I vnderstande, to sone ye came. 130
At Branxston more and Flodden hylles,
Our Englysh bowes, our Englysh bylles,
Agaynst you gaue so sharpe a shower,
That of Scotland ye lost the flower.
The Whyte Lyon, there rampaunt of moode,
He ragyd and rent out your hart bloode;
He the Whyte, and ye[714] the Red,
The Whyte there slew the Red starke ded.
Thus for your guerdon quyt ar ye,