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LO these fond sottes. And tratling scottes
How they are blind. In their owne minde
And will not know. Their ouerthrow
At Branxston more. They are so srowre
So frantike mad. They say they had
And wan the felde. With speare and shield
That is as trew. As blacke is blew
And grene is gray. What euer they say
Iemmy is dead. And closed in leade
That was theyr own king. Fy on that winning
At Flodden hilles. Oure bowes our bylles
Slewe all the floure. Of theyr honoure.
Are not these scottes. Foles and settes
Suche boste to make. To prate and crake
To face to brace All voyde of grace
So proud of hart. So ouerth wart
So out of frame. So voyd of shame
As it is enrold. Wrytten and told
Within this quaire. Who list to repair
And ther in reed. Shal finde in deed
A mad rekening. Considering all thing
That the scottes may sin. Fye on the winning