University of Virginia Library

To all and sundrie be it sene,
Mark weill this mater quhat I meine,
The legend of a lymmeris lyfe,
Our Metropolitane of Fyffe;
Ane schismatyke, and gude swyne hogge,
Come of the tryb Gog Magoge;
Ane elphe, ane elvasche incubus,
Ane lewrand lawrie licherous,
Ane fals, forloppen, fenyeit freir,
Ane rāungard for greid of geir;
Still daylie drinckand or he dyne,
A wirriare of the gude sweit wyne;
Ane baxters sone, ane beggar borne,
That twyse his surname hes mensworne;
To be called Cōstene he thot schame:
He tuke vp Cōstantine to name.

Some to the schoolis this knave cōvoyes;
Beggand his breid amonges the boyes,
He come to letters at the lenth;
Then, when he grew to witt and strength,
He tuike the ministrie on hand,
And servit at Syres vp a land.
Bot, through presūptious height and pryde,
He layed that office sone asyde;
Manna and quales he thot no fude,
The pottis of Egypt was tuyse as gude.
Thinking that poore professione vaine,
He changed his surname over agane;
Now Doctor Adamsone at last.
Whairthrow he ower to Paris past
As pedagoge to young M'Gill,
Imploying ay his spreit to ill.
To lerne disceat and subtile sawis,
He studeis long tyme in the lawis;
Ilk day devysing sindrie wylis,
Not ane nor tua that he beguyles:
Thair was no Scotismā dwelland thair
Bot he deceaved them les or mair:
Maitland, Melwill, and Matchevellous,
Learned never mair knaifrie in a scholehous;
Which tua resembles, as I suppone,
Achitophell, and fals Triphone.
Then finding out ane new fas cast,
Amongis the prentars is he past,
And promeist to set foorth a buike.
Grit sowmes of money from them he tuike;
Bot Bacchus, and the bordall toe,
Maid him sic busines adoe,
That he myt gett na buikis cōpyld;
And sua the prentars were beguyld.
Now Holyglass, returnīg hame,
To play the sophist thought no schame;
Through sindrie realmes thot he had ranged,
Yit nathing in his maners changed.
Men heiring tell how Lowrie landit,
The cōgregatione him cōmandit
To serve a kirk and keip a cure.
Persaving thair professione pure,
He thot it but ane vaine vocatione.
He thristed, ane easiare occupatione,
Amongis the lawers for to lyve;
Bot fra that rang not in his sleyve,
He wald with thame no mair remane,
Bot maid him for the court agane.
The erle of Lennox, levand then,
Our regent, and a worthie man,
Vnto his brother hī directed,
With secreit earrandis vnsuspectit,
For pois to pay his men of weir;
Bot how, alace! as ye shall heir,
Betrayed thame bayt with a tryme cōvoy.
Makand his bargand with a boy,
Was ower to Flaunders fled and ferreit,
Cryand out, harmesay! he was herreat,
Lamēting sair his losse and skayth,
And this gait he beguylit thame bayt:
Bot yet with tyme his trickis were tryed;
He had nea toung for to denye it.
Than, gif he had not fled for feir,
Gude Matchewell had mist his meir.
To tell how he bestowit his poise,
The faice is weill sene on his noise;
For, be his craig, ye may weill ken
Gif he be ane of Bacchus men.
Than, when he had na vther vaine,
He maid him for the kirk againe;
Bot for to tell what text he tuike,
Dysertis Duschet was the buike;
And maid ane sermone, some confydis,
To plesor fock on bayth the sydis.
His mynd was mair on heich promotione,
Groundit on geir, nor gude devotione,
Without respect of true religione,
As we have manie in this regione.
Yit in the pulpet we saw him greit,
Playand the publict hypocreit;
Then men, beholding his cōtritione,
Beleavand he had changit cōditione.
Then through to Paislay he was send,
Lascivous maners for to amend.
What fruite come of his ganging thair?
Sic preist, sic pariche: what suld mair?
For, neather with preiching nor wt reiding,
Tuke he that faythless flock in feiding;
Bot meit in campo did cōmand them,
And left thē ffarre war nor he fand them.
To tell you quhat this cāpo meins,
Thair daylie to the drink cōveins
The obstinat papistis of the toun;
This pastor with his scheip sat doun,
Bot maid no work, I mak you plane,
To bring the lost scheip bak agane.
To copowt cōplene there he calld thame,
But never findis whair he forbade thame
Thair vglie aithis abhominable.
They finding him so favorable,
They thankat God that they had fūd him.
Ecce quā bonū et quā jucundū
Est habitare fratres in unū!
Freir Jhonstoun and Maquhane about him,
Tua pallartis that the Pope professis,
Rysing at mydnycht to there messis;
Vidi, scivi, sed non audiebam,
Potum merū cū fletu miscebam,
Carruse, and hald the cānikin clinking;
Yit wha ware there to sie thair drinking,
They hald it still vp for a mocke,
How Maister Patrik fedd his flock.
Then to the court this craftie lown
To be a bytescheip maid him boun;
Becaus St Androis then dependit,
To heich promotione he pretendit.
The kirk began to tak suspitione,
Then knawing weill the knaifis cōditione,
They callit him into thair assemblie,
Bot not so welcome thair as hamelie.
