Wherfore, schote, archars, for my sake, And let scharpe arowes flee: Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson, And well quyt yt schall be. Every man thynke on hys trewe love, And marke hym to the Trenite: For to God I make myne avowe This daye wyll I not fle. The blodye harte yn the Dowglas armes,[39] Hys standerde stode on hye; That every man myght full well knowe, By syde stode starres thre. The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte, Forsoth as I yow sayne; The lucettes and the ‘cressawntes’ both; The Skottes fowght them agayne. Upon sent Andrewe lowde can they crye, And thrysse they schowte on ayght, And syne marked them one owr Ynglysshe men, As I have tolde yow ryght. Sent George the bryght, owr ladyes knyght, To name they were full fayne; Owr Ynglisshe men they cryde on hyght, And thrysse the schowtte agayne. Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee, I tell yow in sertayne; Men of armes byganne to joyne; Many a dowghty man was ther slayne. The Perssye and the Dowglas mette, That ather of other was fayne; They ‘swapped’ together whyll that the swette, Wyth swordes of fine collayne; Tyll the bloode from ther bassonettes ranne, As the roke doth in the rayne. Yelde the to me, sayd the Dowglas, Or ellse thow schalt be slayne: For I see, by thy bryght bassonet, Thow arte sum man of myght; And so I do by thy burnysshed brande, Thow art an yerle, or elles a knyght. By my good faythe, sayd the noble Perssye, Now haste thou rede full ryght, Yet wyll I never yelde me to the, Whyll I may stonde and fyght. They swapped together, whyll that they swette, Wyth swordes scharpe and long; Ych on other so faste thee beette, Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn. The Perssye was a man of strength, I tell yow in thys stounde, He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length, That he felle to the growynde. The sworde was scharpe and sore can byte, I tell yow in sertayne; To the harte he cowde him smyte, Thus was the Dowglas slayne. The stonderdes stode styll on ‘elke’ asyde, Wyth many a grevous grone; Ther the fowght the daye, and all the nyght, And many a dowghty man was slayne. Ther was no freke that ther wolde flye, But styffely in stowre can stond, Ych one hewyng on other whyll they myght drye, Wyth many a bayllefull bronde. Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, For soth and sertenly, Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne, That daye that he cowde dye. The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne. Grysely groned uppon the growynd; Syr Davy Skotte, syr Water Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstonne. Syr Charlles Morrey in that place, That never a fote wold flee; Syr Hugh Maxwell, a lorde he was, Wyth the Dowglasse dyd he dye.