Maister templere he was on þis half þe se,
He folowed þe Scottis pas, whan þe bigan to fle,
Fer in tille a wod, men calle it Kalenters,
þer in a mire a mod, withouten help of fers,
Slouh þei Sir Brian alon wiþouten mo.
Allas! þat douhty man, þat he so fer suld go!
þe Walsch folk þat tide did nouþer ille no gode,
þei held þam alle bi side, opon a hille þei stode.
þer þei stode þat while, tille the bataile was don,
Was neuer withouten gile Walsh man no Breton.
For þei were euer in wehere, men so of þam told,
Whilk was best bauere, with þat side forto hold.
¶ Saynt Bede sais it for lore, & I say it in ryme, [Dicta San|cti Bedæ.]
Walsh man salle neuer more luf Inglis man no tyme.
AFTER þis bataile þe kyng turned ageyn, [Expedivit se ad nup|cias secun|dum man|datum papæ.]
Ouer þat fals pedaile he ordeynd a wardeyn,
þat held þam in suilk awe, þei durst no more rise,
þorgh smerthed of þe law he did þam justise.
He ȝared his `his [Dele.] wendyng, to London gan him rape,
þider him com tiþing, lettres fro þe pape,
& bad þat he suld take þe kyng sister of France,
For Gascoyn pes to make þorgh þat aliance,
Not dame Blanche þe suete, þat I first of spake,
Bot dame Margarete, gode withouten lak.
¶ þe pape's maundement he resceyued curtasly,
Bi tyme þat it were ent he dight þerto redy,
