Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow,
Thy arrows shoute sae leil,
Many a comely countenance
They haif turnd to deidly pale:
Brade thomas tak ze but zour lance,
Ze need nae weapons mair,
Gif ze ficht weit as ze did anes
Gainst Westmorland's serfs heir.
Malcom, licht of fute as stag
That runs in forest wyld,
Get me my thousands thrie of men
Well bred to sword and schield:
Bring me my horse and harnisine
My blade of metal cleir;
If faes kend but the hand it bare,
They sune had fled for feir.
XIII.
Farewell my dame sae peirless gude,
And take her by the hand,
Fairer to me in age zou seim,
Than maids for bewtie fam'd:
My zoungest son sall here remain
To guard these stately towirs,
And shut the silver bolt that keips
Sae fast zour painted bowirs.
XIV.
And first scho wet her comely cheiks,
And then hir boddice grene,
Hir silken cords of twirtle twist,
Weil plett with silver schene;
And apron set with mony a dice
Of neidle-wark sae rare,
Wove by nae hand, as ze may guess,
Saif that of fairly fair.
And he has ridden owre muir and moss,
Owre hills and mony a glen,
Quhen he came to a wounded knicht,
Making a heavy mane;
Here maun I lye, here maun I die,
By treacheries false gyles;
Witless I was that eir gaif faith
To wicked womans smiles.
XVI.