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abune agains this gude baith ballat befoir beir Beist Blude cleir Deid Deil deir Dispair dois doun Dreid dryve Dunbar fair Feir Feynd frae Fule Fyre Geir give thee Grace Giving suld Discration grene grit gude new Zeir gyde haif hald hame Heart Heid heir keip King knaw Knicht Kynd leid Lerges Licht Lord Luke Luve Lyfe lyke maid maist maun meit micht mony Mynd myne nae mair naithing nane Neid neir nevir nocht nowther owre Quha Quhair quhat Quhen Quhilk quhome Quhy Quhyle Quod Quod Reason reid richt Schame schaw scho Scots shyne Sicht sould speid speik Speir Stryfe Sum gives sune sweit Syde Syne thair thee Grace agains thir thocht thou sall throw Traytor trew Trix tuke Tyme uther wald Wyce Wyfis Zeir Day zour Zouth
Page 191 - Wi' a' his men sae brave to see, The King he movit his bonnet to him ; He ween'd he was a King as weel as he. " May I find grace, my sovereign liege, Grace for my loyal men and me ? For my name it is Johnie Armstrang, And a subject of yours, my liege,
Page 250 - Then reid reid grew his dark-brown cheiks, Sae did his dark-brown brow ; His luiks grew kene, as they were wont In dangers great to do ; He hes tane a horn as...
Page 194 - I have asked grace at a graceless face, But there is nane for my men and me...
Page 192 - I'll gie thee all these milk-whyt steids, That prance and nicher at a speir, With as mekle gude Inglis gilt As four of their braid backs dow beir.' 11 'Away, away, thou traytor strang! Out o' my sicht thou mayst sune be! I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee.
Page 247 - STATELY stept he east the wa', And stately stept he west, Full seventy years he now had seen, Wi
Page 249 - To horse, to horse, my royal liege, Your faes stand on the strand, Full twenty thousand glittering spears The King of Norse commands.
Page 260 - Fu' soon he rais'd his bent body, His bow he marvell'd sair, Sin blows till then on him but darr'd As touch of FAIRLY fair : Norse marvell'd too as sair as he To see his stately look ; Sae soon as e'er he strake a fae, Sae soon his life he took.
Page 256 - Quhen bows were bent and darts were thrawn, For thrang fcarce could they flie, The darts clove arrows as they met, The arrows dart the trie. Lang did they rage and ficht full ferfs, With little fkaith to man, But bludy, bludy was the field, Or that lang day was done.