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Then reid reid grow his dark brown cheiks,
Sae did his dark-brown brow;
In dangers great to do;
And gien five sounds sae shrill,
wod schuke thereat, Sae loud
His fons in manly sport and glie,
Had past that summers morn,
They heard their fatheris horn.
We haif other sport to byde.
And sunę were at his fyde.
** Late late the zestrene I weind in peace
To end my lengthned life,
Frae manly feats of stryfe ;
Fair Scotland to inthrall,
He feard to ficht or fall,
“ Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow,
Thy arrows fchute fae leil, Mony a comely countenance
They haif turnd to deidly pale. Brade Thomas tak ze but zour lance,
Ze neid nae weapons mair, Gif ze ficht weit as ze did anes
Gainst Westmorlands ferfs heir,
“ Malcom, licht of fute as stag
That runs in forest wyld,
Well bred to sword and fchield :
My blade of mettal cleir.
They sune had fled for feir.
« Fareweil my dame fae peirless gude,
(And tuke hir by the hand,) Fairer to nie in
age zou seim, Than maids for bewtie famd : Miy zoungest son sall here remain
To guard these stately towirs, And shut the filver bolt that keips,
Sae fact zour painted bowirs."
And he has ridden owre muir and moss,
Owre hills and mony a glen, Quhen he came to a wounded knicht
Making a heavy mane; “ Here maun I lye, here maun I dye,
By treacheries false gyles; Witless I was that eir gaif faith
To wicked womans (myles.”
« Sir knicht, gin ze were in my bowir,
To lean on filken feat,
Quha neir kend deidly hate :
Hir maids a deid of nicht;
As scho stands in zgur sicht.
knicht, and mount zour iteid,
To leid ze on the way.”
The wounded knicht replyd,
For heir I maun abyde.
To me nae after day nor nicht,
Can eir be sweit or fair,
care." With him nae pleiding micht prevail ;
Brave Hardyknute in to gain, With faireft words and reason strong,
Strave courteously in vain,
Syne he has gane far hynd attowre
Lord Chattans land sae wyde ; That lord a worthy wicht was ay,
Quhen faes his courage seyd:
Quhen Pics ruld Caledon,
Quhen he faift Pictish crown.
Now with his ferss and stalwart train,
He reicht a ryfing heicht, Quhair braid encampit on the dale,
Norss menzie lay in ficht. “ Zonder my
valiant fons and ferss, Our raging revers wait On the unconquerit Scottish swaird
To try with us their fate.
Mak orisons to him that faift
the rude ;
With Caledonian blude."
Quhyle thousands all around
And loud the bougills found.
To join his king adoun the hill
In haft his merch he made,
Afore him ftatly strade.
Thy nations scheild and pryde ; Thy king nae reason has to feir
Quhen thou art be his fyde,"