Mak orisons to him that saift
Our sauls upon the rude,
Syne braifly schaw zour veins ar filld
With Caledonian blude.
Then furth he drew his trusty glaive,
Quhyle thousands all arround,
Drawn frae their sheaths glanst in the sun,
And loud the bougills sound.
XXII.
To join his king adoun the hill
In hast his merch he made,
Quhyle, playand pibrochs, minstralls meit
Afore him stately strade;
Thryse welcome, valziant stoup of weir,
Thy nations scheild and pryde;
Thy king nae reason has to feir
Quhen thou art by his syde.
XXIII.
Quhen bows were bent and darts were thrawn,
For thrang scarce could they flie,
The darts clove arrows as they met,
The arrows dart the trie.
Lang did they rage and ficht full ferss,
With little skaith to man,
But bludy, bludy was the field,
Or that lang day was done.
The king of Scots that findle bruik'd
The war that luikd like play,
Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow,
Sen bows seimt but delay:
Quoth noble rothsay, myne I'll keip,
I wate its bleid a skore.
Hast up my merry men, cryd the king,
As he rade on before.
XXV.
The king of Norse he socht to find,
With him to mense the faucht,
But on his forehead there did licht
A sharp unsonsie shaft;
As he his hand put up to find
The wound, an arrow kene,
O waefou chance! there pinnd his hand
In midst betwene his ene.
XXVI.