 | Satirical poems of the reformation |  |
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XXIV. The Tressoun of Dunbartane.
In Mayis moneth, mening na dispyte,
Quhen luiffaris dois thair daylie obseruance
To Venus Quene, the Goddes of delyte,
The fyftene day befell the samin chance,
The Generall raid, with mony Demylance,
Downe to Dunbartaine, doand na man Ill,
Quhair furious Fleming schot his Ordinance,
Willing to wraik him wantit na gude will.
Quhen luiffaris dois thair daylie obseruance
To Venus Quene, the Goddes of delyte,
The fyftene day befell the samin chance,
The Generall raid, with mony Demylance,
Downe to Dunbartaine, doand na man Ill,
Quhair furious Fleming schot his Ordinance,
Willing to wraik him wantit na gude will.
Mair I lament the great Ingratitude
Of cruell Catiues, kankirt and vnkynde;
Quhat gart ȝow schute to slay ȝone men of gude?
Lunatyke Monsters, mad, and by ȝour mynde!
Degenerat Stewartis of ane Hieland strynde,
As mix me balme and poysone put into it!
Rycht as the tre is nureist be the rynde:
Cardanus counsell causit the to do it.
Of cruell Catiues, kankirt and vnkynde;
Quhat gart ȝow schute to slay ȝone men of gude?
Lunatyke Monsters, mad, and by ȝour mynde!
Degenerat Stewartis of ane Hieland strynde,
As mix me balme and poysone put into it!
Rycht as the tre is nureist be the rynde:
Cardanus counsell causit the to do it.
That Bastard Bischop bred ane greiter blok,
Laitly expremit, I neid not speik it heir;
Thocht thow be cũmin of ane Royall stok,
The Kingis hous, and als his Cousing deir,
Gif naturall kyndnes coulde in the appeir,
Thow hes na cause to keip him in thy hous:
For airt and pairt ressetting him, I feir,
Of thy auld Lordschip beis not left ane sous.
Laitly expremit, I neid not speik it heir;
Thocht thow be cũmin of ane Royall stok,
The Kingis hous, and als his Cousing deir,
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Thow hes na cause to keip him in thy hous:
For airt and pairt ressetting him, I feir,
Of thy auld Lordschip beis not left ane sous.
Mycht thow not licence Inglis men to ryde
Throw all this Realme, vpon thair awin expensis?
Bot thow, vaine bable, bouistrit vp in pryde,
Crabit but cause, and caryit by thy sensis
Throw Sorcerie and vther vain pretensis,
Doist thow beleif the wichtnes of thy wawis
May keip ȝone knaif that slew our saikles Prēcis?
Na, weill I wait, God will reuenge that cause.
Throw all this Realme, vpon thair awin expensis?
Bot thow, vaine bable, bouistrit vp in pryde,
Crabit but cause, and caryit by thy sensis
Throw Sorcerie and vther vain pretensis,
Doist thow beleif the wichtnes of thy wawis
May keip ȝone knaif that slew our saikles Prēcis?
Na, weill I wait, God will reuenge that cause.
Gif that was foule, now foular may be spokin
Without respect to honour, lyfe, or landis,
Bot not the first tyme that thy faith was brokin:
Thankit be God he chaipit of thy handis.
Haifand thy traist, as all men vnderstands,
Dissaitfully thow schot but ryme or ressoun,
Bot had not bene ane slack was in the sands,
Weill had he payit ȝow tratouris for ȝour tressoū.
Without respect to honour, lyfe, or landis,
Bot not the first tyme that thy faith was brokin:
Thankit be God he chaipit of thy handis.
Haifand thy traist, as all men vnderstands,
Dissaitfully thow schot but ryme or ressoun,
Bot had not bene ane slack was in the sands,
Weill had he payit ȝow tratouris for ȝour tressoū.
Ganȝelons gettis, relict of Synoins seid,
Tratouris to God, and mainsworne to the King,
Deir sall ȝe by ȝone foule vnduchtie deid,
Betraissand strangers vnderstude na thing.
I put na doubt, man, for thy deidis Inding,
To se vs shortly in thy place possest;
At euerie port a spald of the to hing,
As tratouris sould, for schuitting vnder trest.
Tratouris to God, and mainsworne to the King,
Deir sall ȝe by ȝone foule vnduchtie deid,
Betraissand strangers vnderstude na thing.
I put na doubt, man, for thy deidis Inding,
To se vs shortly in thy place possest;
At euerie port a spald of the to hing,
As tratouris sould, for schuitting vnder trest.
Makcloid, Makclaine, nor he that slew Oneill,
Or ȝit quhat micht Johne Moydirnoch do mair?
Ane Turk, ane Jow, or than the mekle Deill,
To thy foule tressoun trewly na compair:
Weill hes thow leird it at the Bischoppis lair,
Becum his prentise, broderit in his band,
Gif thow denyis, thair was ane dosane thair,
Better nor thow, dar fecht it hand for hand.