Grit oethes he sweirs, wt feinyit face,
That he suld never inioy that place;
And bad thame hald him vnsuspect,
He was not gewin to that effect.
Bot better packet afternone,
The foullest turne that ever was done,
Ben ower the barr he gave a brocht,
And laid among them sic a lochet,
With eructavit cor meū,
He hosted thair a hude full fra him;
For laik of rowme, that rubiature
Bespewit vp the moderator;
While the assemblie thocht grit schame,
Saying he was seik, and send him hame;
And laid him backwardis in a bed,
But not so weill nurtorit as fed.
Sone efter that, incōtinēt,
Erle of Mortoun gat the regimēt,
Then sett he to, with saill and ayre,
To seik some lowner harbore thayre,
And caist his anckers on the raid,
And long tyme with the lord abaid.
His towes, I find, hes bene so fyne,
For all the stormes hes bene sensyne,
His schip come never on the schalde,
But stak still on the ancker halde.
His office daylie was, indeid,
The chapter to expone and reid.
When he that sermone celebrat,
He had a worde accustomat:
“The propheit meins this, gif ye mark it;”
Auld Captane Kirkburne to him harkit,
Perceaving weill St Androis vaikit,
And syne how sone the knave was staikit,
“To all men levand he cōplenis;
I watt now what the propheit menis.”
This foirsaid bischope beand deid,
Maister Ihone Wȳrome was maid heid,
For sowmes of silwer that he had lent thē;
Bot he besoght thame to cōtent thē:
He cravit na digniteis prophane,
But his awin silver hame agane.
Fra Holiglass sone hard this thing,
He toned his dussie for a spring,
And held the Regent so in hand,
And maid him weill to vnderstand
That he sould pay the foirsaid sowme,
Gif he were enterit in the rowme;
And mair, as he wald bid him doe,
To give his servantis pensiones toe.
Sua, with his craft, this carlingis pett
Hes fangit ane grit fisch in his nett.
Bot fra he was a byschope stylit,
Mr Jhone Wyndrome was beguylit,
Had he not had a sure probatione,
And cald him on his obligatione.
Bot Doctor Patrik still replyed,
With trickis and delatouris he denyed,
And maid manifest to men of law
That he had his discharge to schaw.
Bot how this discharge was gotten!
When Holieglass is deid and rotten,
His smaikrie sall nocht be forgett,
How Doctor Patrik payit his debt.
Ane new cōceat this knaif hes tane;
To Willie Vylie he hes gane,
The Regents awin cubicular,
His servant and his secretare,
And him besought to lat him see
Off missive wrytingis tuo or thrie,
Fra Maister Jhone Wydrome to my Lord,
And hecht him crownes for to accord.
This simple boy, suspecting nocht,
Thrie of the wrytingis to him brought;
Ane of thame law subscryvit, ye ken,
As custome is to noble men:
He cutted off the bill abone,
And filled the blank with falset sone,
Dischargine him the foirsaid sowmes.
It cūand in the Sessiones thowmes,
To Maister Wyndrome they cōpleanet,
Wha swair that he had never sene it,
And tuike in hand for to impryve it.
Thair Matchewell had bene mischevit,
Were not his falsett was cōfesst,
And sic a moyen with him dresst;
Five hūdreth merkis he to him gave,
And tuik in hand to pay the leave,
At certane dayis, thair was no doubt;
Bot, fra he fand the tyme ryn out,
He pat him off with mowis and mockis,
And had no will to louse the boxe.
The superintendent saw na better,
Bot raid agane, and raist a letter,
And gat the harlat to the horne.
Bot Howliglass, lang or the morne,
New falsat forged out for to defend him:
Ane fair suspentione he hes send him.
The vther to the Sessione pleinyeit,
And said it was both fals and feinyeit,
And socht inspectione for impriving.
The lymmer, feiring lyfe and leving,
He saw na bute but bagis to louse,
And swoir he maid it but in mowis,
As Maister Andro Wilsoune wrocht it,
And secreitlie said he forthoght it;
Beseikand him to keip it close,
Or word ran to the cōmon woice.
The vther wald na mair reprive him,
But all men he forbade beleive him,
Or ever to trow ane word he spak,
But Holiglass behind thair back.
So in Sanctandrois happened then
Ane callit Scot, a mareit man,
Nocht verie riche in worldlie guddis,
Save tuo pure aikers of borrow ruddis;
Yit with the glaikis he was owergane,
And in adulterie he was tane;
Maid to be punissit for his paik;
But he was stubburne in his talk;
Iniurit the elders, what suld mair?
This bischop, beand present thair,
Desyrit him hame, and he suld seay
Gif he culd lerne him to obey;
For all his crackis, doe what he can
To knaw the law of God and man.
Sua to his castell tuik him hame:
This duble drunckerd thought no schame;
Foorth secreitlie he callis him syne,
And fillit him fow with aill and wyne;
Persuading him to sell his land,
And gat his letters in his hand.
This beand done, as I have said,
Vpon his duschet vpe he played,
Gevand the man so mony terroris,
That brocht him in a thousand erroris,
That for his lyfe was no remeid,
Gif he abaid the law, but deid.
The pure mā, being fleid for feir,
Gave him the land, and gat na geir;
Maid sayle syne to the Easter sees,
And, lyk ane dyver, thair he deis.
