"Malcom, licht of foot as stag

That runs in forest wyld, Get me my thousands thrie of men, Well bred to sword and schield:

"Bring me my horse and harnisine, My blade of mettal cleir;"

If faes kend but the hand it bare
They sune had fled for feir.

"Fareweil, my dame, sae peirless gude,"

And tuke her by the hand, "Fairer to me in age you seim, Than maids for bewtie fam'd:

"My youngest son sall here remain,

To guard these stately towirs, And shut the silver bolt that keips

Sae fast your painted bowirs."

And first scho wet her comely cheiks,
And then hir bodice grene;

Her silken cords of twirtle twist
Weil plett with silver schene;

And apron set with mony a dice

Of neidle-wark sae rare,
Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess,
Saif that of Fairly fair.

And he has ridden owre muir and moss,
Owre hills and mony a glen,
Quhen he cam' to a wounded knicht,

Making a heavy mane:

"Here maun I lye, here maun I die,
By treachery's false gyles;
Witless I was that eir gaif faith

To wicked woman's smyles."

"Sir knicht, gin ye were in my bowir,
To lean on silken seat,
My ladyis kyndlie care you'd prove,
Quha neir kend deidly hate:

"Hir self wald watch ye all the day,
Hir maids at deid of nicht;
And Fairly fair your heart wald cheir,
As scho stands in your sicht.

"Arise, young knicht, and mount your steid,
Full lown's the schynand day;
Cheis frae my menyie quhom ye pleis,
To leid ye on the way."

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

"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;
Braif Hardyknute to gain,
With fairest words and reason strang,
Straif courteously in vain.

Syne he has gane far hynd attowre
Lord Chattan's land sae wyde;
That lord a worthy wicht was ay,
Quhen faes his courage seyd:

Of Pictish race, by mother's syde;
Quhen Picts ruled Caledon,
Lord Chattan claim'd the princely maid
Quhen he saift Pictish croun.

Now with his ferss and stalwart train
He reicht a rysing heicht,
Quhair, braid encampit on the dale,
Norse menyie lay in sicht:

"Yonder, my valiant sons, and ferss, Our raging revers wait,

On the unconquerit Scottish swaird, To try us with thair fate.

"Mak' orisons to him that saift

Our sauls upon the rude; Syne braifly schaw your veins are fill'd With Caledonian blude."

Then furth he drew his trusty glaive,
Quhyle thousands all around,

Drawn frae their sheaths glanst in the sun,
And loud the bougills sound.

To join his king, adoun the hill
In haste his march he made,
Quhyle playand pibrochs minstralls meit
Afore him stately strade.

“Thryse welcum, valyiant stoup of weir, Thy nation's scheild and pryde, Thy king nae reason has to feir,

Quhen thou art be his syde.'

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 tree.

Lang did they rage and fecht full ferss,
With little skaith to man;
But bludy, bludy was the field

Or that lang day was done!

The king of Scots that sindle bruik'd

The war that lukit lyke 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.'

"Haste up, my merry men," cry'd the king, As he rade on before.

The king of Norse he socht to find, With him to mense the feucht; 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 pinn'd his hand In midst betwene his een.

"Revenge! revenge!" cried Rothsay's heir, "Your mail-coat sall nocht byde The strength and sharpness of my dart," Then sent it through his syde.

Another arrow weil he mark'd,

It persit his neck in twa;

His hands then quat the silver reins, He law as eard did fa'.

"Sair bleids my liege! sair, sair he bleids!" Again with micht he drew,

And gesture dreid, his sturdy bow;
Fast the braid arrow flew:

Wae to the knicht he ettled at;

Lament now quene Elgreid;

Hie dames too wail your darling's fall,
His youth and comely meid.

"Take aff, take aff his costly jupe,

(Of gold weil was it twyn'd, Knit like the fowler's net, throuch quhilk His steily harnes shynd.)

"Take, Norse, that gift frae me, and bid
Him 'venge the blude it beirs;
Say, if he face my bended bow
He sure nae weapon feirs."

Proud Norse, with giant body tall,
Braid shoulder and arms strong,
Cry'd, "Quhair is Hardyknute sae fam'd,
And feird at Britain's throne?

"Though Britons tremble at his name,
I sune sall mak' him wail,
That eir my sword was made sae sharp,
Sae saft his coat of mail."

Quhair, lyke a fyre to hether set,
Bauld Thomas did advance,
A sturdy fae, with luke enrag'd,
Up towards him did prance:

He spur'd his steid throw thickest ranks,
The hardy youth to quell,

Quha stude unmuvit at his approach.
His furie to repell.

"That schort brown shaft, sae meanly trim'd,
Lukis lyke poor Scotland's geir;
But dreidfull seims the rusty poynt!"
And loud he leuch in jeir.

"Aft Britons blude has dim'd its shyne,
This poynt cut short their vaunt;"
Syne pierc'd the boisteris bairded cheik,
Nae tyme he tuke to taunt.

Schort quhyle he in his sadill swang;
His stirrup was nae stay,
Sae feible hang his unbent knee,
Sure taken he was fey.

Swith on the harden'd clay he fell, Richt far was heard the thud, But Thomas luikt not as he lay All waltering in his blude.