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]