Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
Thus, he hides his face, and we are not to back a traitor, Sir Jeffrey, you'll get between me and the Gallows, if I strike him down. I'll enter into a Recognizance to hang before thou shalt hang. If you see my heart begin to faint, knock you me down to put life into me. Fear nothing. Be damned both gods and men the act detest, Oh heaven; wipe this sin out for all the rest. Your sins are wiped out sir, your Scottish score is paid sir. Is he down? He sprawls, stay there's one asleep by him, Shall I kill the louse in his head too? No, wake not a sleeping Mastive, the Kings in the field, let's post to him, Bolt, thou shalt be a Knight as deep as myself, for this manly deed, as ye go through the Country, cry aloud, the traitor's dead. Cry it out at the Cross, and at the old Palace, That Bolt was the man that brained lusty Wallace. The traitor's dead, the traitor's dead, &c. Thou shalt have fire anon old man, ba', murdered? What shouldst thou be? the face of Haslerig, 'Tis he, just heavens ye have bestowed my office Upon some other, I thank ye that my blood Stains not my hand, however both did die (In love or hate) both shall together lie, The Coffin you must sleep in is this Cave, Whole heaven your winding sheet, all earth your grave, The early Lark shall sadly ring your Knell, Your Dirge be sung by mournful Philomell, Instead of flowers and strewing herbs take these, And what my charity now fails to do, Poor Robin-redbreast shall, my last adieu, I have other streams to swim through, or calm Venture, 'tis brave when danger's crowned with palm. Upon this field-bed will we lodge this night, The earth's a soldier's pillow, here pitch our tents. Up with our tents. To council, beat a Drum. Beat it for action then, and not for words, Upon our Spear points our best counsel fits, Follow that (noble General) up with no tents If you dare hold me worthy to advise, But with an easy march move gently on. You speak against the Scholership of war. Now their Beef-pots, and their Cans, Are tossed in stead of Pikes, their Arms are thrown About their Wenches middles, there's their close fight, Let us not lose the forelock in our hands, Of us they dream not, yet we are as freeborn As th' English King himself, be not their slaves, Free Scotland, or in England dig our graves. A Wallace, A Wallace, A Wallace! Rugerosse, what cry is this? Of the whole Army, Grown wild 'twixt joy and admiration, At the sight of Wallace. Ha. That dreadless Soldier, For whom all Scotland shed a sea of tears As deep as that in which men thought him dead, Sets with his presence all their hearts on fire, That have but sight of him. A Wallace, A Wallace. Entreat him hither.
seed 43: T22 · seed 44: T13 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Thus, he hides his face, and wee are not to back a traitor, Sir Jeffrey, you'le get between mee and the Gallows, if I ſtrike him down. I'le enter into a Recognizance to hang before thou ſhalt hang. If you ſee my heart begin to faint, knock you mee down to put life into me. Feare nothing. Be damn'd both gods and men the act deteſt, Oh heaven; wipe this ſinne out for all the reſt. Your ſins are wip'd out ſir, your Scottiſh ſcore is paid ſir. Is he down? He ſprawles, ſtay there's one aſleep by him, Shall I kill the lice in his head too? No, wake not a ſleeping Maſtive, the Kings in the field, Lets poſt to him, Bolt, thou ſhalt be a Knight as deep as my ſelfe, for this manly deed, as ye go through the Country, cry aloud, the traitor's dead. Cry it out at the Croſſe, and at the old Palace, That Bolt was the man that brain'd luſty Wallace. The traitor's dead, the traitor's dead, &c. Thou ſhalt have fire anon old man, ba', murdred? What ſhouldſt thou be? the face of Haſlerig, 'Tis he, juſt heavens ye have beſtow'd my office Vpon ſome other, I thank ye that my bloud Stains not my hand, however both did die (In love or hate) both ſhall together lie, The Coffin you muſt ſleep in is this Cave, Whole heaven your winding ſheet, all earth your grave, The early Lark ſhall ſadly ring your Knell, Your Dirge be ſung by mournfull Philomell, Inſtead of flowres and ſtrewing herbs take theſe, And what my charity now fails to do, Poor Robin-redbreſt ſhall, my laſt adue, I have other ſtreames to ſwim through, or calme Venture, 'tis brave when danger's crown'd with palme. Vpon this field-bed will we lodge this night, The earth's a ſouldiers pillow, here pitch our tents. Vp with our tents. To councell, beat a Drum. Beat it for action then, and not for words, Vpon our Speare points our beſt counſell fits, Follow that (noble Generall) up with no tents If you dare hold me worthy to adviſe, But with an eaſie march move gently on. You ſpeak againſt the Scholerſhip of war. Now their Beef-pots, and their Cans, Are toſſ'd in ſtead of Pikes, their Armes are thrown About their Wenches middles, there's their cloſe feight, Let us not loſe the forelock in our hands, Of us they dream not, yet we are as free-born As th' Engliſh King himſelf, be not their ſlaves, Free Scotland, or in England dig our graves. A Wallace, A Wallace, A Wallace! Rugeroſſe, what cry is this? Of the whole Army, Grown wild twixt joy and admiration, At the ſight of Wallace. Ha. That dreadleſſe Souldier, For whom all Scotland ſhed a ſea of teares As deep as that in which men thought him dead, Sets with his preſence all their hearts on fire, That have but ſight of him. A Wallace, A Wallace. Intreat him hither.