Whairto this bischop tuik reguard,
And enterit sone to Naboths yaird.
The sillie wedew a quhyle defendit,
But scho grew pure, and so scho endit,
And left hir malisone, cōsider,
To Lowrie, and the land together.
Whidder hir malisone tuike effect,
Or gif it was the gude wyne sect,
Or surfesting of sundrie spyces,
Or then a scurge for clockit vyces;
Bot sic ane seiknes hes he tane,
That all men trowit he had bene gaine;
For leitches myt mak no remeid:
Thair was na bute to him bot deid.
He seing weill he wald not mend,
For Phetanissa hes he send,
With sorcerie and incantationes,
Reasing the devill with invocationes,
With herbis, stanes, buikis and bellis,
Menis mēbers, and south rinnīg wellis;
Palme croces, and knottis of strease,
The paring of a preistis auld tees;
And, in principio, sought out syne,
That vnder ane alter of stane had lyne,
Sanct Jhones nutt, and the fore levit claver,
With taill and mayn of a baxter aver,
Had careit hame heather to the oyne,
Cutted off in the cruik of the moone;
Halie water, and the lāber beidis,
Flyntworthe, and fourtie vther weidis:
Whairthrough the charmīg tuik sic force,
They laid it on his fatt whyte horse.
As all men saw, he sone deceissit:
Thair Saga slew ane saikles beast.
This wald not serve: he sought ane vther,
Ane devill duelling in Anstruther,
Exceading Circes in cōceattis,
For chaungene of Wlisses meatis:
Medusas craftis scho culd declair,
In making eddars of hir hair:
Medeas practicques scho had plane,
That could mak auld men young agane,
By Achates, the witches god.
Mercurius, with his charmed rod,
The aunciēt King of Bactria,
That first inventit magica,
Could not so weill of stowen geir tell,
As could this vglie hund of hell.
With this the word yead through the toun,
How lurcan Lowrie played the lowne.
Heiring how witches wrang abusit him,
The Kirkmen calld him and accused him,
And scharplie of theis pointis reproved him;
That he in sorcerie beleavit him,
Whairthrough his saule myt come to skayt.
The witche and he cōnfessing bayth
Scho tuike some part of white wyne dreggis,
Wounded rayne, and blak hen eggis,
And maid him droggis that did him gude.
His ansr. being rashe and rude:
“Suppoise the devill maid that graith,
The seiknes sua ouersett my fayth,
At that tyme, to asswage my sair,
I wald have tane it, I tauld thame thair:”
Then did the elders him desyre,
Vpon the morne, to mak a fyre,
To burne the witches both to deid;
Bot or the morne he fand remeid.
He dred sa sair they suld have schawin
How his knaverie was to thē vnknawin;
Laich in a lymbus, whair they lay,
Then Lowrie lowsit thē long or day,
And had no will they were corrected;
Yit with the people he was suspected,
Trowing the teallis befoir was spocken,
Becaus they saw no presone brocken.
There was his pretticques weill espyed,
But with his ansr. he replyit,
And said, na man, at his cōmand,
Wald tak the presone hous in hand;
Into that dūgeon was sic din,
As Beelȝebub had bene therin,
That never a man durst stire qll day;
And sua he neckit thame with nay,
And brocht the teale bravelie about,
How Pluto come and pullit thē out.
Yit few or nane this Lowrie beleavit,
Becaus they culd not get it previt:
They prayit him to amend his lyfe,
And trow na witchcraft in a wife.
For oght the kirk culd him forbid,
He sped him sone, and gat the thrid;
Ane carling of the Quene of Phareis,
That ewill win geir to elphyne careis.
Through all Braid Abane scho hes bene
On horsback, on Hallow ewin;
And ay in seiking, certayne nyghtis,
As scho sayis, with our sillie wychtis;
And names out nytboris sex or sewin,
That we belevit had bene in heawin.
Scho said scho saw thame weill aneugh,
And speciallie gude auld Balcleuch,
The secretare, and sindrie vther;
Ane William Symsone, hir mother brother,
Whome fra scho hes resavit a buike,
For ony herb scho lykis to luike:
It will instruct hir how to tak it;
In sawis and sillubs how to mak it;
With stones that mekle mair can doe,
In leich craft, whair scho layis them toe.
A thowsand maladeis scho hes mēdit.
Now being tane and apprehendit,
Scho, being in the bischops cure,
And kepit in his castell sure,
Without respect of warldlie glamer
He past into the witchis chalmer,
Closing the dure behind his bak,
And quyetlie to hir he spak,
And said his work lome was not worthe:
Lowsing his poyntis he laid it furth.
Scho sayned it with hir halie hand,
The pure pith of the pryoris wand:
To help that raipfull scho hes rest him,
Whairfore, ye say, my ladie left him.
For scho had sayned it tuyss or thrise,
His rubigo began to ryiss:
Then said the bischop to Jhone Bell,
Goe, tak the first seye of hir yorsell.
The witche to him hir weschell gave,
The Bischops blissing to resave.
What dayis of pardone then scho wan!
The relicques of that holie man
Micht save hir saule from purgatorie.
His wyfe, cōceaving jelowsie,
Cryed out his deid when it was done,
Ran through the tovne, and tauld it sone.
