Wikipedia
Syde, often in the past spelt Side, is a small village and civil parish in Gloucestershire, England. It lies in the Cotswolds, near the source of the River Frome, some six miles north west of Cirencester and seven miles east of Painswick.
There is a Church of England parish church called St Mary's.
The principal house is Syde Manor, a listed building which dates from the 16th and 17th centuries, built of stone rubble with a Cotswold stone roof and gables. Some of its mullioned windows have unusual three-centred arches at their heads. The front of the house which has the main entrance was added in the late 18th or early 19th century.
Usage examples of "syde".
In this sort I was houlden in an intrycate minde of doubts, at length ouercome withall kinde of greefes, my whole bodye trembling and languishinge vnder a broade and mightye Oke full of Acornes, standing in the middest of a spatious and large green meade, extending forth his thicke and leauie armes to make a coole shadowe, vnder whose bodye breathing I rested my selfe vppon the deawye hearbes, and lying vppon my left syde I drewe my breath in the freshe ayre more shortly betwixt my drye and wrinckled lips, then the weary running heart, pinched in the haunche and struck in the brest, not able any longer to beare vp his weighty head, or sustaine his body vpon his bowing knees, but dying prostrates himselfe.
More beginnith at the west syde of the mowth of Arlan and occupiethe all the lond unto the hedeland Sibrion, and therefro sowth awaye to the Corshe, by gesse a vii hundered myles, wherby the se is not ther of nature favorable nor no haven is or cumming yn meete for shippes.
Erl of MarrWith all his men in arms did ryse,Even frae Curgarf to Craigyvar:And down the syde of Don richt far,Angus and Mearns did all conveneTo fecht, or Donald came sae narThe ryall bruch of Aberdene.
That holde on that on syde the hathel auysed, As hit schemered and schon thur3 the schyre oke3.
And so bifel, that after the thridde cours Whil that htis kyng sit thus in his nobleye, Herknynge hise mynstrals hir thynges pleye Biforn hym at the bord deliciously, In at the halle dore al sodeynly Ther cam a knyght, upon a steede of bras, And in his hand a brood mirour of glas, Upon his thombe he hadde of gold a ryng, And by his syde a naked swerd hangyng.
Upon his arm he baar a gay bracer, And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler, And on that oother syde a gay daggere, Harneised wel, and sharpe as point of spere.
Yet therewith sore enrag'd, with sterne regardHer dreadfull weapon she to him addrest,Which on his helmet martelled so hard,That made him low incline his lofty crest,And bowd his battred visour to his brest:Wherewith he was so stund, that he n'ote ryde,But reeled to and fro from East to West:Which when his cruell enimy espyde,She lightly vnto him adioyned side to syde.
Whan that the monthe in which the world bigan That highte March, whan God first maked man, Was compleet, and passed were also Syn March bigan, thritty dayes and two, Bifel that Chauntecleer in al his pryde, Hise sevene wyves walkynge by his syde, Caste up hise eyen to the brighte sonne, That in the signe of Taurus hadde yronne Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat moore.
I blame hym thus, that he considereth noght In tyme comynge what hym myghte bityde, But in his lust present was al his thoght, As for to hauke and hunte on every syde.
For which anon duc Theseus leet crye, To stynten alle rancour and envye, The gree, as wel of o syde as of oother, And eyther syde ylik as ootheres brother, And yaf hem yiftes after hir degree, And fully heeld a feeste dayes three, And convoyed the kynges worthily Out of his toun a journee, largely.
Ther is, at the west syde of Ytaille, Doun at the roote of Vesulus the colde, A lusty playne, habundant of vitaille, Where many a tour and toun thou mayst biholde That founded were in tyme of fadres olde, And many another delitable sighte, And Saluces this noble contree highte.
Wherfore sir Monk, or daun Piers by youre name, I pray yow hertely, telle us somwhat elles, For sikerly, nere clynkyng of youre belles That on your bridel hange on every syde, By hevene kyng, that for us alle dyde, I sholde er this han fallen doun for sleepe, Althogh the slough had never been so deepe.