Part 17 (1/2)

XVII.

Aryse zoung knicht, and mount zour steid, Full lowns the shynand day, Cheis frae my menzie quhom ze pleis, To leid ze on the way.

With smyless luke, and visage wan, The wounded knicht reply'd, Kynd chiftain, zour intent pursue, For here I maun abyde.

XVIII.

To me nae after day nor nicht, Can eir be sweit or fair, But sune beneath sum draping tree, Cauld death sall end my care.

With him nae pleiding micht prevail, Brave HARDYKNUTE in to gain, With fairest words and reason strong, Strave courteously in vain.

XIX.

Syne he has gane far hynd attowre, Lord CHATTANS land sae wyde, That lord a worthy wicht was ay, Quhen faes his courage seyd: Of Pictish race by mothers syde, Quhen Picts ruld Caledon, Lord CHATTAN claimd the princely maid, Quhen he saift Pictish crown.

XX.

Now with his serfs and stalwart train, He reicht a rysing heicht, Quhair braid encampit on the dale, Norss menzie lay in sicht; Zonder my valiant sons and serfs, Our raging revers wait, On the unconquerit Scottish swaird, To try with us thair fate.

XXI.

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.

XXIV.

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 n.o.ble 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.