His sons in manly sport and glie, Had pass'd the summer's morn, Quhen lo! down in a grassy dale, They heard their fatheris horn. That horn, quod they, neir sounds in peace, We haif other sport to byde; And sune they heyd them up the hill, And sune were at his syde. X. Late, late the zestrene I weind in peace To end my lengthen'd lyfe, My age micht weil excuse my arm Frae manly feats of stryfe; But now that NORSE dois proudly boast Fair Scotland to inthrall, Its neir be said of HARDYKNUTE He feard to ficht or fall. XI. ROBIN of Rothsay, bend thy bow, Thy arrows shoute sae leil, Many a comely countenance They haif turnd to deidly pale: Brade THOMAS tak ze but zour lance, Ze need nae weapons mair, Gif ze ficht weit as ze did anes Gainst Westmorland's serfs heir. XII. MALCOM, licht of fute as stag That runs in forest wyld, Get me my thousands thrie of men Well bred to sword and schield: Bring me my horse and harnisine My blade of metal cleir; If faes kend but the hand it bare, They sune had fled for feir. XIII. Farewell my dame sae peirless gude, And take her by the hand, Fairer to me in age zou seim, Than maids for bewtie fam'd: My zoungest son sall here remain To guard these stately towirs, And shut the silver bolt that keips Sae fast zour painted bowirs. XIV. And first scho wet her comely cheiks, And then hir boddice grene, Hir silken cords of twirtle twist, Weil plett with silver schene; And apron set with mony a dice Of neidle-wark sae rare, Wove by nae hand, as ze may guess, Saif that of FAIRLY fair. XV. And he has ridden owre muir and moss, Owre hills and mony a glen, Quhen he came to a wounded knicht, Making a heavy mane; Here maun I lye, here maun I die, By treacheries false gyles; Witless I was that eir gaif faith To wicked womans smiles. XVI. Sir knicht, gin ze were in my bowir, To lean on silken seat, To ladyis kindly care zoud prove, Quha neir stend deidly hate; Hir self wald watch ze all the day, Hir maids a deid of nicht; And FAIRLY fair zour heart wald cheir, As scho stands in zour sicht. XVII. Aryse zoung knicht, and mount zour steid, Full lowns the shynand day, Cheis frae my menzie quhom ze pleis, To leid ze on the way. With smyless luke, and visage wan, The wounded knicht reply'd, Kynd chiftain, zour intent pursue, For here I maun abyde. XVIII.