were of cuirbouly, 3910 His swordë’s sheath of ivory, His helm of latoun 3911 bright, His saddle was of rewel 3912 bone, His bridle as the sunnë shone, Or as the moonëlight. His spearë was of fine cypress, That bodeth war, and nothing peace; The head full sharp y-ground. His steedë was all dapple gray, It went an amble in the way Full softëly and round In land. Lo, Lordës mine, here is a fytt; 3913 If ye will any more of it, To tell it will I fand. 3914