The cronykle wyll not layne:
Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre
That day fowght them agayne.
But when the battell byganne to joyne,
In hast ther cam a knyght,
The letters fayr furth hath he tayne,
And thus he sayd full ryght:
My lorde, your father he gretes yow well,
Wyth many a noble knyght;
He desyres yow to byde