Ane syiss was socht sone to the wyfe,
Whairas ane aunciēt laird of Fyiffe,
Of gude report, that may be trowit,
Befoir this Bischope weill awowit,
Eather at Semblie or at Sessione,
As he wha hard the wyffis cōfessione,
That this was suirlie thair proceiding.
Whair sic men gettis a flock in feeding,
The sillie scheip wilbe devorit,
And Goddis true doctrine daylie smorit.
This beand done, he thocht sic shame,
He myt not tarie weill at hame,
But ower to Edinburgh he hes past,
Procured a licence, at the last,
To ryde to Londoun with a letter,
Becaus they culd not get a better.
Wist ye what his cōmissione bure,
He myt weill serve for sic a cuire.
Sic lipps, sic lattouce; lordis and lownes:
Auld creased workis payit wt crackit crownes.
Bot heir I will no mair remane,
Returnīg to my text agane.
It may not be no mair forborne,
How he beguylit pure David Horne,
Ane honest man, ane messinger,
And was St Androis pensioner.
To all the Bischops thair befoir
He doing daylie his devoir,
He gat allowance, being leill,
Ane pensione of a chalder of meill.
Our to this Bischop now is he gane;
His letter of tak hes with him tane,
Sayand, “ye man be gude, my Lord,
And to yor man misericord.
This angle noble in my neife
Vnto yor Lordschip I will gife,
To cause you to renew my tackis.”
The vther little answer makis.
The Angle noble first he tuike,
And syne the letters for to luike:
With yt his byknyfe furth hes tane,
And maid him tuētie tackis of ane;
In litle crownes began to cut them;
The vther gaid hame backwards but them,
Sichand, and durst say no mair,
And left his angle noble thair.
With thir, and mony sic lyke trickis,
The haill coūtrie this loun cōvictis.
The pure men plentis yt duellis besyde him,
How he creipis in a hoill to hyde him,
And barris them fast wtout the yettis,
When they come there to crave thair debtis;
For kaill, candle, and knocked beir,
Herbis to the pot, and all sic geir,
He never payis ane pēny he takkis.
To heir the mone the pure folk makkis,
What malisones are to him gevin,
Cryand, “a wengance from the hewin
Come doun on this deceatfull Lowrie!”
I wald not for all the carse of Gowrie
To be a bischop in his esteat;
To heir, when he gangis throw the gait,
How everie wyfe on vther puttis,
Bidding the bischop pay for his guttis,
And cryes, “gar pay me for my eall,”
Ane vther for candle, the thrid for caill;
The fourt cryis out for knocked beir;
“How dar this dastard had our geir?
A vengeance fall his feinȝit fayt,
For poinding of the pure folkis graith!”
Efter my Lord this larowme ringis
For this and mony sic lyk thingis.
Suppose it stude on all thair lyffis,
He will not get amonges the wyffes
Ane pynt of aill in all the tovne,
Except the silver be laid doun.
Then gif ye knew his duble tackis
Amonges the coūtrie men he mackis,
With feinyeit seillis and antideatis,
And tuentie vther tryme cōceatis,
Setting the coūtrie be the earis,
And takis no thot of nytboris weiris,
So he be sure to fill his hand,
How mekle blood be in the land.
Gif siclyk bischops be admittit,
Grit God and all the warld sall wit it;
This makis his trickis, his feinyeit toyes,
What clocked knaverie he cōvoyes,
His wattir drincking, his seiknes feinyeit,
Fearand the kirk shuld on him pleinyeid.
It cōes to licht now, at the last,
Fra tyme the ministers are past,
The trick of Guisians devysit,
He hes bene ane to interpryse it;
Ane waikryfe devill daylie to wirk,
To saw seditione in the kirk,
Learnīg a lessone at ald Frogmortene,
As he cōfessit at his departing.
To coūterfute that fals cōceat,
And speik the Quenis Grace be the gait,
He fand his seiknes was so sair
Throw all his bodie heir and thair,
That nathing myt his panes repell,
Except it were some sacred well
In Lorane, or the well of Spaa;
But his cōmissione na man saa:
Which text cōtenit na vther thing,
Bot cōmendationes fra our kyng
Vnto the Quene of Englandis Grace,
Beseikand hir to help his case,
And to send new support againe him.
“Mortone,” sayis he, “the lawis hes slaine him,
And Gowrie hes gottin a cōdigne syse,
Conformīg to his interpryse,
With sindrie vtheris that loves thair factione,
That daylie dois menteane yt actione,
As Anguse, Mar, and Maister of Glames;
Tak thir thrie for na saikles lambes,
But proude ambitious bangesters,
With some seditious ministers,
Cōtempneris of our authoritie,
Subscryvit aganist our Maiestie,
For to destroy our realme and regione,
Without respect of true religione;
Beleivand we shuld bring hame the mess.
Luke what religione ye profess;
I salbe būde therby to byde:
Under grit God ye salbe guyde,
My tutrix in my tender yeiris,
Sen none in earth to me so deir is
As ye, my kyndlie cusines.
Gif I had gritter bussines,
I think ye aucht for to defend me
With succor, and support to send me.
To bring this mater to ane end,
My sacred bischop I have send,
As Semple sayis, ane subtile tod,
To bring me hame the word of God
From Italie and Almainie;
In Geneva and Germanie
To seik the trew experiēce
For libertie of cōscience.
