3
What ails what ails my dearest friend?
Why want ye to destroy me?
I want no flattery base Sir Neil,
but draw your sword and try me.
Why should I fight with you M‘Van,
you ne'er have me offended;
And if I aught to you have done,
I’ll own my fault and mend it.
Is this your boasted courage knave?
Who would not now despise thee?
But if thou still refuse to fight,
I'll like a dog chastice thee.
Forbear fond fool tempt not thy fate;
presume not now to strike me;
There's not a man in all Scotland,
can wield the broad sword like me.
Combin'd with guilt, thy wondrous skill
from fate shall not defend thee,
My Sister's wrongs shall brace my arms
this stroke to death shall send thee.
But this and many a well aim'd blow,
the generous Baron warded,
Being loth to harm so dear a friend,
himself he only guarded.
Till mad at being so sore abus'd,
a furios push he darted,
