XXIV.
The king of Scots, that sindle[494] brook'd 185
The war that look'd like play,
Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow,
Sin bows seem'd but delay.
Quoth noble Rothsay, "Mine I'll keep,
I wat it's bled a score." 190
Haste up my merry men, cry'd the king,
As he rode on before.
XXV.
The king of Norse he sought to find,
With him to mense[495] the faught,
But on his forehead there did light 195
A sharp unsonsie[496] shaft;
As he his hand put up to feel
The wound, an arrow keen,
O waefu' chance! there pinn'd his hand
In midst between his een. 200
XXVI.
"Revenge, revenge, cry'd Rothsay's heir,
Your mail-coat sha' na bide
The strength and sharpness of my dart:"
Then sent it through his side.
Another arrow well he mark'd, 205
It pierc'd his neck in twa,
His hands then quat[497] the silver reins,
He low as earth did fa'.
XXVII.
"Sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleeds!"
Again wi' might he drew 210
And gesture dread his sturdy bow,
Fast the braid arrow flew:
Wae to the knight he ettled at;[498]
Lament now queen Elgreed;
High dames too wail your darling's fall, 215
His youth and comely meed.
XXVIII.