Swordes fell and arrowes flewe;
The wydow'd wyfe and fatherlesse chylde
That day of dole sall rue.
Ten thousand Scotts who on that morne
Were marching alle soe gaye,
By nighte, alas! on that drearye moore
Poore mangled corps ylaye.
Weepe, dames of Scotlande, weepe and waile,
Let your sighes reecho rounde;
Ten thousande brave Scotts that hail'd the morne,