The Poems of Alexander Montgomerie Edited by James Cranstoun |
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. |
LI. |
LII. |
LIII. |
LIV. |
The Poems of Alexander Montgomerie | ||
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
The Poems of Alexander Montgomerie | ||