The barouns of Engelond to brynge to dede;
Charles of Fraunce, so moni mon tolde,
With myht ant with streynthe hem helpe wolde,
his thonkes!
Tprot, Scot, for thi strif!
Hang up thyn hachet ant thi knyf,
Whil him lasteth the lyf
with the longe shonkes.
Translation.—Listen, lordings, a new song I will begin,—of the traitors of Scotland who are taken with a trap;—he who loves falseness, and will never leave it,—sore may he dread the life that he is in,—I believe:—seldom was he glad—that never was sorrowful—for his wickedness and turbulence.
I say that of these Scots who are now drawn,—their heads on London bridge anybody may recognise:—they thought to have been kings, and said so in their talk;—better was it for them to have been barons and live in God’s law,—with love.—He who hateth truth and right,—little he fears God’s might,—the high king above.