Give ye think gud, I hald it best
That bayt our realmes myt live in rest.”
With this and vther siclyk wairis,
Befoir the coūsall he declairis
A fals, deceatfull, feinyeit taill,
Bot alwayis for thair awin availl.
Bot yit, or he bound to the read,
How yt his packmātie was maed,
I think it best for to declair.
His blew clock beand worne so bair,
He causit an talyeor turne it and mak it
Into wich maill: a frind he packit it,
His sarkis, his schone, his ganging gowne,
Ane fitt case for a feinyeit lowne.
Na dentie geir this Doctor seikis;
Of tottis russet his ryding breikis;
Ane hamelie hat; a cott of kelt
Weill beltit in ane lethrone belt;
A bair clock, and a bachlane naig;
His ruffe curfufled about his craig;
The one end to his belt hang doun;
The vther stude above his crovne.
Thair was a brave embassador
Befoir so noble ane auditor,
The Quene of Englandis Maiestie,
Hir coūsall, and nobilitie,
In hir tryvmphand palice placit.
May sic fellowis be defacit!
Alace! that Scotland had no schame,
To send sic howfing carles from hame!
Now or embassador is boune
With bag and bagage off the toun:
All nyt in Seytoun he remaned,
Whair wyne and aill was nothing hayned;
And fra my Lord he gat a letter,
To cause him to be treat the better,
To Monsier, to mak him speid,
The Frenche embassador indeid,
That daylie yit in Londoun lyis,
Wha can ane evill turne weill devise;
And syne to Berwick on the morne,
Whair all men leuch my Lord to scorne.
Na mulettis there his cofferis careis,
Bot lyk a court of auld cashmareis,
Or cadyers cūing to ane fair;
And yit some honest men gaid thair
For fewis and takkis yt he sic sett thame,
Beleivand in yt towne to get thame,
Bot may gaip lang or he get them:
As they have sped, ye may speir at them.
Tuiching his awin tryne, ye shall heir:
The Vicar of Dunbuge on a meir,
That wonder weill can turne a can,
A ganeand maister for sic a man,
With vthere fellowis tuo or thrie;
Gude Robert Melwene of Carnebie
I shuld not racken in with thea:
Of honest men he had na mea.
But he may ruse him of his ryding,
In Londoun for his longsome byding.
Thair Holieglas begane his gaidis,
As he was learned, amangis the laidis.
To Maist: Hanam sone he past,
And sowmes of silver fra him ast
In borrowing, while he come bak.
The man, beleivand it he spak,
Vnto this sophist sone cōsentit;
But he had efterward repentit,
Were not a man amongis thē sell,
Whose cōscience causit him to tell;
And quyetlie his coūsall gave him,
That Holieglas wald sone deceave him.
The man, perceaving it was sua,
Gave him the gek, and lute him gea,
Thankand his God and gud men baith
For his delyvering of yt skeath.
O Holyglas! thought thou no schame,
And thou but laitlie come frome hame?
Vpon the secund day at morrow
Suld our embassador gea borrow,
And want or ever he wyn ower Tweid?
Bot, God be praisit, he come no speid.
To Londoun Lowrie tuke the geat,
With traine myt staik for his esteat;
His wantone vicare on a meir;
Twa vther fellowis to turse his geir;
Bot never ane honest man had he,
Save Robert Melwene of Carnebie,
That with that bischop went about,
To sett his feinyeit falsett out;
Bot als gude he had sittin ydle,
As there ower land to leid his brydle,
Considering what reward he gatt.
Still on his owne cott taill he satt,
As shalbe tauld you or we tuyne,
In loco quo it shall come in.
To tell all ludgene whair he lay,
And ay on be the brek of day,
Wald be ower langsome to collect:
I wilbe breif in that respect.
Bot yit the menstrallis and the bairdis,
Thair trowand to obtene rewardis,
About his ludgene loudlie played;
Bot menstrallis, serving man, and maid,
Gat Mitchell in ane auld pocke nucke;
Save dira adew his leive he tuik;
Then be the gait with murmor passis,
“Allace! I haue forgot the lasses!
Bot yit they shall not want a plak,
Will God give I returne abak.”
This was to cloik his waine cōceat
For he come home ane vther gait;
As Culen Kyngis that Christ adorned,
Per aliam viam he returned.
In Londone he ane ludgene tuike,
A inkeiper, ane cōmone cuike,
Ane tapster bayt of aill and wyne,
That weill myt staik for sic a tryne.
Vnto the court the word is gane,
That he had sic ane ludgene tane.
Little they said, what ever they thought.
Vnto this bischop there was brought
Ane new-maid coische for to decore him,
Ane serving gentlemā send for him,
That stude ane lang hor at his yeatt,
Or he could ony entres geatt,
While he was grathed into his geir
Siclyke as he was wont to weir,
As I befoir have specifeit,
And Maister Willie will verefeit.
The man that was his messinger,
The Quenis Grace Latin secretare,
Being eschamit fra ever he saw him,
Said to himself, “a vengeance faa him!
Is this our brave embassador,
Whome to we doe sic honor,
That I am send for to hir Grace—
A bewe bust in a bischops place?”
Yit in the cosche he lap at last.