Or ȝit quhat micht Johne Moydirnoch do mair?
Ane Turk, ane Jow, or than the mekle Deill,
To thy foule tressoun trewly na compair:
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Becum his prentise, broderit in his band,
Gif thow denyis, thair was ane dosane thair,
Better nor thow, dar fecht it hand for hand.
Praise be to God he chaipit of that chance:
Ȝe plaid the Knaiffis and he the Nobill knicht:
I hope in God or ȝe get helpe of France
Of better freinds to se ane blyither sicht.
Our cause is Just, the King hes kyndly richt,
Groundit on God, and the foundatioun laid:
Thocht mē throw murther mene to moūt on hicht,
Law sall he lycht downe as the Lord hes said.
Ȝe plaid the Knaiffis and he the Nobill knicht:
I hope in God or ȝe get helpe of France
Of better freinds to se ane blyither sicht.
Our cause is Just, the King hes kyndly richt,
Groundit on God, and the foundatioun laid:
Thocht mē throw murther mene to moūt on hicht,
Law sall he lycht downe as the Lord hes said.
Ȝe sawe ȝour selfis the Inglis men raid neir
For all ȝour craking, caigit within ane Cro,
It is na Fables furth of France thay feir,
Cum fra the Paip and the grand Pryore to.
Thay haif ȝour Quene in keping, (quhair is scho?)
Lang may ȝe luke or sche releif ȝour weiris;
Ȝe will not wit quhat Inglismen can do,
Quhill Drureis bells be roung about ȝour eiris.
For all ȝour craking, caigit within ane Cro,
It is na Fables furth of France thay feir,
Cum fra the Paip and the grand Pryore to.
Thay haif ȝour Quene in keping, (quhair is scho?)
Lang may ȝe luke or sche releif ȝour weiris;
Ȝe will not wit quhat Inglismen can do,
Quhill Drureis bells be roung about ȝour eiris.
Than sall ȝe cry ‘cor mundum’ on ȝour kneis,
Murnand for mercy and able for to mys it;
Quhen ȝe luke downe to Wallace Toure, and seis
Sogeouris of Berwik brekand vp ȝour kist.
Thair sall ȝe se ȝour bastard Bischop blist
Out of his hoill weill houndit lyke ane tod.
That bludy Bouchour ever deit of thrist,
Soukand the soules furth of the Sanctis of God.
Murnand for mercy and able for to mys it;
Quhen ȝe luke downe to Wallace Toure, and seis
Sogeouris of Berwik brekand vp ȝour kist.
Thair sall ȝe se ȝour bastard Bischop blist
Out of his hoill weill houndit lyke ane tod.
That bludy Bouchour ever deit of thrist,
Soukand the soules furth of the Sanctis of God.
For saikles blude and murther maid sensyne,
Gone is his grace, ȝe haif ane godly part of him,
Trewly, my Lord, and I war in ȝour lyne,
The Deill a bit sulde byde within the ȝet of him.
Wald ȝe ga seik ane Secreit place weill set of him,
Cardanus pyn weill closand in ane Spreit,
Pull me out that, thair is na mair to get of him,
Bot as ane bledder blawin fra heid to feit.
Gone is his grace, ȝe haif ane godly part of him,
Trewly, my Lord, and I war in ȝour lyne,
The Deill a bit sulde byde within the ȝet of him.
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Cardanus pyn weill closand in ane Spreit,
Pull me out that, thair is na mair to get of him,
Bot as ane bledder blawin fra heid to feit.
In waryit tyme that Bischop hes bene borne:
Mars hes bene maister at that Balials byrth:
Throw him his freinds ar houndit to the horne,
Baneist and slaine, vncertane of ane gyrth:
Gone is thair game, and murning is thair myrth,
Thair cattell caryit, thair Granges set in fyre:
The worlde may se thair wisdome was na worth:
Murther left ay his Maister in the myre.
Mars hes bene maister at that Balials byrth:
Throw him his freinds ar houndit to the horne,
Baneist and slaine, vncertane of ane gyrth:
Gone is thair game, and murning is thair myrth,
Thair cattell caryit, thair Granges set in fyre:
The worlde may se thair wisdome was na worth:
Murther left ay his Maister in the myre.
Now fair weill, Fleming, bot foule ar thy deids,
The Generall this Schedul at schort to the sends,
Thow sall heir ma nouells as farder proceids,
Bot not to thy sythment as sum men Intends.
The actioun is not honest thow defends,
Gif thow be angrie with ocht that I reheirs,
The narrest gait thow can gang seik amends
Is, mend thy maners, and I sall mend the veirs.
The Generall this Schedul at schort to the sends,
Thow sall heir ma nouells as farder proceids,
Bot not to thy sythment as sum men Intends.
The actioun is not honest thow defends,
Gif thow be angrie with ocht that I reheirs,
The narrest gait thow can gang seik amends
Is, mend thy maners, and I sall mend the veirs.
Finis.
| Satirical poems of the reformation | |