"But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, Ayont the Isle o' Skye,-- I saw a deid man win a fight, And I think that man was I." He belted on his gude braid-sword, And to the field he ran; But he forgot the hewmont strong, That should have kept his brain. When Percy wi' the Douglas met, I wot he was fu' fain: They swakkit swords, and they twa swat, Till the blude ran down like rain. But Percy wi' his gude braid-sword, That could sae sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, That he fell to the ground. And then he called his little foot-page, And said--"Run speedilie, And fetch my ae dear sister's son, Sir Hugh Montgomerie. "My nephew gude!" the Douglas said, "What recks the death of ane? Last night I dreamed a dreary dream, And ken the day's thy ain! "My wound is deep; I fain wad sleep! Tak' thou the vanguard o' the three, And bury me by the bracken bush, That grows on yonder lily lea. "O bury me by the bracken bush, Beneath the blumin' brier; Let never living mortal ken That a kindly Scot lies here!" He lifted up that noble lord, Wi' the saut tear in his e'e; And he hid him by the bracken bush, That his merry men might not see. The moon was clear, the day drew near, The spears in flinders flew; And many a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew. The Gordons gay, in English blude They wat their hose and shoon; The Lindsays flew like fire about, Till a' the fray was dune. The Percy and Montgomery met, That either of other was fain; They swakkit swords, and sair they swat, And the blude ran down between. "Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy!" he said, Or else I will lay thee low!" "To whom maun I yield," Earl Percy said, "Since I see that it maun be so?" "Thou shalt not yield to lord or loun, Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; But yield thee to the bracken-bush That grows on yonder lily lea!" This deed was done at the Otterburne About the breaking o' the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the bracken bush, And the Percy led captive away. * * * * * THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT. THE FIRST FIT. The Persè owt off Northombarlande, And a vowe to God mayd he, That he wold hunte in the mountayns Off Chyviat within days thre, In the mauger of doughtè Dogles, And all that ever with him be. The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat He sayd he wold kill, and cary them away: "Be my feth," sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn, "I wyll let that hontyng, yf that I may." Then the Persè owt of Banborowe cam, With him a myghtye meany; With fifteen hondrith archares bold; The wear chosen owt of shyars thre. This begane on a monday at morn, In Cheviat the hillys so he; The chyld may rue that ys un-born, It was the mor pittè. The dryvars thorowe the woodès went, For to reas the dear; Bomen byckarte uppone the bent With ther browd aras cleare.