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Furth prickit he throch the wud,
Lyk ane black clud,

In tide tempestive,
Calland loud and hie,
On the woulff ne to flee,
Quhan fleand sikarlie,

He was belive.

Alace ! in the woulffis mouth,
Borne was the mayd in trouth,

Shrikand delore,
Hir waist jimp and sma,
Crushit was atwixt his jaw,
And hir heid hong law,

Sad thoch decore.

Hir armis saft and lyte,
And halse ivorie quhyt

Sweepit the grund.
Quhyll hir goun in the wynd,
Trailand wes behind,
Alace ! sicht of sic kynd,

Niver was fund.

Wae wes Schir Gormalyn,
Syne neir he ne win,

Albe he straive ;
Eftsune his horss coupit
Ouir ane roche knoupit,
To erd Gormalyn loupit,

Deliver and braive.

On feet he swyth ran
Manie ane myl of land,

Nicht and day.
Thorow day he ay saw
Hir sklendir waist in woulffis jaw,
And thorow nicht a mane law,

For mercie alwaie.

"O for ane egillis wing! O for ane vyperis sting!”

Quod Gormalyn. “ O for ane lyounis pawe, That this woulf mote I drawe, Lith and limb assinder sma,

And slay in fine.

Mi hert ben sair ysmote,
Be this mayis wordis swote,

Tendir and sad,
That it bene molten clene,
Fulfilland mi tua eyne,
With manie saut tene,

Of dolor and drad.

O woulff let the Ladie fre,
And ye schall haif kye thre,

Soncie and sweit.
Ilk yere as manie moe,
Scheip wi yong to throw
Schall until ye eith goe,

Trewlie I weet.

Bot hard wes the Woulfis hert, Lyk heid of ane steel dert,

Lyte reckit hee Of Schir Gormalyn gude, Rampagand fell and wud, And scuddand lyk simmer clud,

In welkin blee.

Schakand his salvage pow,
Wi bludie eyne on low,

And ane lang gowl,
Up muntanis he speelis,
Doun braes he reelis,
Wingis weren at his heelis,

Deth in his gowl.

Evir the mayd he schuke,
Wi ane feidfou leuk,

Girnand and yamfand.
And quhyl he dois hir dasch,
His teith stikis in hir flesch,
Makand ane deip gasch,

With felloun champand.

Mervailous it was to heir
Amangis hillis and heuchis dreir,

The maydis mane.
It seemit waneirdlie sound,
Suchand in aire around,
Calculed to astound,

Wi fricht and pain,

Chewand his lippis wi yre,
Gormalyn fers as fyr,

Shoutand persewit,
Bot the Woulff unfoirfairn,
Bure aff the bonnie bairn,
Fleet lyk ane schot stern,

Far frae his bruit.

Doun on the garss grene,
Fawis stout Schir Gormalyn,

In disperaunce ;
Forfauchten foirgane,
He list him mak mane,
That the May awa was tane,

In hour wanchance.

Alace ! nouthir Tristram,
Nor bauld Schir Gawan,

Launcelot du Lak,
Nor anie perle of hardiment,
Of Chivalrie culd schent,
This woulff quha owre the bent,

Schupeth his trak.

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Very little more of the manuscript from which the above is transcribed can be at all legible. Several stanzas seem to relate to the ingredients which composed the sovereign beverage administered to Schir Gormalyn by his Squyer, who, we are elsewhere informed, is “cunnand and lerit in al erbis of erd.” From ought that can be perceived, this cordial was of a much more invigorating and wholesome description than that which the lank-jawed knight of La Mancha swallowed after the rib roasting he received from the Yanguesian carriers ; for the pursuit after this wolf is continued with fresh ardour, and as might be expected becomes of no ordinary length, being inter

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