The king he turn’d him round about,
And wistna what to say:
Quo’ he, “Man, thou’s ha’e leave to speak,
Though thou should speak all day.”
“Ye said that three young lads of France
Your standard stole away,
With a fause tale and fauser trayne,
And mony men did slay;
“But we are nane the lads of France,
Nor e’er pretend to be:
We are three lads of fair Scotland,—
Auld Maitland’s sons are we.
“Nor is there men in all your host
Daur fight us three to three.”
“Now, by my sooth,” young Edward said,
“Weel fitted ye shall be!
“Piercy shall with the eldest fight,
And Ethert Lunn with thee;
William of Lancaster the third,
And bring your fourth to me!
“Remember, Piercy, aft the Scot
Has cower’d beneath thy hand;
For every drap of Maitland blood,
I’ll gi’e a rig of land.”
He clanked Piercy o’er the head
A deep wound and a sair,
Till the best blood of his body
Came running down his hair.
“Now, I’ve slayne ane; slay ye the twa;
And that’s gude companye;
And if the twa shou’d slay ye baith,
Ye’se get nae help frae me.”
But Ethert Lunn, a baited bear,
Had many battles seen;
He set the youngest wonder sair,
Till the eldest he grew keen.
“I am nae king, nor nae sic thing:
My word it shanna stand!
For Ethert shall a buffet bide,
Come he beneath my brand.”