English

B EINGAT rapfow thocht yow raif
Skorner of poitis and sklanderus knaif
Quhat sayis thow bot we knaw o r sell
In spyte of the and all the laif
The bastard bairne sall beir the bell

Outher thow art ane papist loun
Hepburne or hoitbag Hammiltoun
Gif thie be tha thow callis thi prince.
War zour richt reknit to yi croun
It my t be laid with litill menss.

Blasphemus baird and beggeris get
The regentis self hes nocht forzet
How gude King Willm wes ane bastard
And yow nocht bot ane carlengs pett

My Lordis now gif ze be wyse,

Knaw weil the grace it God hes send zow
Gif to that leuing Lord all pryse,
Pray that from dainger he defend zow,
And na way lat zoure fais offend zow
But gif zow counsell and curage,
Bauldlie togidder all to bend zow,
That ze do nouther swerue nor swage.

Think it is nouther strenth nor fors
That hes set zow a fuite befoir,
Think weill that nouther men nor hors
Off sic ane act sould get the gloir:
Bot he that ringis euer moir
Hes luikit on zoure quarell rycht,

I Henry Stewart, vmquhile of Scotland King,
Sumtyme in houpe, with reuerence to Ring:
Within this Realme in dew obedience,
Traisting with ane attoure all eirdlie thing
Quha was the ruite quhair of I did spring,
In honour to liue, be kindelie allyance:
Putand in hir sic faith and confidence,
Ingland I left, seducit be ignorance;
Scotland I socht, in houpe for to get hir,
Quhilk I may rew, as now is cum the chance,
And vthers learne be me experience:
In tyme be war, fra ainis the work missit her.

MANY YEARS AFTER .

I sat beside my fire, lived o'er again
My happy youth, now left so far behind;
Outside I heard the splash of heavy rain,
The ceaseless soughing of the stormy wind,

The melancholy moaning of the sea,
The rush of great waves, breaking on the shore;
When suddenly a loved voice called on me,
A much loved voice I thought to hear no more.

I caught my breath and listened. Softly fell,
In pleading tones, my name upon mine ear;

NEXT YEAR .

A twelvemonth since and I was gay;
Now I am sad.
For my lost joys I weep alway, —
Cannot be glad.
My songs are hushed; the roses dead;
Spring gone; the singing birds have fled.

I thought that death alone could part
Those that were true.
That I should bear an aching heart
I little knew.
But idle words were lightly said,
And all my hopes lay withered, — dead.

Since then for my dear love in vain
I've pined. It seems

FIRST DAY .

Life for me is full of gladness!
One long holiday.
Other people talk of sadness;
I am always gay.
Songs to my lips unbidden spring;
I sing because I needs must sing.

Like as the birds, who, winter past,
Pour from bush and tree,
Forgetting its keen chilling blast,
Sweetest melody.
Blackbirds and thrushes all day sing;
Flowers and love come with the Spring.

Like the last prophet, dark December comes,
Uttering the doom of all things. Hear, my soul,
And profit by the teacher. List the roll
Of surging waters. Not an insect hums;
Carols no bird; cold gloom fills up the whole.
The trees, leaf-stript, lift up their arms in vain
To catch the struggling sunshine. On their steeds
The winds are mounted, prancing o'er the plain,
Then up the hills, then down the vales again.
Like a tried friend returning through the meads
He lov'd in childhood, after absence long,

Clouds tempest-strided, heavy-sounding rain.
Wind, darkness, cold, make up thy dismal train,
Gloomy November! How the rivers rise
And echo through the hollows! Sadly flies
The last leaf from the forest, whirling round,
Then hurl'd in anger on the sodden ground.
Sudden the change! The flowers are drown'd with tears;
The pastoral field-paths, muddy, tempt no more;
The plover on the open land appears,
And little redbreast ventures near the door;
The ploughman blows his fingers by his team,

Ripe fruits and filberts! Over all the land
The hot air travels, bearing music bland
From shining scythe and sickle. Harvest lays
Rise where the white corn, on a hundred hills,
In the broad valleys, by the sparkling rills,
Bends to the joyous reaper; whilst a haze
Of insect incense fills the world with praise.
Wheat-waving August, in thy straw-bright hair
And leafy zone, with juicy fruitage bound,
What loveliness can with thyself compare?
Where dwells a queen so greatly, grandly crown'd?

Heat and hay-making! Through the scented grass
The sharp scythe rustles, bringing music dear,
With pastoral echoes, to the listening ear;
While, in the sunshine, boy and buxom lass
Raise clover-ridges. As the gate we pass
Leading into the meadow, gales of glee
Come floating breeze-borne over lake and lea.
In the tree's shadow stand the panting kine,
Rambles the angler by the limpid stream:
The earth is full of charity Divine;
Waves the green corn where glancing swallows gleam.
The lanes are loveliness where fair things dream.