‘Ffight on my men,’ sayes Sir Andrew Bartton,
‘These English doggs they bite soe lowe;
Ffight on ffor Scottland and Saint Andrew
Till you heare my whistle blowe!’
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But when the cold not heare his whistle blow,
Sayes Harry Hunt, I’le lay my head
You may bord yonder noble shipp, my lord,
For I know Sir Andrew hee is dead.
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