And quak’d and burn’d to fight.
Then mighty Douglas leap’d between
To redd the foul debate,
“O Sirs!” he cries, “thrust in your glaives
And quell this rising state.
“For, look you! where the English lies
On yonder tented field,
To morrow’s morn, if right I ween,
We’ll need both sword and sheild.
“Gin we to Scotland mean to go,