XVII.

Aryse zoung knicht, and mount zour steid, Full lowns the shynand day, Cheis frae my menzie quhom ze pleis, To leid ze on the way.

With smyless luke, and visage wan, The wounded knicht reply'd, Kynd chiftain, zour intent pursue, For here I maun abyde.

XVIII.

To me nae after day nor nicht, Can eir be sweit or fair, But sune beneath sum draping tree, Cauld death sall end my care.

With him nae pleiding micht prevail, Brave HARDYKNUTE in to gain, With fairest words and reason strong, Strave courteously in vain.

XIX.

Syne he has gane far hynd attowre, Lord CHATTANS land sae wyde, That lord a worthy wicht was ay, Quhen faes his courage seyd: Of Pictish race by mothers syde, Quhen Picts ruld Caledon, Lord CHATTAN claimd the princely maid, Quhen he saift Pictish crown.

XX.

Now with his serfs and stalwart train, He reicht a rysing heicht, Quhair braid encampit on the dale, Norss menzie lay in sicht; Zonder my valiant sons and serfs, Our raging revers wait, On the unconquerit Scottish swaird, To try with us thair fate.

XXI.

Mak orisons to him that saift Our sauls upon the rude, Syne braifly schaw zour veins ar filld With Caledonian blude.

Then furth he drew his trusty glaive, Quhyle thousands all arround, Drawn frae their sheaths glanst in the sun, And loud the bougills sound.

XXII.

To join his king adoun the hill In hast his merch he made, Quhyle, playand pibrochs, minstralls meit Afore him stately strade; Thryse welcome, valziant stoup of weir, Thy nations scheild and pryde; Thy king nae reason has to feir Quhen thou art by his syde.

XXIII.

Quhen bows were bent and darts were thrawn, For thrang scarce could they flie, The darts clove arrows as they met, The arrows dart the trie.

Lang did they rage and ficht full ferss, With little skaith to man, But bludy, bludy was the field, Or that lang day was done.

XXIV.

The king of Scots that findle bruik'd The war that luikd like play, Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow, Sen bows seimt but delay: Quoth n.o.ble ROTHSAY, myne I'll keip, I wate its bleid a skore.

Hast up my merry men, cryd the king, As he rade on before.

XXV.

The king of Norse he socht to find, With him to mense the faucht, But on his forehead there did licht A sharp unsonsie shaft; As he his hand put up to find The wound, an arrow kene, O waefou chance! there pinnd his hand In midst betwene his ene.

XXVI.

Revenge, revenge, cryd ROTHSAYS heir, Your mail-coat sall nocht byde The strength and sharpness of my dart; Then sent it through his syde: Another arrow weil he markd, It persit his neck in twa, His hands then quat the silver reins, His law as eard did fa.

XXVII.

Sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleids.

Again with micht he drew And gesture dreid his st.u.r.dy bow, Fast the braid arrow flew: Wae to the knicht he ettled at, Lament now quene ELGREID, Hie dames to wail zour darlings fall, His zouth and comely meid.

XXVIII.

Take aff, take aff his costly jupe (Of gold weil was it twynd, Knit lyke the fowlers net throuch quhilk His steilly harness shynd) Take NORSE, that gift frae me, and bid Him venge the blude it beirs; Say, if he face my bended bow, He sure nae weapon fears.

XXIX.

Proud NORSE with giant body tall, Braid shoulder and arms strong, Cryd, quhair is HARDYKNUTE sae famd, And feird at Britains throne?

Tho Britons tremble at his name, I sune sall make him wail, That eir my sword was made sae sharp, Sae saft his coat of mail.

x.x.x.

That brag his stout heart coud na byde.

It lent him zouthfou micht: I'm HARDYKNUTE this day, he cryd, To Scotlands king I hecht, To lay thee low at horses hufe, My word I mean to keip.

Syne with the first strake eir he strake, He garrd his body bleid.

x.x.xI.

NORSE ene like gray gosehawks staird wyld, He sicht with shame and spyte; Disgracd is now my far-famd arm That left thee power to stryke: Then gaif his head a blaw sae fell, It made him doun to stoup, As law as he to ladies usit, In courtly gyse to lout.

x.x.xII.

Full sune he reis'd his bent body, His bow he marvelld sair, Sen blaws till then on him but darrd As touch of FAIRLY fair: NORSE ferliet too as sair as he To se his stately luke, Sae sune as eir he strake a fae, Sae sune his lyfe he tuke.

x.x.xIII.

Quair lyke a fyre to hether set, Bauld THOMAS did advance, A st.u.r.dy fae with luke enragd Up towards him did prance; He spurd his steid throw thickest ranks The hardy zouth to quell Quha stude unmusit at his approach His furie to repel.

x.x.xIV.

That schort brown shaft sae meanly trimd, Lukis lyke poor Scotlands geir, But dreidfull seims the rusty point!

And loud he leuch in jeir.