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The Poems of Alexander Montgomerie

Edited by James Cranstoun

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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
XVI. A REGRATE OF HARD LUCK IN LOVE.
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
 XL. 
 XLI. 
 XLII. 
 XLIII. 
 XLIV. 
 XLV. 
 XLVI. 
 XLVII. 
 XLVIII. 
 XLIX. 
 L. 
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 LIII. 
 LIV. 
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151

XVI. A REGRATE OF HARD LUCK IN LOVE.

O vhat a martyrd man am I!
I freat—I fry—
I wreist—I wry—
I wrassill with the wind;
Of duill and dolour so I dry,
And wot not vhy
This grit invy
Of Fortun nou I find;
Bot at this tym hir spyt I spy:
O vhat a martyrd man am I!
Quhat pen or paper can expres
The grit distres
And hevynes,
Quhilk I haif at my hairt?
My comfort ay grouis les and les;
My cairs incres
With sik excess,
I sigh, I sobbe, I smarte;
So that I am compeld to cry,
O vhat a martyrd man am I!
With weping ees my verse I wryt,
Of comfort quyt:
Adeu delyt!
My hairt is lyk the lead.
Of all my sorou and my syte
The Weirds I wyt,
That span with spyt
My thrauart fatall threid.
God wat that barrat deir I buy:
O vhat a martyrd man am I!

152

Of ill befor I vnderstude,
It had bene gude
Into my cude,
Bereiving me my breath,
Nou to haif bene of noy denude,
Quhilk boyllis my blude:
Come ȝit conclude
My dolour, gentle Death;
And lat me not in langour ly:
O vhat a martyrd man am I!