The fawlis had funkin throw the fin of the, 455 War nocht the pepill maid fie grit prayeir.
Quhen that the fchip was faynit, and undir faill, Foule brow, in hoill, thow purpoft for to pafs, Thow fchott, and wes nocht ficker of thy taill, Befchait the fteir, the cumpafs, and the glafs; 460 The Skippar bad, gar land the at the Bafs: Thow fpewit, and keft owt mony laithly lump, Fafter nor all the marineris cowd pump; And yet thy wame is war nor evir it was.
Had thay bene fo provydit of fchott of gun 465 Be men of weir but perrell thay had paft; As thow wes lowfs, and reddy of thy bun, Thay micht naif tane na tollum at the lafl; For thow wald cuke ane cairtfull at the caft; Thair is no fchip that the will now reflaif; 470 Thow fylit falter nor fyftenefum mycht laif, And myrit thame with thy muk to the midmall.
Throw England, theif, and tak the to thy fute,
And boun to haif with the ane fals botwand;
Ane horfs Merchell thow call the at the mute, 475
And with that craft convoy the throw the land:
Be na thing airch, tak ferely on hand,
Happin thow to be hangit in Northumbir,
Than all thy kyn ar weill quyt of thy cumbir,
For that mon be thy dome, I undirltand. 480
