In-tyll our rycht, I wat, no wycht dar wrang us.”
The Pyote said, “The feind resave the fouther[264]!
Quhy mak ye me stepbarne, and I your brother?
Ye do me wrang, schir Gled, I schrew[265] your harte.”
“Tak thare,” said he, “the puddyngis for thy parte.”
Than, wyt ye weill, my hart wes wounder sair
For to behalde that dolent departyng[266],
Hir angell fedderis fleying in the air.
Except the hart, was left of hir no-thing.
The Pyote said, “This pertenith to the Kyng,