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ROBENE AND MAKYNE.
ROLENE sat on gud grene hill,
Keipand a flok of fie, Mirry Makyne said him till,
Robene, thou rew on me;
Thir yeiris two or three;
Doutles bot dreid I de.
Robene answerit, Be the rude,
Na thing of lufe I knaw, Bot keipis my scheip undir yone wud,
Lo quhair thay raik on raw. Quhat hes marrit the in thy mude,
Makyne, to me thow schaw; Or quhat is luve, or to be lude ?
Faine wald I leir that law,
At luvis lair gife thow will leir,
Tak thair ane A, B, C;
Wyse, hardy, and fre.
Quhat dule in dern thow dre;
Be patient and previe.
Robene answerit her agane,
I wait nocht quhat is luve, Bot I haif mervell incertaine,
Quhat makis the this wanrufe;
My scheip gois haill aboif,
Thay wald us bayth reproif.
Robene, tak tent unto my taill,
And wirk all as I reid,
Eik and my madinheid.
And for murning remeid,
Doutles I am bot deid.
will meit me heir, Perventure my scheip ma gang besyd,
Quhyll we haif liggit full neir;
Fra they begin to steir ;
Makyne, than mak gud cheir.
I luve bot the allone.
The day is neirhand gone.
That lufe will be my bone.
For leman I lue none.
I sich, and that full sair.
At hame God gif I wair.
Gif thou wilt do na mair.
For hamewart I will fair, Robene on his wayis went,
As licht as leif of tre; Makyne nournit in her intent,
And trowd him novir to sa.
Robene brayd attour the bent;
Than Makyne cryit on hie,
Quhat alis lufe with me?
werry eftir cowth weip: Than Robene in a ful-fair daill
Assemblit all his scheip.
Out-throw his hairt cowd creip;
And till her tuke gude keep.
A word for ony thing;
Is all my cuvating; My scheip to morn, quhill houris nyne,
Will neid of no keping.
In gestis and storeis auld,
Sall haif nocht quhen he wald.
to Jesu every day, Mot eik thair cairis cauld, That first preissis with the to play,
Be firth, forrest, or fawld. Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry,
The wedder is warme and fair, And the grene woud rycht neir us by
To walk attour all quhair: Thair ma na janglour us espy,
That is to lufe contrair; Thairin, Makyne, bath ye and I,
Unsenę we ma repair.
Robene, that warld is all away,
And quyt brocht till ane end,
Sall it be as thou wend;
And all in vane I spend :
Murne on, I think to mend.
Makyne, the howp of all my heill,
My hairt on the is sett,
Quhile I may leif butt lett;
Quhat grace that evir I gett.
Adew, for thus we mett,
Makyne went hame blyth anewche,
Attoure the holtis hair;
Scho sang, he sichit sair ;
In dolour and in cair,
Amang the holtis hair,
The author of this pastoral Ballad, is supposed to have been Robert
In Dunfermling death hes tane Broun,
Chapman and Millar, in the year 1508; and his Testament of fair Creseide, by Henry Charters, in the year 1593; a second Edition of this work was, in the same place and in the same form, 4to. published in 1611. Many of his Poems are to be found in the various Collections of Scottish Poetry, and they bave been illustrated by the critical acumen of almost every Editor of obsolete Poetry. Sometimes, however, these learned persons, are sadly bewildered by their “ much learning," and put strange glosses upon passages, which, had they consulted their own ploughmen, or, in default of such retainers, their own kitchen wenches, instead of lexicons and vocabularies, they might easily have avoided. A very remarkable instance of this, we have in an illustration of the first stanza, of the preceding Poem.
My dule in de n bot gif thow dill,
Doubtless bot dreid I de.
That is simply if thou do not sooth, or mitigate, or assuage my secret grief, I shall certainly die. The learned commentators, however, con. founding the word dill, which means simply to sooth or assuage, with dail, which means a quantity, have put upon the passage the very forced and unnatural meaning of sharing the concealed grief, which renders the Poet's meaning and his expression, equally aukward and foolish. Her dule she wanted the silly shepherd not to share, but to do away by sharing her passion, which was the cause of her dule. 1 have somewhere seen Ramsay ridiculed by one of these learned Editors, as a paltry fellow, who knew no language but that of the vulgar, the very language in which these works, which they seem to set so great, a value upon, are written, and without the knowledge of which they cannot be understood. The truth is, that Ramsay's deficiency as an Editor, and especially as a critic upon these remnants of the olden time, lay in his knowledge of vulgar language, and vulgar manners, being rather circumscribed than other. wise. Had he been taught to reap corn rigs, in place of being sent to reap beards, or, as heard reaping seems to be an idea scouted by his ardent admirers, had he remained in the country to theek cornstacks, instead of the “witty pashes” of Edinburgh, I have no doubt that his Editorial la. bours had been much more valuable to mankind. I do not by this mean to be understood as speaking disrespectfully of these labours, my opinion is, that they are more valuable than those of some who have been among the harshest of his detractors.
Bedoun the bents of Banquo brae
Musand our main mischaunce;
And leid us sic a daunce: