devon--oh, ay, 'tis him of whom minstrels sing to this hour,-- 'He was the flower of Stoke's red field, When Martin Swart on ground lay slain; In raging rout he never reel'd, But like a rock did firm remain.' [This verse, or something similar, occurs in a long ballad, or poem, on Flodden Field, reprinted by the late Henry Weber.] "Ay, and then there was Martin Swart I have heard my grandfather talk of, and of the jolly Almains whom he commanded, with their slashed doublets and quaint hose, all frounced with ribands above the nether-stocks.

Here's a song goes of Martin Swart, too, an I had but memory for it:-- 'Martin Swart and his men, Saddle them, saddle them, Martin Swart and his men; Saddle them well.'" [This verse of an old song actually occurs in an old play where the singer boasts, "Courteously I can both counter and knack Of Martin Swart and all his merry men."] "True, good mine host--the day was long talked of; but if you sing so loud, you will awake more listeners than I care to commit my confidence unto." "I crave pardon, my worshipful guest," said mine host, "I was oblivious.
When an old song comes across us merry old knights of the spigot, it runs away with our discretion." "Well, mine host, my grandfather, like some other Cornishmen, kept a warm affection to the House of York, and espoused the quarrel of this Simnel, assuming the title of Earl of Warwick, as the county afterwards, in great numbers, countenanced the cause of Perkin Warbeck, calling himself the Duke of York.

My grandsire joined Simnel's standard, and was taken fighting desperately at Stoke, where most of the leaders of that unhappy army were slain in their harness.

The good knight to whom he rendered himself, Sir Roger Robsart, protected him from the immediate vengeance of the king, and dismissed him without ransom.

But he was unable to guard him from other penalties of his rashness, being the heavy fines by which he was impoverished, according to Henry's mode of weakening his enemies.