‘Now God fforefend,’ saies Henery Hunt, ‘My lord, you shold worke soe ffarr amisse! God keepe you out of that traitors hands! For you wott ffull little what a man hee is. ‘Hee is brasse within, and steele without, And beames hee beares in his topcastle stronge; His shipp hath ordinance cleane round about; Besids, my lord, hee is verry well mand. ‘He hath a pinnace is deerlye dight, Saint Andrews crosse, that is his guide; His pinnace beares nine score men and more, Besids fifteen cannons on every side. ‘If you were twenty shippes, and he but one, Either in archbord or in hall, He wold overcome you everye one, And if his beames they doe downe ffall.’ ‘This is cold comfort,’ sais my Lord Haward, ‘To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea; I’le bring him and his shipp to shore, Or else into Scottland hee shall carrye mee.’ ‘Then you must gett a noble gunner, my lord, That can sett well with his eye, And sinke his pinnace into the sea, And soone then overcome will hee bee. ‘And when that you have done this, If you chance Sir Andrew for to bord, Lett no man to his topcastle goe; And I will give you a glasse, my lord, ‘And then you need to ffeare no Scott, Whether you sayle by day or by night; And to-morrow, by seven of the clocke, You shall meete with Sir Andrew Bartton, knight. ‘I was his prisoner but yester night, And he hath taken mee sworne,’ quoth hee; ‘I trust my L[ord] God will me fforgive And if that oath then broken bee. ‘You must lend me sixe peeces, my lord,’ quoth hee, ‘Into my shipp to sayle the sea, And to-morrow, by nine of the clocke, Your Honour againe then will I see.’ * * * * * And the hache-bord where Sir Andrew lay Is hached with gold deerlye dight: ‘Now by my ffaith,’ sais Charles, my lord Haward, ‘Then yonder Scott is a worthye wight! ‘Take in your ancyents and your standards, Yea that no man shall them see, And put me fforth a white willow wand, As merchants use to sayle the sea.’ But they stirred neither top nor mast, But Sir Andrew they passed by: ‘Whatt English are yonder,’ said Sir Andrew, ‘That can so little curtesye? ‘I have beene admirall over the sea More then these yeeres three; There is never an English dog, nor Portingall, Can passe this way without leave of mee. ‘But now yonder pedlers, they are past, Which is no little greffe to me: Ffeitch them backe,’ sayes Sir Andrew Bartton, ‘They shall all hang att my maine-mast tree.’ With that the pinnace itt shott of, That my Lord Haward might itt well ken; Itt stroke downe my lords fforemast, And killed fourteen of my lord his men.