B EDOUN the bents of Banquo brae,
Mylane I wandert waif and wae,
Musand our main mischaunce;
How be thae faes we ar undone,
That staw the sacred stane frae Scone,
And lead us sic a daunce:
Quhyle Ingland's Edert taks our tours,
And Scotland first obeys,
Rude ruffians ransak ryal bours,
And Baliol homage pays:
Throch feidom, our freedom
Is blotit with this skore,
Quhat Romans', or no man's,
Pith culd eir do before.

The air grew ruch with bousteous thuds,
Bauld Boreas branglit outthrow the cluds,
Maist lyke a drunken wicht;
The thunder crakt, and flauchts did rift,
Frae the blak vissart of the lift;
The forest shuke with fricht;
Nae birds abune thair wing extenn,
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 sense,
In neid then, with speid then,
Methocht, cry'd 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 beil;
Up ane heich craig that hungit alaft,
Out owre a canny cave,
A curious crove of nature's craft,
Quhilk to me schelter gaif:
There vexit, perplexit,
I leint me down to weip;
In brief ther, with grief ther,
I dottard owre on sleip.

Heir Somnus in his silent hand
Held all my senses at command,
Quhyle I foryet my cair;
The mildest meid of mortall wichts
Quha pass in peace the private nichts,
That wauking finds it rare;
Sae in saft slumbers did Illy,
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 seemt to be a sanct.

Grit darring dartit frae his ee,
A braid-sword shogled at his thie,
On his left arm a targe;
A shynand speir fill'd his richt hand,
Of stalwart mak in bane and brawnd,
Of just proportions, large;
A various rainbow-colourt plaid
Owre his left spaul he threw,
Doun his braid back, frae his quhyt heid,
The silver wymplers grew.
Amaisit, I gaisit,
To se, led at command,
A stampant, and rampant,
Ferss lyon in his hand.

Quhilk held a thistle in his paw,
And round his collar graift I saw
This poesy pat and plain;
“Nemo me impune lacess-
“Et:”—(in Scots) “Nane sall oppress
“Me, unpunist with pain.”
Still shaking, I durst naithing say,
Till he with kynd accent
Sayd, Fere let nocht thy hairt affray,
I cum to heir thy plaint;
Thy graneing, and maneing,
Have laitlie reich'd myne 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 vizyt him then round about,
Syne with a resolution stout,
Speird, quhair he had been sae lang?
Quod he, Althocht I sum forsuke,
Becaus they did me slicht,
To hills and glens I me betuke,
To them that loves my 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 jyb them, and thair substance eit,
And on thair honour stamp;
They, pure degenerate! bend their baks,
The victor, Langshanks, proudly cracks
He has blawn out our lamp:
Quhyle trew men, sair complainand, tell,
With sobs, thair silent greif,
How Baliol their richts did sell,
With small howp of releife;
Regretand, and fretand,
Ay at his cursit plots,
Quha rammed, and crammed,
That bargin down thair throts.

Braiv gentrie sweir, and burgers ban,
Revenge is muttert be ilk clan,
That 's to their nation trew;
The cloysters cum, to cun the evil,
Mailpayers wiss it to the devil,
With its contryving crew:
The hardy wald, with hairty wills,
Upon dyre vengance fall;
The feckless fret owre heuchs and hills,
And eccho answers all;
Repetand, and greitand,
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 felld and herryt now by forse;
And hardly help fort, that 's yit worse,
We are sae forfairn with faction.
Then, has not he gude cause to grumble,
That 's forst to be a slaiv;
Oppression dois the judgment jumble,
And gars a wyse man raiv.
May cheins 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 staitly air, did me rebuke,
For being of sprite sae mein:
Said he, It 's far beneath a Scot
To use weak curses, quhen his lot
May sumtyms sour his splein,
He rather sould, mair lyke a man,
Some braiv design attempt;
Gif its nocht in his pith, what than,
Rest but a quhyle content,
Nocht feirful, but cheirful,
And wait the will of fate,
Which mynds, to desygns to,
Renew your auntient state.

