Quhile Ingland's Ederts tak our tours,
And Scotland ferst obeys,
Rude ruffians ransak ryal bours,
And Baliol homage pays;
Throch feidom our freidom
Is blottit with this skore,
Quhat Roman's, or no man's
Pith culd eir do befoir.
The ayr grew ruch with bousteous thuds,
Bauld Boreas branglit throw the cluds,
Maest lyke a drunken wicht;
The thunder crackt, and flauchts did rift
Frae the black vissart of the lift;
The forest schuke with fright:
Nae birds abune thair wing exten,
They ducht not byde the blast;
Ilk beist bedeen bang'd to thair den,
Until the storm was past:
Ilk creature in nature
That had a spunk of sence,
In neid then, with speid then,
Methocht cryt, 66 In defence."
To se a morn in May sae ill,
I deimt dame Nature was gane will,
To rair with rackles reil;
Quhairfor to put me out of pain,
And skonce my skap and shanks frae rain
I bure me to a biel,
Up ane hich craig that lundgit alaft,
Out owre a canny cave,
A curious cruif of Nature's craft,
Quhilk to me shelter gaif;
Ther vexit, perplexit,
I leint me doun to weip, In brief ther, with grief ther I dottard owre on sleip,
Heir Somnus in his silent hand
Held all my sences at command,
Quhile I forgot my cair;
The mildest meid of mortal wichts
Quha pass in piece the private nichts,
That wauking finds it rare;
Sae in saft slumbers did I ly,
But not my wakryfe mynd,
Quhilk still stude watch, and couth espy
A man with aspeck kynd,
Richt auld lyke and bauld lyke,
With baird thre quarters skant,
Sae braif lyke and graif lyke,
He seimt to be a sanct.
Grit daring dartit frae his ee,
A braid-sword schogled at his thie,
On his left arm a targe;
A shinand speir filled his richt hand,
Of stalwart mak, in bane and brawnd,
Of just proportions large;
A various rain-bow-colourt plaid
Owre his left spawl he threw,
Doun his braid back, frae his quhyte heid, The silver whimplers grew;
Amaisit, I gaisit
To se, led at command A strampant and rampant
Ferss lyon in his hand;
Quhilk held a thistle in his paw,
And round his collar graift I saw
This poesie pat and plain,
Nemo me impune lacess-
-et:- -In Scots, Nane sall oppress
Me, unpunisit with pain.
Still schaking, I durst naithing say,
Till he with kynd accent
Sayd, Fere, let nocht thy heart affray,
I cum to heir thy plaint;
Thy graining and maining
Haith laitlie reik'd mine eir,
Debar then affar then
All eiryness or feir.
For I am ane of a hie station,
The Warden of this auntient nation,
And can nocht do thee wrang;
I vissyt him then round about,
Syne with a resolution stout,
Speird, Quhair he had been sae lang!
Quod he, Althoch I sum forsuke,
Becaus they did me slicht,
To hills and glens I me betuke,
To them that luves me richt;
Quhase mynds yet inclynds yet
To damm the rappid spate,
Devysing and prysing
Freidom at ony rate.
Our trechour peirs thair tyranns treit,
Quha jib them, and thair substance eit,
And on their honour stramp;
They puire degenerate! bend thair baks,
The victor, Longshanks, proudly cracks
He has blawn out our lamp:
Quhyle trew men, sair complainand, tell,
With sobs, thair silent grief,
How Baliol thair richts did sell,
With small howp of reliefe;
Regretand and fretand
Ay at his cursit plot,
Quha rammed and crammed
That bargain doun their throt
Braif gentrie sweir, and burghers ban,
Revenge is muttert by ilk clan
That's to thair nation trew;
The cloysters cum to cun the evil,
Mail-payers wiss it to the devil,
With its contryving crew.
The hardy wald with hairty wills,
Upon dyre vengeance
The fechless fret owre heuchs and hills,
And eccho answers all,
Repetand and gretand,
With mony a sair alace,
For blasting and casting
Our honour in disgrace.
Waes me! quod I, our case is bad,
And mony of us are gane mad,
Sen this disgraceful paction;
We are fell'd and herryt now by forss,
And hardly help fort, that's yit warse,
We are sae forfairn with faction.
Then has not he gude cause to grumble,
That's forst to be a slaif?
Oppression dois the judgment jumble,
And gars a wyse man raif.
May chains then, and pains then
Infernal be thair hyre
Quha dang us, and flang us
Into this ugsum myre.
Then he with bauld forbidding luke
And stately air did me rebuke,
For being of sprite sae mein:
Said he, Its far beneath a Scot
To use weak curses, quhen his lot
May sumtym sour his splein;
He rather sould, mair lyke a man,
Some braif design attempt;
Gif its not in his pith, what than!
Rest but a quhyle content,
Not feirful, but cheirful,
And wait the will of Fate,
Which mynds to, desynds to
Renew your auntient state.
I ken sum mair than ye do all
Of quhat sall afterwart befall,
In mair auspicious tymes;
For aften far abufe the mune,
We watching beings do convene,
Frae round eard's utmost clymes,
Quhair ev'ry Warden represents
Cleirly his nation's case,
Gif Famine, Pest, or Sword torments,
Or vilains hie in place,
Quha keip ay, and heip ay
Up to themselves grit store,
By rundging and spunging
The leil laborious puire.
Say then, said I, at your hie state,
Lernt ye oucht of auld Scotland's fate,
Gif eir schoil be her sell?
With smyle celest, quod he, I can,
But its nocht fit an mortal man
Should ken all I can tell :
But part to thee I may unfold,
And thou may saifly ken,
Quhen Scottish peirs slicht Saxon gold,
And turn trew heartit men;
Quhen knaivrie and slaivrie,
Ar equally dispysd,
And loyalte, and royalte,
Universallie are prysd.
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