"Yonder my valiant sons, full ferce "Our raging rievers wait, "On the unconquerit Scottish swaird "To try with us their fate. "Mak orisons to him that sav'd "Our sauls upon the rude; Syne braively shaw your veins are filld Then furth he drew his trustie glaive, While thousands all around, Drawn frae their sheiths glanc'd in the sun, To join his king, adown the hill 'Thrise welcum, valiant stoup of weir Thy nation's shield and pride, Thy king nae reasoun has to feir, 'Whan thou art by his side. Whan bows were bent, and darts were thrawn, For thrang scerce cold they flie, The darts clave arrows as they met, Eir faes their dint mote drie. Lang did they rage, and fecht full ferce, Wi little skaith to man; But bluidy, bluidy was the feild Or that lang day was done! The king of Scots that sindle bruik'd The war that luik'd like play, Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow, Quoth noble Rothsay, ' Mine I'll keep, "Haste up my merrie men," cry'd the king, The king of Norse he socht to find, As he his hand pat up to feil The wound, an arrow kein, O waefu chance! there pinnd his hand 'Revenge! revenge!' cried Rothsay's heir, It pierc'd his neck in twa; His hands then quat the silver reins, '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; 'Tak aff, tak aff his costly jupe,' (Of gold well was it twin'd, Knit like the fowler's net, throuch whilk His steily harnes shynd.) Beir Norse that gift frae me, and bid Him venge the bluid it weirs; Say if he face my bended bow 'He sure nae weapon feirs.' Proud Norse with giant body tall, Braid shoulder, and arms strong; Cry'd, 'Whare is Hardyknute sae fam'd, And feir'd at Britain's throne? 'Tho' Briton's tremble at his name, 'I sune sall mak him wail, 'That eir my sword was made sae sharp, 'Sae saft his coat of mail. That brag his stout heart could na bide, Norse ene like grey gosehauk staird wilde, Full sune he rais'd his bent body; His bow he marveld sair, Whare, like a fyre to hether set, Up towards him did prance. He spurd his steid throuch thickest ranks Wha stude unmuvit at his approach < That short brown shaft, sae meinly trimd, 'Lukis like poor Scotland's geir; 'But dreadfu seims the rusty point!' And loud he leuch in jeir. "Aft Britons blude has dim'd its shyne Short while he in his sadil swang; Swyth on the harden'd clay he fell, Wi' careless gesture, mind unmuv'd, In thrawis of dethe, wi' wallowit cheik, Neir to return to native land; Nae mair wi' blythsum sounds On Norway's coast the widowit dame Ceise, Emma, ceise to hope in vain, There on a lee, whar stands a cross Thousands fu ferce, that summer's day, Let Scots while Scots praise Hardyknute Loud and chill blew the westlin wind, Seim'd now as black as mourning weid: "There's nae licht in my lady's bouir, "Stand back my sons I'll be your gyde." But by they past wi' speid. "As fast I hae sped owr Scotland's faes-" There ceis'd his brag of weir, Sair shamd to mind ocht but his dame, And maiden Fairly fair. Black feir he felt, but wha to feir He wist nae: yit wi' dreid Sair shuke his body, sair his limbs And a the warriour fled. |