To deal with proud men is but pain;
For either must ye fight or flee,
Or else no answer make again,
But play the beast, and let them be.
It was na wonder he was hie,45
Had [Tindaill, Reedsdaill], at his hand,
Wi' Cukdaill, Gladsdaill on the lee,
And [Hebsrime], and Northumberland.
Yett was our meeting meek eneugh,
Begun wi' merriment and mowes,50
And at the brae, aboon the heugh,
The clark sat down to call the rowes.
And some for kyne, and some for ewes,
Call'd in of Dandrie, Hob, and Jock
—
We saw, come marching ower the knows,55
Five hundred [Fennicks] in a flock,—
With jack and speir, and bows all bent,
And warlike weapons at their will:
Although we were na weel content,
Yet, by my troth, we fear'd no ill.60
Some gaed to drink, and some stude still,
And some to cards and dice them sped;
Till on ane Farnstein they fyled a bill,
And he was fugitive and fled.
Carmichaell bade them speik out plainlie,65
And cloke no cause for ill nor good;
The other, answering him as vainlie,
Began to reckon kin and blood:
He raise, and raxed him where he stood,
And bade him match him with his marrows;70
Then Tindaill heard them reasun rude,
And they loot off a flight of arrows.
Then was there nought but bow and speir,
And every man pull'd out a brand;
"A Schafton and a Fenwick" thare:75
Gude Symington was slain frae hand.
The Scotsmen cried on other to stand,
Frae time they saw John Robson slain—
What should they cry? the King's command
Could cause no cowards turn again.80
Up rose the laird to red the cumber,
Which would not be for all his boast;
What could we doe with sic a number—
Fyve thousand men into a host?
Then Henry Purdie proved his cost,85
And very narrowlie had mischief'd him,
And there we had our warden lost,
Wert not the grit God he relieved him.
Another throw the breiks him bair,
Whill flatlies to the ground he fell:90
Than thought I weel we had lost him there,
Into my stomack it struck a knell!
Yet up he raise, the treuth to tell ye,
And laid about him dints full dour;
His horsemen they raid sturdily,95
And stude about him in the stoure.
Then raise the slogan with ane shout—
["Fy, Tindaill, to it! Jedburgh's here!"]
I trow he was not half sae stout,