What’ll cum o’ your ladie, gin Braikley thei slay?
29.
‘What’ll cum o’ your ladie and bonnie young son?
O what’ll cum o’ them when Braikley is gone?’
30.
‘I never will turn: do you think I will fly?
But here I will ficht, and here I will die.’
31.
‘Strik, dogs,’ crys Inverey, ‘and ficht till ye’re slayn,
For we are four hundred, ye are but four men.