"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
"Wi Caledonian bluid."

Then furth he drew his trustie glaive,

While thousands all around,

Drawn frae their sheiths glanc'd in the sun,
And loud the bugils sound.

To join his king, adown the hill
In haste his march he made,
While playand pibrochs minstrals meit
Afore him stately strade.

'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,
Sen bows seim❜d but delay.

Quoth noble Rothsay, ' Mine I'll keep,
I wat its bleid a score.'

"Haste up my merrie men," cry'd the king,
As he rade on before.

The king of Norse he socht to find,
Wi him to mense the faucht;
But on his forehead there did licht,
A sharp unsonsie shaft:

As he his hand pat up to feil

The wound, an arrow kein,

O waefu chance! there pinnd his hand
In midst atweene his eyne.

'Revenge! revenge!' cried Rothsay's heir,
'Your mail-coat sall nocht bide
'The strength and sharpness of my dart,
'Whilk shared the riever's side.'
Anither arrow weil he mark'd

It pierc'd his neck in twa;

His hands then quat the silver reins,
He low as eard did fa.

'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;
Hire dames to wail your darling's fall,
His youth, and comely meid.

'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,
It lent him youthfu micht:
"I'm Hardyknute. This day," he cryed,
"To Scotland's king I hicht
"To lay thee low as horse's hufe;
"My word I mean to keip:"
Syne with the first dint eir he strake
He gard his body bleid.

Norse ene like grey gosehauk staird wilde,
He sich'd wi shame and spyte;
'Disgrac'd is now my far famd arm
That left thee pouir to stryke.'
Syne gied his helm a blow sae fell,
It made him down to stoup,
Sae low as he to ladies us'd,
In courtly gyse to lout.

Full sune he rais'd his bent body;

His bow he marveld sair,
Sen blows till than on him but dar'd
As touch of Fairly fair.
Norse ferlied too as sair as he,
To see his stately luik;
Sae sune as eir he strake a fae,
Sae sune his lyfe he tuke.

Whare, like a fyre to hether set,
Bauld Thomas did advance,
A sturdy fae, wi' luik enrag'd,

Up towards him did prance.

He spurd his steid throuch thickest ranks
The hardy youth to quell;

Wha stude unmuvit at his approach
His furie to repell

< 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
"Its point cut short their vaunt."
Syne perc'd the boster's bairded cheik
Nae time he tuke to taunt.

Short while he in his sadil swang;
His stirrup was nae stay,
But feible hang his unbent knie,
Sure taken he was fey!

Swyth on the harden'd clay he fell,
Richt far was heard the thud;
But Thomas luk'd not as he lay
All waltering in his blude.

Wi' careless gesture, mind unmuv'd,
On rade he north the plain
His seim in peace, or fercest stryfe,
Ay reckless, and the same,
Nor yit his heart dames' dimpled cheik
Cold meise saft luive to bruik;
Till vengefu Ann returnd his scorn,
Then languid grew his luke.

In thrawis of dethe, wi' wallowit cheik,
All panting on the plain,
The bleiding corps of warriours lay,
Neir to arise again:

Neir to return to native land;

Nae mair wi' blythsum sounds
To boast the glories of that day,
And shaw their shynand wounds.

On Norway's coast the widowit dame
May wash the rocks wi' teirs,
May lang luke owr the shiples seas
Before her mate appeirs.

Ceise, Emma, ceise to hope in vain,
Thy lord lyes in the clay;
The valiant Scots na rievers thole
To carry lyfe away.

There on a lee, whar stands a cross
Set up for monument,

Thousands fu ferce, that summer's day,
Fill'd kene wars black intent.

Let Scots while Scots praise Hardyknute
Let Norse the name aye dreid;
Ay how he faucht, aft how he spaird,
Sall latest ages reid.

Loud and chill blew the westlin wind,
Sair beat the heavy shouir,
Mirk grew the night ere Hardyknute
Wan neir his stately touir:
His touir that us'd wi torches bleise
To shyne sae far at nicht

Seim'd now as black as mourning weid:
Nae marvel sair he sich'd.

"There's nae licht in my lady's bouir,
"There's nae licht in my ha;
"Nae blink shynes round my Fairly fair,
"Nae ward stands on my wa.
"What bodes it? Robert, Thomas, say."
Nae answer fits their dreid.

"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.