Into the palice are they past,
Which callit is the fair White hall;
His pintle against the palice wall
Puld out to piss, and wald not spair,
Which is a thing inhibit thair.
Ane porter sone did him persave,
And to the bischop his blissing gave,
Betuixt the schoulders a royall route,
Turnīg him wodderschins about.
To scape the fray he was so fane,
He put vp club in scheith agane.
Cūing to presence of the Quene,
Becaus he had not sic thingis seine,
He wist not weill how to behave him,
But as some vthers coūsall gave him;
And that was of a semple sort,
As I can tell by true report
Of gentlemen that stude besyde him,
That he had na mair grace to guyde him
Nor it had bene ane hieland quow,
Lurcane and lowring, I wat not how.
Then his cōmissione being red,
Out of the palice he was sped,
Then to the wall agane gois he
To pisch—his part of honestie.
The portars publictlie reprovit him,
And doubtles they had thair mischevit him,
Were not the gentle men excused him,
And thame forbade to stryke a stranger.
He beand scapit of that danger,
Hame through he past, and wald not spair:
They maid a midwyfe of him thair.
They bring thame farre on ābeling foiles,
Bot send thame hame throw on thair soilles.
Tuo moneth he tareit efter that,
But never presence agane he gat.
With bischops he began to fleich,
Desyring licence for to preich.
Of his auld sermon he had perqueir,
Bot they had never hard thame heir.
Of omnigatherine now his glose:
He maid it lyk a Wealchmā hose:
Tempora mutantur was his text.
The bischops vicar being vext,
To ruse his maister, and set him out,
Sayand to thame yt stude about,
“Gif ye his preiching could persave,
My maister is a lerned knaif:”
Placebois part, behind his bak,
Vnto the people this he spak.
The preiching done, the chapter red,
They baith gaid fow aneuch to bed.
This poysoned preicheor of Godis word
Is not vnlyk ane suple suord;
For in the fyire when ye have heat it,
To ony syde you lyk to sett it,
It will go worth, and stand therto,
So will this duble doctor doe.
For greid of geir, and warldly graith,
On baith the gaitis he grūdis his fayth.
For daylie we may se his dress,
When Monseir gaid vnto his mess,
Into ane gallerie neir besyde;
Thair wald this halie bischope byde,
Saying, forsuith, it was not smittell.
I think he weyit the mater litle
How mony messis there was done,
Sa he were packed weill at none:
For daylie thair he gaid to dyne,
To gett his fill of gude white wyne.
The denner done, he wald not spair,
Downe to a house, tuo myle and mair,
To Lambeth, bischope of Canterberrie,
Vpon his feit, but not be ferrie;
For archness to had in a grote,
He had no will to fie a bote;
Bot or he come neir hand the yeatt,
Vpon ane dyke doun was he sett
Into a secreit out of sicht,
And sat thair till his schone wes dicht.
He gave thame leive to dicht his schone;
To sponge his cloak durst not be done.
It hurt the woole, and wrought it bair,
Puld off the mottes, and did no mair:
He had na will to weir his cleathis.
Then to that bischop in he geas.
With mony flattering taill and fals
He held that bischop in the hals,
Seiking the secreit of his wittis,
And ay besydis he fillis his guttis,
Wachting the wyne, for it was wicht.
Then, when this turne cott tuke gude nyt,
Half way hameward vp the calsay,
Said to his servandis for a quha say,
“Alace! the porter is foryett;”
But sorrow mair the men myt gett.
Then to a sowters chope he past,
And for a pair of schone he ast.
Bot or he sperit the price to pay thē,
His thovmbis was on the soillis to say them;
Then with his knockles he on them knockit;
Eftir that he had long time blockit,
With grit difficultie he tuik thame,
And pat thame on: ewill mocht he bruik them!
With Monsier then he moyen maid,
Lamēting sair his lang abaid,
Thinking to borrow a hundreth pundis,
And oblist him for to be bund
To pay or he past off the toun.
The vther, na dowt, had laid it downe,
Were not bechance he had a man,
That with his maister roundit than:
“My Lord, I kend yone lowne in Parise;
He weill betydis that sometymes careis;
Ane cōdigne doctor to all lownes,
My mother lent him fyftene crownes;
Besydis some vtheris, nychboris thair,
Some lent him less, some lent him mair.
Work what we will, it was in vaine,
We culd nevir gett a grote agane.”
The vther said nothing for schame,
But held his toung while he turned hame.
Ten pundis stirling furth he tuike,
And knit it in a neapkyn nucke,
Saying: “forsuith, I have no mair
Now at this present I may spair.”
But when he gettis yt geir agane,
Thair will na river ryse for raine;
And, peitie, porter of hellis yeattis,
That day this doctor payis his debtis.
This wald not serve his turne, he thot;
Some vther moyen sone he socht.
The Scottis merchandis were lyand thair,
I find he maid thair baggis all bair,
And promised, vnder pane of schame,
To pay so sone as he come hame.
Bot as he payit, ye may speir,
Gif Gilbert Donaldsone were heir;
Or Patrik Quhyt, he weill can tell,
Sayand thair is no devill in hell
Could find sic falset for to deceave him,
As he, when ever he come to crave him.
