And forty fled gall’d by the shot.
The laird himself, to end the matter,
Did fly and could not make it better.
His men in crowds came running in,
Crying, Master did ye loss or win?
But for to rally in such a stour,
He had no time, might, or power;
The darksome night was coming on,
And his best men lay dead and gone,
Or wounded, they before him fled: