‘Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!
My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!’ he cried;
‘I’ll pay you for my lodging-maill
When first we meet on the border-side.’
39
Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,
We bore him down the ladder lang;
At every stride Red Rowan made,
I wot the Kinmont’s airns playd clang.
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