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 ferfs,

With little faith to man,

But bludy bludy was the field,

Or that lang day was done.

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The king of Scots, that findle bruikd

185

The war that luikt lyke play,

Drew his braid fword, and brake his bow,

Sen bows feimt but delay.

Quoth noble Rothfay, "Myne i'll keip,

I wate its bleid a skore."

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Haft up my merry men, cryd the king,

The wound, an arrow kene,

O waefou chance! there pinnd his hand

In midft betwene his ene.

200

"Revenge, revenge, cryd Rothfays heir,
Your mail-coat fall nocht byde
The ftrength and fharpness of my dart :"

Then fent it thruch his fyde...
Another arrow weil he markd,

It perfit his neck in twa,

His hands then quat the filver reins,
He law as eard did fa.

Sair bleids my liege, fair, fair he bleids!"
Again with micht he drew

And gefture dreid his sturdy bow,

Faft the braid arrow flew :

Wae to the knicht he ettled at,

Lament now quene Elgreid,

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210

Hie dames' to wail zour darlings fall,
His zouth and comely meid.

215

"Take aff, take aff his coftly jupe
(Of gold weil was it twynd,

Knit lyke the fowlers net throuch quhilk
His fteilly harness shynd)

Take, Norfe, that gift frae me, and bid

Him venge the blude it beirs ;

Say, if he face my bended bow,
He fure nae weapon feirs."

VOL. II.

220

Proud Norfe with giant body tall,

Braid fhoulder and arms ftrong,

Cryd, "Quhair is Hardyknute fae famd,

And feird at Britains throne :

225

Norfe ene lyke gray gofehawke ftaird wyld,

He ficht with fhame and spyte;
"Difgrac'd is now my far-famd arm
That left thee power to ftryke :"
Then gaif his head a blaw fae fell,

It made him doun to ftoup,
As law as he to ladies ufit

In courtly gyfe to lout.

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Fall

"That fchort brown fhaft fae meanly trimd, 265

Lukis lyke poor Scotlands geir,

But dreidfull feims the rufty poynt!"
And loud he leuch in jeir.

"Aft Britons blude has dimd its shyne;

This poynt cut short their vaunt :" Syne piercd the boifteris bairded cheik,

Nae týme he tuke to taunt.

H 2

270

Schort

Schort quhyle he in his fadill fwang,

His ftirrup was nae stay,

Sae feible hang his unbent knee

Sure taken he was fey :

Swith on the hardened clay he fell,

Richt far was heard the thud;

But Thomas luikt not as he lay

All waltering in his blude.

With cairles gefture, mynd unmuvit,

On raid he north the plain;

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280

In thrawis of death, with wallowit cheik

All panting on the plain,

The fainting corps of warriours lay,

Neir to aryse again ;

290