bow and speir,
And every man pulled out a brand;
"A Schaftan and a Fenwick" thare:
Gude Symington was slain frae hand.
The Scotsmen cried on other to stand,
Frae time they saw John Robson slain--
What should they cry? the king's command
Could cause no cowards turn again.

Up rose the laird to red the cumber,[150]
Which would not be for all his boast;--
What could we doe with sic a number?
Fyve thousand men into a host.
Then Henry Purdie proved his cost,[151]
And very narrowlie had mischiefed him,
And there we had our warden lost,
Wert not the grit God he relieved him.

Another throw the breiks him bair,
Whill flatlies to the ground he fell:
Than thought I weel we had lost him there,
Into my stomach it struck a knell!
Yet up he raise, the treuth to tell ye,
And laid about him dints full dour;
His horsemen they raid sturdilie,
And stude about him in the stoure.

Then raise[152] the slogan with ane shout--
"Fy Tindaill, to it! Jedbrugh's here!"
I trow he was not half sae stout,
But[153] anis his stomach was asteir.

With gun and genzie,[154] bow and speir,
Men might see monie a cracked crown!
But up amang the merchant geir,
They were as busie as we were down.

The swallow taill frae tackles flew,
Five hundreth flain[155] into a flight,
But we had pestelets enow,
And shot amang them as we might.
With help of God the game gaed right,
Frae time the foremost of them fell;
Then ower the know without goodnight,
They ran, with mony a shout and yell.

But after they had turned backs,
Yet Tindaill men they turned again;
And had not been the merchant packs,
There had been mae of Scotland slain.
But, Jesu! if the folks were fain
To put the bussing on their thies;
And so they fled, wi' a' their main,
Down ower the brae, like clogged bees.

Sir Francis Russel ta'en was there,
And hurt, as we hear men rehearse;
Proud Wallinton was wounded sair,
Albeit he be a Fennick fierce.
But if ye wald a souldier search,
Among them a' were ta'en that night,
Was nane sae wordie to put in verse,
As Collingwood, that courteous knight.

Young Henry Schafton, he is hurt;
A souldier shot him with a bow:
Scotland has cause to mak great sturt,
For laiming of the laird of Mow.
The Laird's Wat did weel, indeed;
His friends stood stoutlie by himsel',
With little Gladstain, gude in need,
For Gretein ken