I ken sum mair than ye do all
Of quhat sall afterwart befall,
In mair auspicious times;
For aften far abuve the mune,
We watching beings do convene,
Frae round eard's utmost climes;
Quhair ev'ry warden represents
Cleirly his nation's case,
Gif famyne, 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 pure.

Say, then, said I, at your hie sate,
Lernt ye ocht of auld Scotland's fate,
Gif eir she 'el be hersell?
With smyle celest, quod he, I can;
But it 's 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 knaivry, and slaivrie,
Ar equally dispysd,
And loyalte, and royaltie,
Universalie are prysd.

Quhen all your trade is at a stand,
And cunyie clene forsaiks the land,
Quhilk will be very sune;
Will preists without their stypands preich,
For nocht will lawyers' causes streich;
Faith thatis nae easy done.
All this and mair maun cum to pass,
To cleir your glamourit sicht;
And Scotland maun be made an ass,
To set her jugment richt.
Theyil jade hir, and blad hir,
Untill she brak hir tether,
Thoch auld, she 's yit bauld she 's,
And teuch like barkit lether.

But mony a corss sall braithlessly,
And wae sall mony a widow cry,
Or all rin richt again;
Owre Cheviot prancing proudly north,
The faes sall tak the field near Forth,
And think the day their ain:
But burns that day sall rin with blude
Of them that now oppress;
Thair carcasses be Corbys fude,
By thousands on the gress.
A king then, sall ring then,
Of wyse renoun and braiv,
Quhase pusiens, and sapiens,
Sall richt restore and saiv.

The view of freidomis sweit, quod I,
O say, grit tennant of the skye,
How neir 's that happie tyme?
We ken things but be circumstans,
Nae mair, quod he, I may advance,
Leist I commit a cryme.
Quhat eir ye pleis, gae on, quod I,
I sall not fash ye more,
Say how, and quhair ye met, and quhy,
As ye did hint before?
With air then, sae fair then,
That glanst like rayis of glory,
Sae godlyk, and oddlyk,
He thus resumit his story.

Frae the sun's rysing to his sett,
All the pryme rait of wardens met,
In solemn bricht array,
With vehicles of aither cleir,
Sic we put on quhen we appeir
To sauls rowit up in clay;
Thair in a wyde and splendit hall,
Reird up with shynand beims,
Quhais rufe-treis wer of rainbows all,
And paivt with starrie gleims,
Quhilk prinked, and twinkled,
Brichtly beyont compair,
Much famed, and named,
A castill in the air.

In midst of quhilk a tabill stude,
A spacious oval reid as blude,
Made of a fyre-flaucht,
Arround the dazling walls were drawn,
With rays, be a celestial haun,
Full mony a curious draucht.
Inferiour beings flew in haist,
Without gyd or derectour,
Millions of myles throch the wyld waste,
To bring in bowlis of nectar:
Then roundly, and soundly,
We drank lyk Roman gods,
Quhen Jove sae, dois rove sae,
That Mars and Bacchus nods.

Quhen Phebus heid turns licht as cork,
And Neptune leans upon his fork,
And limpand Vulcan blethers;
Quhen Pluto glowrs as he were wyld,
And Cupid (Luve's we wingit chyld)
Fals down and fyels his fethers;
Quhen Pan foryets to tune his reid,
And slings it cairless bye;
And Hermes, wing'd at heils and heid,
Can nowther stand nor lye:
Quhen staggirrand, and swaggirrand,
They stoyter hame to sleip,
Quhyle centeries, at enteries,
Imortal watches keip.

Thus we tuke in the high brown liquour,
And bangd about the nectar biquour;
But evir with his ods:
We neir in drink our judgments drench,
Nor scour about to seik a wench,
Lyk these auld baudy gods:
But franklie at ilk uther ask,
Quhats proper we suld know,
How ilk ane hes performt the task
Assignd to him below.
Our minds then, sae kind then,
Are fixt upon our care,
Ay noting, and ploting,
Quhat tends to thair weilfare.

