His scarlet cloak he then let fall,
And into the river spurr'd old Sir Walter,
Boldly there, in the sight of all.
There was many a sore on back and wither,
Many a spur that ran with red,
But none of them caught the stout Sir Walter,
Though they counted of horses sixty head.
There was many a fetlock cut and wounded,
Many a hock deep lam'd with thorns,
Many a man that two years after