‘What makes you be soe sad, my lord,
And in your mind soe sorrowffullye?
In the north of Scottland to-morrow there’s a shooting,
And thither thou’st goe, my Lord Percye.
5
‘The buttes are sett, and the shooting is made,
And there is like to be great royaltye,
And I am sworne into my bill
Thither to bring my Lord Pearcy.’
6