And next they passed the aspin gray;
Its leaves were rustling mournfullie:
"Now, chuse thee, chuse thee, Branxholm gay!
"Say, wilt thou never chuse the tree?"
"More dear to me is the aspin gray,
"More dear than any other tree;
"For beneath the shade, that its branches made,
"Have past the vows of my love and me."
Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly spake,
Until he did his ain men see,
With witches' hazel in each steel cap,
In scorn of Soulis gramarye;
Then shoulder height for glee he lap,
"Methinks I spye a coming tree!"
"Aye, many may come, but few return,"
Quo' Soulis, the lord of gramarye;
"No warrior's hand in fair Scotland
"Shall ever dint a wound on me!"
"Now, by my sooth," quo' bauld Walter,
"If that be true we soon shall see."
His bent bow he drew, and the arrow was true,
But never a wound or scar had he.
Then up bespake him, true Thomas,
He was the lord of Ersyltoun:
"The wizard's spell no steel can quell,
"Till once your lances bear him down."
They bore him down with lances bright,
But never a wound or scar had he;
With hempen bands they bound him tight,
Both hands and feet on the Nine-stane lee.
That wizard accurst, the bands he burst;
They mouldered at his magic spell;
And neck and heel, in the forged steel,
They bound him against the charms of hell.
That wizard accurst, the bands he burst;
No forged steel his charms could bide;
Then up bespake him, true Thomas,
"We'll bind him yet, whate'er betide."
The black spae-book from his breast he took,
Impressed with many a warlock spell:
And the book it was wrote by Michael Scott,
Who held in awe the fiends of hell.