Wyth a Skotte another daye.
Wherfore, schote, archars, for my sake,
And let scharpe arowes flee:
Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson,
And well quyt yt schall be.
Every man thynke on hys trewe love,
And marke hym to the Trenite:
For to God I make myne avowe
This daye wyll I not fle.
The blodye harte yn the Dowglas armes,[39]