« PreviousContinue »
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,
Maest lyke a drunken wicht;
The forest schuke with fright:
They ducht not byde the blast;
Until the storm was past :
That had a spunk of sence, In neid then, with speid then, Methocht cryt,
« In defence.”
To se a morn in May sae ill,
To rair with rackles reil ;
I bure me to a biel,
Out owre a canny cave,
Quhilk to me shelter gaif;
I leint me doun to weip, In brief ther, with grief ther
Į dottard owre on sleip,
Heir Somnus in bis silent hand
Quhile I forgot my cair ;
That wauking finds it rare;
But not my wakryfe mynd,
A man with aspeck kynd,
With baird thre quarters skant, Sae braif lyke and graif lyke,
He seimt to be a sanct.
Grit daring dartit frae his ee,
On his left arm a targe;.
Of just proportions large;
Owre his left spawl he threw,
The silver whimplers grew;
To se, led at command A strampant and rampant
Ferss lyon in his hand;
Quhilk held a thistle in his paw,
This poesie pat and plain,
Me, unpuniçit with pain.
Still schaking, I durst naithing say,
Till he with kynd accent
I cum to heir thy plaint;
Haith laitlie reik'd mine eir, Debar then affar then
All eiryness or feir.
For I am ane of a hie station,
And can nocht do thee wrang;
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,
And on their honour stramp;
He has blawn out our lamp:
With sobs, thair silent grief,
With small howp of reliefe ; Regretand and fretand
Ay at his cursit plot, Quha rammed and crammed
That bargain doun their throta
Braif gentrie sweir, and burghers ban, Revenge is muttert by ilk clan
That's to thair nation trew;
With its contryving crew.
Upon dyre vengeance fall;
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,
Sen this disgraceful paction;
We are sae forfairn with faction. Then has not he gude cause to grumble,
That's forst to be a slajf?
And gars a wyse man raif.
Infernal be thair hyre
Into this ugsum myre.
Then he with bauld forbidding luke
For being of sprite sae inein :
May sumtym sour his splein;
He rather sould, mair lyke a man,
Some braif design attempt;
Rest but a quhyle content,
And wait the will of Fate, Which mynds to, desynds to
Renew your auntient state.
I ken sum mair than ye do all
In mair auspicious tymes ;
Frae round eard's utmost clymes,
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,
Gif eir schoil be her sell ?
Should ken all I can tell:
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.