In Sanct Androis on Whitsoun Monnunday
Twa campionis thair manheid did assay,
Past to the barres, enarmit heid and handis.
Was never sene sic justing in no landis.
In presence of the Kingis Grace, and Quene,
Quhare mony lustie lady mycht be sene,
Mony ane knicht, barroun, and banrent
[281],
Come for to se that awfull Tornament.
The ane of thame was gentill James Watsoun,
And Jhone Barbour the uther campioun.
Unto the King thay wer familiaris,
And of his chalmer boith cubicularis.
James was ane man of greit intelligence,
Ane medicinar
[282] ful of experience;
And Jhone Barbour, he was ane nobill leche
[283],
Crukit carlinnis, he wald gar
[284] thame get speche.
From tyme thay enterit war into the feild
Full womanlie thay weildit speir and scheild,
And wichtlie waiffit
[285] in the wynd thair heillis,
Hobland lyke cadgeris
[286] rydand on thair creillis;
But ather ran at uther with sic haist
That they could never thair speir get in the reist.
Quhen gentill James trowit best with Jhone to meit,
His speir did fald among his horsis feit:
I am richt sure gude James had bene undone,
War nocht that Jhone his marke tuke be the mone.
Quod Jhone, “Howbeit thou thinkis my leggis lyke rokkis
[287],
My speir is gude; now keip ye fra my knokkis.”
“Tary,” quod James, “ane quhyle, for be my thrift
[288]The feind ane thing I can se bot the lift
[289].”
“No more can I,” quod Jhone, “be Goddis breid
[290],
I see na-thing except the steipill heid.
Yit, thocht thy braunis be lyk twa barrow-trammis,
Defend thee, man!” Than ran thay to, lyk rammis.
At that rude rink
[291] James had bene strykin down
War nocht that Jhone for feirsnes fell in swoun;
And rycht sa James to Jhone had done greit deir
[292],
Wer not amangis his hors feit he brak his speir.
Quod James to Jhone, “Yit for our ladyis saikis,
Lat us togidder straik three market straikis
[293].”
“I had,” quod Jhone, “that sall on thee be wrokin
[294]!”
Bot or
[295] he spurrit his hors his speir was brokin.
From tyme with speiris nane could his marrow
[296] meit
James drew ane swerd with ane richt awfull spreit,
And ran til Jhone, til haif raucht him ane rout
[297].
Johnis swerd was roustit, and wald no way cam out.
Than James leit dryfe at Jhone with boith his fistis.
He mist the man, and dang
[298] upon the lystis;
And with that straik he trowit that Jhone was slane.
His swerd stak fast, and gat it never agane.
Be this, gude Jhone had gottin furth his sword,
And ran to James with mony awfull word.
“My furiousness, for suith
[299], now sall thou find!”
Straikand at James his swerd flew in the wind.
Than gentill James began to crack
[300] greit wordis.
“Allace!” quod he, “this day for falt of swordis.”
Than ather ran at uther with new raicis,
With gluifis
[301] of plait thay dang at utheris facis.
Quha wan this feild na creature culd ken
[302],
Till at the last Johne cryit, “Fy! red
[303] the men.”
“Yea! red,” quod James, “for that is my desyre;
It is ane hour sen I began to tyre.”
Sone be
[304] thay had endit that royall rink,
Into the feild micht no man stand for stink.
Than every man, that stude on far, cryit, Fy!
Sayand adew; for dirt partis company.
Thair hors, harnis, and all geir
[305], wes so gude,
Lovyng
[306] to God! that day was sched no blude.