Ane vther Lunden paik he playit,
Sending some letters, as he said,
With Patrik Quhyte, as he declairis,
Bearing the wecht of grit effairis,
To come in Scotland to the King.
The man mensueris he saw sic thing.
Suppose the teale be fals and feinyeit,
Yit to the Kingis Grace he hes pleinyeit.
Havand the court at his cōmand,
He gart the pure mā leave the land:
For all the fyve bairnes and the wyffe,
This Metropolitane of Fyiffe
Is enterit on his hous and geir;
But how this happened ye sall heir,
Thought it be tedious for to tell.
The mā duellis in St Androis sell:
He lent this lowne thrie hundreth marke,
Bot when he craveth Cok his clerk,
He culd not find ane vther gait,
Bot fred him with this fals cōceat.
Gif this be weill, the warld shall ken,
To raise sic schiftis on saikles men.
Than Robert Melwin, hame to gang,
On his awin charges lyand lang,
Sayand, “this burgh I may not bruik,”
His precept of pensione furth he tuike,
Biddand my Lord subscryve ane letter,
And swa he did, but not the better.
Hame to the prowest it was directit;
But ye shall heir whow he was geckit.
Hame to the prowest when he past,
It greived him, and he was agast;
Who tuke him by the lap and lewch:
“Ye ken his knaverie weill aneuche.
Of all his teyndis, both meill and beir,
I have discharges for a yeir.
He gart me pay thame or I ledd thame:”
The vther tuke thame vp and redd thame.
He sayned him, but he said no mair:
Tak up his Londone wsayage thair.
Ane burges mā there beand bound,
Having a trvme schop in the toun,
Vnto this Bichope sone he socht
To get a licence, gif he mocht,
For fortie last of Inglis beir;
Said: “ten pund Stirveling I have heir,
And mair, when misteris, you cōmand.”
The Bischop tuke it weill on hand:
To Secretare Welschingame gois he,
The pearle and flowre of courtasie;
With signitor in neif alreddie,
He send him to his Soverane Ladie
For fourtie last of Englis beir:
Bot what ane leesing maid he heir!
He said, to serve his house at hame,
But it was sauld in want of schame,
And not with him that he began;
He happened on ane vther man,
And tuentie pund Stirveling fra him tuke:
The first merchant he cleane forsuike,
Gave him the geck, and lat him gea:
Gud threttie pundis he cōqueist sea.
Amongis the Bischopis of the towne,
He played the beggar vp and downe,
Without respect of honestie,
Or office of embassadrie.
Ane scaffing warlot, wanting schame,
Thrie of thair haiknes he tuik hame.
He beggit buikis, he beggit bowis;
Tacking in earnest, asking in mowes;
As Maister Jhone Dowglass weill can tell,
How slealie he deceavit him sell;
Borrowing ane coffer to keip his claythis,
Bot with this baggage hame he geas.
This turne cott now returnīg bak,
Trowand some great reward to tak;
Bot Englis men are not so daft
Bot they perceaved his clocked craft.
They knew him for a sembling baird,
Whome to they wald give no rewarde;
Considering as he sett him furth,
They gave him mair then he was worthe.
Seing his copburde come to nocht,
Tua leathering bosses he hes bought.
“Thay will not brek albeit they fall:
Thir strapis of trie destroyis vs all;
They brek so mony, I may not byde it:”
Heir all the inspraich he provydit.
Returnīg hame, as ye hard tell,
He baid behind a day him sell,
The simple servantis to beguyle,
Sayand, he wald ride furth a whyle,
To seay a bow that was sūthing wicht,
Syne come agane and tak gud nycht;
Bot on lap he and went to wair.
Fairweill: adewe: they gat na mair.
Gif this be honest, ye may ken,
And, namelie, to sic honest men,
Our Legat Lord in primacie,
Besydis, his grit embassadrie
To vse swa in vncouth places.
Litle merwell in tēporall cases
He had na will to give reward,
That to his saule had no regard.
For, lying in periculo mortis,
Tua of the kirk to him resortis;
Balcanquhall, as ane Christiane brother,
And Maister Andro Melwill was the other:
Both being faytfull, fearing God,
Went to persuade this subtile tod
Lascivous maneris to amend,
Sen na mā knawis the hor nor end.
This, at the lenth, he lent them eiris
And brusted out in a blus of tearis.
“Brether,” he sayis, “I schame to tell
Sa oft as I misvsit my sell,
In guyding of the giftis of grace:
Gif God wald lend me tyme and space,
Twa horis in pulpit to deploir it,
My synfull lyfe sall not be smorit:”
With this agane begane to greit.
The brethrene, seing him cōtreit,
Gave thankis to God for his repentance;
But now, for all his auld acquētance,
He playis the turnecot to deceave them,
Denyand plane that ever he spak them.
To George Durrie he played a juike,
That will not be foryet this oulke:
Foure hundreth merkis he gart him get him,
For tackis of kirkis he hecht to set him,
And syne set vther men the teindis.
The vther, having force of freindis,
Concludit schortlie for to slea him,
For vyling of his syluer fra him:
As they had done, no doubt, in deid,
Were not he sped him there with speid,
And fand sic moyen for to meis them,
Promissand proffeit for to pleis them.
Whairto it turnes I can not tell:
But sua the sophist savit him sell.
