With cairles gesture mynd ummuvit
On raid he north the plain,
His seim in thrang of fiercest stryfe,
Quhen winner ay the same;
Nor zit his heart dames dimpelit cheik,
Coud meise saft luve to bruik,
Till vengeful ann returnd his scorn,
Then languid grew his luke.
XXXVII.
In thrawis of death, with wallowit cheik
All panting on the plain,
The fainting corps of warriors lay,
Neir to aryse again;
Neir to return to native land,
Nae mair with blythsome sounds,
To boist the glories of the day,
And schaw their shyning wounds.
XXXXVIII.
On Norways coast the widowit dame
May wash the rock with teirs,
May lang luke owre the schiples seis
Befoir hir mate appeirs.
Ceise, emma, ceise to hope in vain,
Thy lord lyis in the clay,
The valziant Scots nae revers thole
To carry lyfe away.
There on a lie quhair stands a cross
Set up for monument,
Thousands full fierce that summers day
Filld kene waris black intent.
Let Scots quhyle Scots, praise hardyknute
Let norse the name ay dreid,
Ay how he faucht, aft how he spaird,
Sal latest ages reid.
XL.
Loud and chill blew the westlin wind,
Sair beat the heavy showir,
Mirk grew the nicht, eir hardyknute
Wan neir his stately towir;
His towir that usd with torches bleise
To shyne sae far at nicht,
Seimd now as black as mourning weid,
Nae marvel sair he sichd.
XLI.