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Quhen bows were bent and darts were thrawn,
For thrang scarce could they fie,
The arrows dart the trie.
With little skaith to man,
Or that lang day was done.
The king of Scots, that findle bruikd
The war that luikt lyke play,
Sen bows seimt but delay.
I wate its bleid a kore."
As he rade on before,
The king of Norse he focht to find,
With him to mense the faucht,
A Marp unfonfie shaft;
The wound, an arrow kene,
In midft betwene his ene.
" Revenge, revenge, cryd Rothsays heir,
Your mail-coat fall nocht byde
Then sent it thruch his fyde.
It persit his neck in twa,
He law as eard did fa.
"Sair bleids my liege, fair, fair he bleids !"
Again with micht he drew
flew : Wae to the knicht he ettled at,
Lament now quene Elgreid,
His zouth and comely meid.
« Take aff, take aff his coftly jupe
(Of gold weil was it twynd,
His steilly harness fhynd)
Him venge the blude it beirs ;
He sure nae weapon feirs.”
Proud Norfe with giant body tall,
Braid shoulder and arms strong,
And feird at Britains throne :
I fune fall make him wail,
Sae faft his coat of mail."
That brag his stout heart could na byde,
It lent him zouthfou micht: “ I'm Hardyknute this day, he cryd,
To Scotlands king I hecht,
My word I mean to keip."
He garrd his body bleid.
Norfe ene lyke gray gosehawke ftaird wyld,
He ficht with shame and spyte; “ Difgrac'd is now my far-famd arm
That left thee power to ftryke :" Then gaif his head a blaw sae fell,
It made him doun to stoup, As law as he to ladies ufit
In courtly gyfe to lout,
Full fune he raisd his bent body,
His bow he marvelld fair,
As touch of Fairly fair :
To se his stately luke,
Sae sune his lyfe he tuke.
Quhair lyke a fyre to hether fet,
Bauld Thomas did advance,
Up towards him did prance;
The hardy zouth to quell,
His furie to repell.
“ That schort brown shaft fae meanly trimd, 265
Lukis lyke poor Scotlands geir, But dreidfull seims the rusty poyat!”
And loud he leuch in jeir. “ Aft Britons blude has dimd its syne ;
This poynt cut short their vaunt :" Syne piercd the boisteris bairded cheik,
Nae týme he tuke to taunt.
Schort quhyie he in his fadill fwang,
His ftirrup was nae ftay,
Sure taken he was fey:
Richt far was heard the thud;
All waltering in his blude.
With cairles gesture, mynd unmuvit,
On raid he north the plain ;
Quhen Winner ay the fame;
Coud meise faft love to bruik,
Then languid grew his luke.
In thrawis of death, with wallowit cheik
All panting on the plain,
Nae mair with blythsom sounds
And schaw chair Ihyning wounds.