To him I can find na cōpair,
Save anes in France when I was there,
Gud Clemet Marit had a lowne—
A knaif that cūbart all the towne,
With spreitis employed to everie vice,
As whoredome, drincking, cartis, and dyce;
To sweir, to ban, to steill and tak:
Ane never myt trow a word he spak;
In everie ludgene whair he wald licht,
Taking his leive without gud nych[t,]
Garring the wyffis sing wallaway,
Lyk to the Bischop of Galloway:
But he was sum thing pure and needie;
And this is feinyet, fals, and griedie.
Galloway with no mater meld him,
Except necessitie cōpeld him,
Taking the warld as God wald send it,
Having ane noble hart to spend it.
Bot ay the mair this smatcher gettis,
The closser garris he keip the yettis;
Feiding his bellie and his bryde,
Begging and borrowing ay besyde.
Galloway was a man of gude,
Discendit of a noble blude,
Franck with his freind, fordward and stout,
Having gude maneris to set them out:
And this is but ane carle, ye sie,
Ane baxteris sone of bas degrie,
Feable and fleid and nothing worth,
Wanting a face to set him furth.
What suld I lyble of this lowne?
Not all the paper of this towne,
And blek it baith vnder and abone,
May had the half that he hes done.
Wha could cleirlie descryve his cases
In Parise, and in vther places,
Gif men myt tyme and laser get?
Some thingis, indeid, I have forget.
Perceaving that he was scant of clathis,
To Londone Bischop sone he geathis,
Desyring the borrowing of a gowne,
He said, to preich in through the towne.
The Bischop, obeying the first cōmand,
Send for his wardrop man fre hand.
Tuiching that part I mā cōmend him;
Ane deligat gowne, indeid, he send him:
Bot when that gowne comes hame agane,
Winter salbe butt wind and raine.
Albeit I was not there to see,
He weiris it yit, to verefie;
Growgraine of silk, bot it is gray;
When ever ye see it, siris, ye may say
He gat that gowne, with this ingyne,
Weill lyned with costlie furringis fyne.
How he beguylit Jhone Harper of York,
Ane Scottis tailyeor lives on his work,
Aff fra a merchant he gart him tak
New breikis and dowblat, for to mak,
Of Turkie taffatie—na war geir:
Bot as he payeth him, ye sall heir.
This turne cott with his trickis begane,
Growand familiar with the man,
Sayand, “forsuith my siluer is done;
But Londone will me releive sone.
For in this toun I tak na cair:
The Scottis merchantis will meit me thair
With monie als mekle as I will tak.
Whairfore, to my returnīg back,
Ye wald doe weill gif ye wald thrist me,
And at this present not molest me.
Ye salbe payit: tak ye no thought:
Your tristene sall not be for nought
At our nixt meiting.” What suld mair?
The vther saw him speik so fair,
To crave him forder he thoght schame.
But turne cott, now returnīg hame,
Fand out some vther gait to gea:
Sewin pund he payit this pure mā sea.
Some sayes he played ane fouller thing,
Bespewed the pulpett befoir the King;
Or ever the preiching was midpart done
He neather held vnder nor abone.
Na ferlie; his cōtagious stomack
Was sa owersett with Burdeous drūmake;
And George Gipsones Iskie bae
Had all the wyte he womit sae.
Sone efter that, for sowmes of debt,
A measr vpon the gait him mett,
Gewing him charges to obey,
To enter in warde, or els to pay.
This lowrie little ansr mackis,
Bot on a gray bonnet he tackis;
A scheip hewit clock to cover his cleathis;
But lad or boy to Leyt he geathis;
Lapp in a bott, and maid him boun;
Sen syne he come not in the toun.
Ane vther trick, as I remember;
The threttene day of this November,
Vnto his bed he bownit so fow,
Sleipping and snoring lyk a sow;
Dreamand some devill he had sene,
Out of the bed he wald have bene;
But on the flure he gat a fall,
While doun come Cannabie and all
Vpon his bellie with sic a brattle,
The houshold, hearing sic a rattle,
Mervelit mekle what it suld be;
Lychtit candles, and came to sie,
And fand him lyand lyk a swyne,
Bayth bak and syde bespewit with wyne.
Seing it rid, they waxt so red,
Beleiving it had bene blood he bled,
Cryand out, harmesay, he was stickit,
While ane pat doun his hand and lickit:
“This is not blude, thot it be hewit,
But Burdeous wyne that he hes spewit.”
With schame and lack, I will not lane,
They laid him in his bed agane.
Therfore I wald ye vnderstude
We have na tyme for to cōclude:
Far ay the longare Lowrie leivis,
As fassione is of feinyit theives,
They wilbe daylie for doing ill.
Ewin sa I will augment my bill,
As I gett witt in mair and mair
Of his proceidingis heir and thair.
I sall leave blankis for to imbrew thame,
That he a nosebitt may beleive thame
Whometo my buik salbe directit.
Being in Paris lait suspectit
For art and part of mūbling messis,
Thought he hypocrysie professis:
Albeit this be not weill set furth,
Becaus the mater was not worth,
Desyre the Bischope to be cōtent,
Becaus I am not eloquent.
I have tane trawell for his saik,
And ryme may for a raipfull staik.
Mend ye thir heidis that I rehers,
I sall not faill to mend my vers.