For weil enewch they kent the way,And all their semblance well they saw:
Without all dangir or delay,Come haistily to the Harlaw.
With him the braif Lord Ogilvy,Of Angus sheriff principall,The constable of gude Dunde,The vanguard led before them all.
Suppose in number they war small,Thay first richt bauldlie did pursew,And maid thair faes befor them fall,Wha then that race did sairly rew.
And then the worthy Lord Salton,The strong undoubted Laird of Drum,The stalwart Laird of Lawristone,With ilk thair forces all and sum.
Panmuir with all his men,did cum,The provost of braif Aberdene,With trumpets and with tuick of drum,Came schortly in thair armour schene.
These with the Earle of Marr came on,In the reir-ward richt orderlie,Thair enemies to sett upon;In awfull manner hardilie,Together vowit to live and die,Since they had marchit mony mylis,For to suppress the tyrannie Of douted Donald of the Ysles.
But he,in number ten to ane,Right subtile alang did ryde,With Malcomtosch,and fell Maclean,With all thair power at thair syde;Presumeand on their strenth and pryde,Without all feir or ony aw,Richt bauldie battil did abyde,Hard by the town of fair Harlaw.
The armies met,the trumpet sounds,The dandring drums alloud did touk,Baith armies byding on the bounds,Till ane of them the feild sould bruik.
Nae help was thairfor,nane wald jouk,Ferss was the fecht on ilka syde,And on the ground lay mony a bouk Of them that thair did battil byd.
With doutsum victorie they dealt,The bludy battil lastit lang;Each man fits nibours forss thair felt,The weakest aft-tymes gat the wrang:
Thair was nae mowis thair them amang,Naithing was hard but heavy knocks,That eccho mad a dulefull sang,Thairto resounding frae the rocks.
But Donalds men at last gaif back,For they war all out of array:
The Earl of Marris men throw them brak,Pursewing shairply in thair way,Thair enemys to tak or slay,Be dynt of forss to gar them yield;Wha war richt blyth to win away,And sae for feirdness tint the feild.
Then Donald fled,and that full fast,To mountains hich for all his micht;For he and his war all agast,And ran till they war out of sicht;And sae of Ross he lost his richt,Thocht mony men with hem he brocht;Towards the yles fled day and nicht,And all he wan was deirlie bocht.
This is (quod he)the richt report Of all that I did heir and knaw;Thocht my discourse be sumthing schort,Tak this to be a richt suthe saw:
Contrairie God and the kings law,Thair was spilt mekle Christian blude,Into the battil of Harlaw:
This is the sum,sae I conclude.
But yet a bonnie while abide,And I sall mak thee cleirly ken What slaughter was on ilkay syde,Of Lowland and of Highland men,Wha for thair awin haif evir bene;These lazie lowns micht weil be spared,Chased like deers into their dens,And gat their wages for reward.
Malcomtosh,of the clan heid-cheif,Macklean with his grit hauchty heid,With all thair succour and relief,War dulefully dung to the deid;And now we are freid of thair feid,They will not lang to cum again;Thousands with them,without remeid,On Donald's syd,that day war slain.
And on the uther syde war lost,Into the feild that dismal day,Chief men of worth,of mekle cost,To be lamentit sair for ay.
The Lord Saltoun of Rothemay,A man of micht and mekle main;Grit dolour was for his decay,That sae unhappylie was slain.
Of the best men amang them was The gracious gude Lord Ogilvy,The sheriff-principal of Angus,Renownit for truth and equitie,For faith and magnanimitie;He had few fallows in the field,Yet fell by fatall destinie,For he naeways wad grant to yield.
Sir James Scrimgeor of Duddap,knicht,Grit constabill of fair Dunde,Unto the dulefull deith was dicht;The kingis cheif bannerman was he,A valiant man of chevalrie,Whose predecessors wan that place At Spey,with gude King William frie 'Gainst Murray,and Macduncan's race.
Gude Sir Allexander Irving,The much renowit laird of Drum,Nane in his days was bettir sene When they war semblit all and sum.
To praise him we sould not be dumm,For valour,witt,and worthyness;To end his days he ther did cum Whose ransom is remeidyless.
And thair the knicht of Lawriston Was slain into his armour schene,And gude Sir Robert Davidson,Wha provost was of Aberdene:
The knicht of Panmure,as was sene,A mortall man in armour bricht,Sir Thomas Murray,stout and kene,Left to the warld thair last gude nicht.
Thair was not sen King Keneths days Sic strange intestine crewel stryf In Scotland sene,as ilk man says,Whare mony liklie lost thair lyfe;Whilk maid divorce twene man and wyfe,And mony childrene fatherless,Whilk in this realme has bene full ryfe:
Lord help these lands,our wrangs redress.
In July,on Saint James his even,That four and twenty dismall day,Twelve hundred,ten score and eleven Of theirs sen Chryst,the suthe to say,Men will remember,as they may,When thus the ventie they knaw,And mony a ane may murn for ay,The brim battil of the Harlaw.
