‘For off science I thocht me maist awaill. Quha prydys tharin, that laubour is in waist, For science cummys bot off the haly Gaist.’ ‘Eftir thi hour, quhar is thi passage ewyn?’ ‘Quhen tym cummys,’ he said, ‘to lestand hewin.’ ‘Quhat tym is that? I pray the now declar.’ ‘Twa ar on lyff mon be befor me thar.’ ‘Quhilk twa ar thai?’ The verité thow may ken, ‘The fyrst has bene a gret slaar of men. Now thai him kep to martyr in London toun On Wednyssday, befors king and commoun. Is nayn on lyff at has sa mony slayn.’ ‘Brodyr,’ he said, ‘that taill is bot in wayn; For slauchtyr is to God abhominabill.’ Than said the spreyt, ‘Forsuth this is no fabill. He is Wallace, defendour off Scotland, For rychtwyss war that he tok apon hand. Thar rychtwysnes is lowyt our the lawe; Tharfor in hewyn he sall that honour hawe. Syn a pure preyst, is mekill to commend; He tuk in thank quhat thing that God him send. For dayly mess, and heryng off confessioun, Hewin he sall haiff to lestand warysoun. I am the thrid, grantyt throw Goddis grace.’ ‘Brothir,’ he said, ‘tell I this in our place, Thai wyll bot deym, I othir dreym or ráwe.’ Than said the spreyt:--‘This wetnes thow sall hawe. Your bellys sall ryng, for ocht at ye do may, Quhen thai hym sla, halff ane hour off that day.’ And so thai did, the monk wyst quhat thaim alyt Throuch braid Bretane, the woice tharoff was scaylyt, The spreyt tuk leyff at Goddis will to be, Off Wallace end to her it is peté; And I wald nocht put men in gret dolour, Bot lychtly pass atour his fatell hour.” Book xi. 1238-1304. U. VERSES ON THE DEATH OF WALLACE. Page 170. The verses on the death of Wallace, which have been attributed to John Blair, stand thus in the original:-- Invida mors tristi Gulielmum funere Vallam, Quæ cuncta tollit, sustulit: Et tanto pro cive cinis, pro finibus urna est, Frigusque pro lorica obit. Ille quidem terras, loca se inferiora reliquit: At fata factis supprimens, Parte sui meliore solum cœlumque pererrat; Hoc spiritu, illud gloria. At tibi si inscriptum generoso pectus honesto Fuisset, hostis proditi Artibus, Angle, tuis, in pœnas, parcior isses, Nec oppidatim spargeres Membra viri sacranda adytis. Sed scin quid in ista, Immanitate viceris? Ut Vallæ in cunctas oras sparguntur et horas Laudes, tuumque dedecus.