English

" Wo worth, " quod the weirdis " the wicht is that the e wrocht!
Threidbair be thair thrift as thow art wanthrevin!
Als hard be thair hansell that helpis the e ocht!
The rottin rim of thy womb with ruikis salbe revin;
All boundis whair thou byddis to baill salbe brocht;
Thy gall and thy guissorne to the glaidis salbe gevin;
Ay schort be thy sollace; with schame be socht:
In hell mot thow haunt and hyd the from heavin;
And ay as thow growis auld, so eik in anger,
To live with lymmeris and outlawis

The wird sisteris wandering, as they wer wont than,
Saw revinis rug at this rat be ane rone-ruite.
They musit at this mandrak mismaid lyk ane man:
Ane beist bund with ane bunwyd in ane auld bute.
How this ghaist haid bene gottin, to ges they begane,
Swir sweillit in ane swyneskin and smeirit our with sute.
The bellie that it buir they bitterlie ban.
Of that mismaid mowdywart, mischief they mute
That cankerit camscheocht, uncristnit, they curs;
And baid that it suld nevir be but
The glengoir, gravell and the gut,

Vyld venymous vipper, wanthreivinest of thingis,
Half ane elph, half ane aip, of nature denyit,
Thow flyttis and thow freittis, thou fartis and thow flingis;
Bot this bargane, unbeist, deir sall thow b u y it.
" The kuif is weill wairit that twa home bringis, "
This proverb, peild pellet, to the e is applyit:
Spruug speidder of spyt thow spewis furth springis;
Wanschaippin wowbat of the weirdis invyit,
I can schaw how, whair and what begate the;
Whilk wes nather man nor wyf,

Adeu, my King, Court, Cuntrey and my kin,
Adeu, suete Duke, whose father held me deir;
Adeu, Companiones Constable and Keir;
Thrie treuar hairts I trou sall never tuin.
If byganes to revolve I suld begin,
My tragedie wald cost you mony a teir
To heir hou hardly I am handlit heir,
Considring once the honour I wes in.
Shirs ye haif sene me griter with his Grace,

Help (Prince) to whom, on whom not, I complene.
Bot on, not to, fals fortun ay my fo,
Wha but, not by a resone, reft me fro;
Who did, not does, yit suld my self sustene.
Of crymis not cairs, since I haif kept me clene,
I thole, not thanks thame Sir who servd me so,
Wha heght, not held to me and mony mo
To help, not hurt, bot hes not byding bene:
Sen will not wit, to o lait whilk I lament,

Flush with the pond the lurid furnace burn'd
At eve, while smoke and vapour fill'd the yard;
The gloomy winter sky was dimly starr'd,
The fly-wheel with a mellow murmur turn'd;
While, ever rising on its mystic stair
In the dim light, from secret chambers borne,
The straw of harvest, sever'd from the corn,
Climb'd, and fell over, in the murky air.
I thought of mind and matter, will and law,
And then of him, who set his stately seal
Of Roman words on all the forms he saw
Of old-world husbandry: I could but feel

PART IV.

Ten long days' travel Marien went,
O'er woodland and o'er wold,
Teaching and preaching by the way,
Like Jesus Christ of old.

Sometimes within the baron's hall
A lodging she would find,
And never went she from the door
But blessings staid behind;
Proud foes forgiven, revenge withheld.
And plenteous peace of mind.

With shepherd people on the hills;

But didst thou not relent? our pity asks;
Didst thou not shudder at that daring deed?
Though voices from the flagons and the flasks
Bad thee and the slain prophet's head good speed
To the Queen's chamber? Herod rued his oath,
And shudder'd in the net his hands had drawn
About himself, and wish'd his vow unsworn:
And was the tender maiden nothing loth
To lend herself to that foul deed of hate,
Whose issue is the world's eternal blame?
Didst thou not rather bend, in silent shame,
O'er the cold lips, so eloquent of late,

How little didst thou think, while tripping down
To meet Herodias, from that wild carouse,
That thou wouldst win such terrible renown,
And men should name thy name with heavy brows!
For, in the fierce light of thy mother's guilt,
Before the nations thou art dancing still
Up to the wine-cups! Holy life was spilt,
And thy fair girlhood served a murderous will:
And so thou fillest up the historic page
With the keen Scribe and ruthless Pharisee,
And, link'd with all the furies of the age,

" The star of India!" 'tis a goodly name —
Due to a fuller honour, purer love,
Than we, defaulters to our trust, can claim:
Yet sure its choice was prompted from above;
Part-offspring of our civil hopes and fears,
Perchance its style is loftier than its birth ;
But seen by wistful eyes thro' holy tears,
It lengthens out its beam and lights the earth;
We hail it as the herald of the day,
Earth's noblest badge, and knighthood's brightest prize;
The spirit of Havelock, the pure and wise,
Leans forward to salute it on its way —