Sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleids. Again with micht he drew And gesture dreid his sturdy bow, Fast the braid arrow flew: Wae to the knicht he ettled at, Lament now quene ELGREID, Hie dames to wail zour darlings fall, His zouth and comely meid. XXVIII. Take aff, take aff his costly jupe (Of gold weil was it twynd, Knit lyke the fowlers net throuch quhilk His steilly harness shynd) Take NORSE, that gift frae me, and bid Him venge the blude it beirs; Say, if he face my bended bow, He sure nae weapon fears. XXIX. Proud NORSE with giant body tall, Braid shoulder and arms strong, Cryd, quhair is HARDYKNUTE sae famd, And feird at Britains throne? Tho Britons tremble at his name, I sune sall make him wail, That eir my sword was made sae sharp, Sae saft his coat of mail. XXX. That brag his stout heart coud na byde. It lent him zouthfou micht: I'm HARDYKNUTE this day, he cryd, To Scotlands king I hecht, To lay thee low at horses hufe, My word I mean to keip. Syne with the first strake eir he strake, He garrd his body bleid. XXXI. NORSE ene like gray gosehawks staird wyld, He sicht with shame and spyte; Disgracd is now my far-famd arm That left thee power to stryke: Then gaif his head a blaw sae fell, It made him doun to stoup, As law as he to ladies usit, In courtly gyse to lout. XXXII. Full sune he reis'd his bent body, His bow he marvelld sair, Sen blaws till then on him but darrd As touch of FAIRLY fair: NORSE ferliet too as sair as he To se his stately luke, Sae sune as eir he strake a fae, Sae sune his lyfe he tuke. XXXIII. Quair lyke a fyre to hether set, Bauld THOMAS did advance, A sturdy fae with luke enragd Up towards him did prance; He spurd his steid throw thickest ranks The hardy zouth to quell Quha stude unmusit at his approach His furie to repel. XXXIV. That schort brown shaft sae meanly trimd, Lukis lyke poor Scotlands geir, But dreidfull seims the rusty point! And loud he leuch in jeir. Aft Britains blude has dimd its shyne This poynt cut short their vaunt; Syne piercd the boisteris bairded cheik, Nae tyme he tuke to taunt. XXXV. Schort quhyle he in his sadill swang, His stirrip was nae stay, Sae feible hang his unbent knee, Sure taken he was fey: Swith on the hardened clay he fell, Richt far was heard the thud, But THOMAS luikt not as he lay, All waltering in his blude. XXXVI.