Then the wyld thorowe the woodès went, On every sydè shear; Grea-hondes thorowe the grevis glent, For to kyll thear dear. The begane in Chyviat the hyls above, Yerly on a monnynday; Be that it drewe to the oware off none, A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. The blewe a mort uppone the bent, The semblyd on sydis shear; To the quyrry then the Persè went To se the bryttlynge off the deare. He sayd, "It was the Duglas promys This day to meet me hear; But I wyste he wold faylle, verament:" A gret oth the Persè swear. At the laste a squyar of Northombelonde Lokyde at his hand full ny; He was war ath the doughetie Doglas comynge, With him a myghtè meany; Both with spear, byll, and brande; Yt was a myghti sight to se; Hardyar men both off hart nar hande Wear not in Christiantè. The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good, Withowtè any fayle; The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, Yth bowndes of Tividale. "Leave off the brytlyng of the dear," he sayde, "And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed; For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne Had ye never so mickle need." The dougheti Dogglas on a stede He rode aft his men beforne; His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede; A bolder barne was never born. "Tell me what men ye ar," he says, "Or whos men that ye be: Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays, In the spyt of me?" The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, Yt was the good lord Persè: We wyll not tell the what men we ar," he says, "Nor whos men that we be; But we wyll hount hear in this chays, In the spyt of thyne and of the. "The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat We have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way: "Be my troth," sayd the doughtè Dogglas agayn, "Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day." Then sayd the doughtè Doglas Unto the lord Persè: "To kyll all thes giltles men, Alas, it were great pitte! "But, Persè, thowe art a lord of lande, I am a yerle callyd within my contrè; Let all our men uppone a parti stande, And do the battell off the and of me." "Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne," sayd the lord Persè, "Whosoever ther-to says nay; Be my troth, doughtè Doglas," he says, "Thow shalt never se that day. "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, Nor for no man of a woman born, But, and fortune be my chance, I dar met him, on man for on." Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, Richard Wytharynton was him nam; "It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde," he says, "To kyng Herry the fourth for sham. "I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, I am a poor squyar of lande; I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, And stande myselffe, and looke on, But whyll I may my weppone welde, I wyll not ffayll both hart and hande." That day, that day, that dredfull day! The first fit here I fynde; And youe wyll here any mor a' the hountyng a' the Chyviat, Yet ys ther mor behynd. THE SECOND FIT.