With other Clanns I can nocht tell, Because our wairning was nocht wyde, Be this our folk hes tane the fell, And plantit pallions thair to byde: We lukit down the uther syde, And saw cum briesting owr the brae, And Sir GEORGE FOSTER was thair gyde, With fyftene hundrid men and mae. It greivt him sair that day I trow, With Sir JOHN HINROME of Schipsydehouse, Because we were not men enow, He counted us not worth a souse; Sir GEORGE was gentil, meik, and douse, But he was hail and het as fyre: But zit for all his cracking crouse, He rewd the raid of the Reid Squyre. To deil with proud men is but pain, For ether ze maun ficht or flie, Or els nae answer mack again, But play the beist, and let him be. It was nae wondir tho’ he was hie, Had TYNDALL, REDSDAILE at his hand, With CUCKSDAILE, GLADSDAILE on the lie, Auld HEBSRIME and NORTHUMBERLAND. Zit was our meeting meik enough, Begun with mirriness and mows, And at the brae abune the heugh The clerk sat doun to call the rows, And sum for ky and sum for ewis, Callit in of DANDRIE HOB and JOCK, I saw cum merching owre the knows, Fyve hundred FENNICKS in a flock. With jack and speir, and bowis all bent, And warlike weaponis at their will; Howbeit they wer not weil content, Zit be me trouth we feird nae ill: Sum zeid to drink, and sum stude still, And sum to cards and dyce them sped, Quhyle on ane Farstein they fyld a bill, And he was fugitive that fled. CARMICHAEL bad them speik out plainly, And cloke nae cause for ill nor gude, The uther answering him full vainly, Begouth to reckon kin and blude, He raise and rax’d him quhair he stude, And bade him match him with his marrows; Then TYNDAL hard these reseuns rude, And they lute aff a flight of arrows. Then was ther nocht but bow and speir, And ilka man pullit out a brand, A SCHAFTAN and a FENNICK their, Gude SYMINGTON was slain frae hand. The Scotismen cryd on uther to stand, Frae tyme they saw JOHN ROBSON slain: Quhat suld they cry! The King’s command Culd cause nae cowards turn again. Up raise the laird to red the cumber, Quhilk wald not be for all his boist, Quhat suld we do with sic a number, Fyve thousand men into an hoist? Then HENRIE PURDIE proud hes cost, And verie narrowlie had mischiefd him, And ther we had our WARDEN lost, Wart not the grit GOD he relievd him. Ane uther throw the breiks him bair, Quhyle flatlines to the ground he fell: Then thocht I, we had lost him thair, Into my heart it struck a knell; Zit up he raise, the truth to tell, And laid about him dunts full dour, His horsemen they faucht stout and snell, And stude about him in the stour.