But arméd with a revolvér,
He like-Wise chawed toback.
He sayde his was a mightie hond,
Ne better in ye Southron lond
To yearn anly battail:
Mony a dewel hadde he fought,
And put his foe alway to rout,
Withouten ony fail.
Eke fro his sheld ther stroke the ee,
These letters golden, 'F.F.V.,'