Gothus and Vandall baith lukt bluff,
Quhyle Gallus sneerd and tuke a snuff,
Quhilk made Allmane to stare;
Latinus bad him naithing feir,
But lend his hand to haly weir,
And of cowd crouns tak care;
Batavius, with his paddock-face,
Luking asquint, cryd pisch!
Your monks ar void of sence or grace,
I had lure ficht for fisch;
Your schule-men ar fule-men,
Carvit out for dull debates,
Decoying, and destroying,
Baith monarchies and states.

Iberius, with a gurlie nod,
Cryd, Hogan, yes we ken your god,
Its herrings ye adore;
Heptarchus, as he usd to be,
Can nocht with his ain thochts agre,
But varies bak and fore;
Ane quhyle he says, It is not richt
A monarch to resist,
Neist braith all ryall powir will slicht,
And passive homage jest,
He hitches, and sitches,
Betwein the hic, and hoc,
Ay jieand, and flieand,
Round lyk a wedder-cock.

I still support my precedens
Abune them all for sword and sens,
Thoch I haiv layn richt now lown,
Quhylk was, becaus I bure a grudge
At sum fule Scotis, quha lykd to drudge
To princes no their own;
Sum thanes thair tennants pykt and squeist,
And purst up all thair rent,
Syne wallopt to far courts, and bleist,
Till riggs and shaws war spent;
Syne byndging, and whyndging,
Quhen thus redust to howps,
They dander, and wander,
About pure lickmadowps.

But now its tyme for me to draw
My shynand sword against club-law,
And gar my lyon rore;
He sall or lang gie sic a sound,
The eccho sall be hard around
Europe frae shore to shore;
Then lat them gadder all their strenth,
And stryve to wirk my fall,
Tho' numerous, yit at the lenth
I will owrecum them all;
And raise yit and blase yit,
My braivrie, and renown,
By gracing, and placing,
Aright the Scottis crown.

Quhen my braiv Bruce the same sall weir
Upon his ryal heid, full cleir
The diadem will shyne;
Then sall your sair oppression ceise,
His intrest yours he will not fleice,
Or leiv you eir inclyne:
Thoch millions to his purse be lent,
Yell neir the puirer be,
But rather richer, quhyle its spent
Within the Scottish se:
The field then, sall yeild then,
To honest husbands' welth,
Gude laws then, sall cause then,
A sickly state haiv helth.

Quhyle thus he talkt, methocht ther came
A wondir fair etherial dame,
And to our warden sayd,
Gret Callidon, I cum in serch
Of you, frae the hych starry arch,
The counsill wants your ayd;
Frae every quarter of the sky,
As swist as quhirl-wynd,
With spirits speid the chiftains hy,
Sum gret thing is desygnd.
Owre muntains, be funtains,
And round ilk fairy ring,
I haif chaist ze; O haist ze,
They talk about your king.

With that my hand methocht he shuke,
And wischt I happyness micht bruke,
To eild be nicht and day;
Syne quicker than an arrow's flicht,
He mountit upwarts frae my sicht,
Straicht to the milkie way.
My mynd him followit throw the skyes,
Untill the brynie streme
For joy ran trickling frae myne eyes,
And wakit me frae dreme:
Then peiping, half sleiping,
Frae furth my rural beild,
It eisit me, and pleisit me,
To se and smell the feild.

For Flora in hir clene array,
New washen with a showir of May,
Lukit full sweit and fair;
Quhyle hir cleir husband frae abuve
Shed down his rayis of genial luve,
Hir sweits perfumt the air;
The winds war husht, the welkin cleird,
The glumand clouds war fled,
And all as saft and gay appeird
As ane Elysion shed;
Quhilk heisit, and bleisit,
My heart with sic a fyre,
As raises, these praises,
That do to Heaven aspyre.