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ROLENE sat on gud grene hill,

Keipand a flok of fie, Mirry Makyne said him till,

Robene, thou rew on me;
I haif the luvit lowd and still,

Thir yeiris two or three;
My dule in der bot gif thow dill,

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;
Be kynd, courtas, and fair of feir,

Wyse, hardy, and fre.
Se that no denger do the deir,

Quhat dule in dern thow dre;
Preiss the with pane at all poweir,

Be patient and previe.

Robene answerit her agane,

I wait nocht quhat is luve, Bot I haif mervell incertaine,

Quhat makis the this wanrufe;
The weddir is fair, and I am fane,

My scheip gois haill aboif,
And we wald play us in this plane,

Thay wald us bayth reproif.

Robene, tak tent unto my taill,

And wirk all as I reid,
And thow sall haif my hairt all haill,

Eik and my madinheid.
Sen God sendis bute for baill,

And for murning remeid,
I dern with the; bot gif 1 daill,

Doutles I am bot deid.
Makyne, to morne this ilk a tyde,


will meit me heir, Perventure my scheip ma gang besyd,

Quhyll we haif liggit full neir;
Bot maugre haif I, and I byd,

Fra they begin to steir ;
Quhat lyis on hairt I will noeht hyd;

Makyne, than mak gud cheir.
Robene, thou reivis me roiss and rest,

I luve bot the allone.
Makyne, adew, the sone gois west,

The day is neirhand gone.
Robene, in dule I am so drest,

That lufe will be my bone.
Ga lufe, Makyne, quhair evir thou list,

For leman I lue none.
Robene, I stand in sic a style

I sich, and that full sair.
Makyne, I haif bene heir this quhyle,

At hame God gif I wair.
My hinny, Robene, talk ane quhyle,

Gif thou wilt do na mair.
Makyne, sum uthir man begyle,

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.

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Robene brayd attour the bent;

Than Makyne cryit on hie,
Now ma thow sing, for I am schent !

Quhat alis lufe with me?
Makyne went hame withouttin faill,

werry eftir cowth weip: Than Robene in a ful-fair daill

Assemblit all his scheip.
Be that sum parte of Makyne's ail

Out-throw his hairt cowd creip;
He followit hir fast thair till assaill,

And till her tuke gude keep.
Abyd, abyd, thou fair Makyne,

A word for ony thing;
For all my luve it sall be thyne,

Withouttin departing.
All haill! thy harte for till haif myne,

Is all my cuvating; My scheip to morn, quhill houris nyne,

Will neid of no keping.
Robene, thou hes hard soung

In gestis and storeis auld,
The man that will not quhen he may,

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.

and say,

Robene, that warld is all away,

And quyt brocht till ane end,
And nevir again thereto perfay,

Sall it be as thou wend;
For of my pane thou maide it play,

And all in vane I spend :
As thou hes done, sa sall I say,

Murne on, I think to mend.

Makyne, the howp of all my heill,

My hairt on the is sett,
And evir mair to the be leill,

Quhile I may leif butt lett;
Nevir to faill, as utheris faill,

Quhat grace that evir I gett.
Robene, with the I will not deill;

Adew, for thus we mett,

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Makyne went hame blyth anewche,

Attoure the holtis hair;
Robene murnit, and Makyne lewche;

Scho sang, he sichit sair ;
And so left him, bayth wo and wreuch,

In dolour and in cair,
Kepand his hird under a huche,

Amang the holtis hair,

The author of this pastoral Ballad, is supposed to have been Robert
Henryson, of whose life time has left us almost no nemorials. The time
and the place of his birth are alike unknown. He is styled by Urry, chief
schoolmaster of Dunfermline; and Lord Hailes conjectures that he ottici,
ated as preceptor in the Benedictine convent there. From the former of
these writers we also learn that he flourished during the reign of Henry
the eighth. That he reached an advanced age, appears from some pass-
ages of his “ Testament of fair Creseide;" and that he died before Dun.
bar, is evident from the following couplet of that celebrated poet's
" Lament for the death of the Makkaris."

In Dunfermling death hes tane Broun,
With gude Mr.

Robert Henrysoun.
His Fables have been printed, and likewise preserved with others of his
Poems, in the Bannatyne MS. His tale of “Orpheous King, and how he
yeid to hewyn and to hel to seik his quene," was printed at Edinburgh by

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
Mi-lane I wandert waif and wac,

Musand our main mischaunce;
How be thay faes we ar undone,
That staw the sacred stane frae Scone,

And leid us sic a daunce:

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