1

Thow that in hewin for our saluatioun
Maid iustice, mercie and pietie to aggre,
And Gabriell send with the salutatioun
On to the mayd of maist humilite,
And maid thy sone to tak humanite,
For our demeritis to be of Marie borne,
Haue of ws pietie and our protectour be:
For but thy help this kynrik is forlorne.

2

O hie supernale father of sapience,
Quhilk of thy vertew dois everie folie chais,
Ane spark of thy hie excellent prudence
Gif ws that nowther wit nor ressoun hes,
In quhais hertis no prudence can tak place,
Exemple nor experience of beforne.
To ws synnaris ane drop send of thy grace:
For but thy help this kynrik is forlorne.

3

We ar so bestlie, dull and ignorant,
Our rudnes may nocht lichtlie be correctit.
Bot thow that art, of mercy, militant,
Thy vengeance seis on ws, to syn subiectit,
And gar thy iustice be with reuth correctit,
For quyt away so wyld fra ws is worne,
And in folie we ar so fer infectit,
At but thy help thys kingrik is forlorne.

4

Thow that on rude ws ransounit and redemit,
Rew on our syn befoir thy sicht decydit,
Spair our trespas, quhilk may nocht be expremit,
Fra breif of iustice, for we may nocht abyd it.
Help this pure realme, in partiis all devydit,
Ws succour send, that war the croun of thorne,
That with the gift of grace it may be gydit:
For but thy help this kinrik is forlorne.

5

Lord, hald thy hand that strikin hes so soir,
Haue of ws pietie eftir our punytioun,
And gif ws grace the to greif no moir,
And gar ws mend with pennance and contritioun,
And to thy vengeance mak non additioun,
As thow that of micht is may to morne.
Fra cair to confort thow mak restitutioun:
For but thy help this kinrik is forlorne.