The minor poems of William Lauder playwright, poet, and minister of the word of God, (mainly on the state of Scotland in and about 1568 A.D., that year of famine and plague) ... Edited from the unique originals belonging to S. Christie-Miller ... By F. J. Furnivall |
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The Lamenta[t]ioun
OF THE PURE. TWICHING THE MISERABILL ESTAIT OF THIS PRESENT WARLD. |
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 | The minor poems of William Lauder |  |
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The Lamenta[t]ioun OF THE PURE. TWICHING THE MISERABILL ESTAIT OF THIS PRESENT WARLD.
COMPYLIT BE WILLIAM LAUDER. AT PERTH. PRIMO FABRUARIE. 1568.
[How lange, Lorde, sall this warld indure?]
This warld is war nor euer it was!
Full of myscheif, and all malure;
Fals and fragell as the glas!
How lang, Lorde, sall this warld indure?
Full of myscheif, and all malure;
Fals and fragell as the glas!
How lang, Lorde, sall this warld indure?
For mony dois Godis worde profes,
Bot for to keip it, few takis cure,
Thay ar so bent to weikitnes!
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Bot for to keip it, few takis cure,
Thay ar so bent to weikitnes!
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Now euerie fat Sow feidis ane vther,
And few hes pitie on the Pure;
Couatice gydis and rewlis the Ruder:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
And few hes pitie on the Pure;
Couatice gydis and rewlis the Ruder:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
The men quhome God hes rychelie dotit,
Abhorris the emptye Creature,
Cheiflie Protestantes, lat ws notit
How lang, Lord, wyll, this warld indure?
Abhorris the emptye Creature,
Cheiflie Protestantes, lat ws notit
How lang, Lord, wyll, this warld indure?
27
Ȝit ar nocht thir Protestantes trew,
Bot Ipocretis, I am most sure,
That hes renuncit Christ Iesu:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Bot Ipocretis, I am most sure,
That hes renuncit Christ Iesu:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Frome fraude, [frome] falset, and frome gyle,
No Preaching can the pepill allure:
Lawtie and luife ar in exile:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
No Preaching can the pepill allure:
Lawtie and luife ar in exile:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Hipocrasie, vaine Glore, and Pryde,
Now blawis thair Bugillis strang and sture;
Simplysitie is sett on syde:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Now blawis thair Bugillis strang and sture;
Simplysitie is sett on syde:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
The reuth that Papistis hes, I saye,
On thame that beggis frome dure to dure,
Sall ws accuse on Domesdaye:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure
On thame that beggis frome dure to dure,
Sall ws accuse on Domesdaye:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure
Now mony vsis Sosserie,
Doand the deuylis of Hell coniure,
Seikand to knaw how all sulde be:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Doand the deuylis of Hell coniure,
Seikand to knaw how all sulde be:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Iustice is rowpit, as vtheris waris;
This is most plane, and nocht obscure,
The puré Pepill it declaris:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
This is most plane, and nocht obscure,
The puré Pepill it declaris:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
The falsest Actioun that may be,
Sall no wayis want ane Procuture;
The Deuyll, he wyll get one for fe:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warlde indure?
Sall no wayis want ane Procuture;
The Deuyll, he wyll get one for fe:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warlde indure?
Loude leand Lowreis, for thair sleuth
Was treatit, passing throw mosse and Mure:
Upon trew Preacheouris few hes reuth:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Was treatit, passing throw mosse and Mure:
Upon trew Preacheouris few hes reuth:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
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Credit and frist is quyte away,
No thing is lent bot for Usure;
For euerie penny thay wyll haue tway:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
No thing is lent bot for Usure;
For euerie penny thay wyll haue tway:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
For auld kyndnes thow sall nocht get
Bot Magerie, Malice, and Iniure;
Auld gude done dedis ar quyte forȝet:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Bot Magerie, Malice, and Iniure;
Auld gude done dedis ar quyte forȝet:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
The dayntie Dammis may nocht sustene
The faithfull, for to fyle thair flure,
Bot treatis thame that tryit trumpouris bene:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
The faithfull, for to fyle thair flure,
Bot treatis thame that tryit trumpouris bene:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Ane fenȝeit flatterair or Fuile, I say,
Ane Barde, ane Bragger, or Bordell Hure;
Ar none treatit so weill as thay:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Ane Barde, ane Bragger, or Bordell Hure;
Ar none treatit so weill as thay:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
In all the earth is no thing wer
In to no earthlie Creature,
Nor heicht into ane Minister:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
In to no earthlie Creature,
Nor heicht into ane Minister:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Ȝit Papistis bearis ilke ane to vther
More liberall luife, I am moste sure,
Nor dois sum Minister to his Brother:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
More liberall luife, I am moste sure,
Nor dois sum Minister to his Brother:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
And now the Dochter and the Sone
Lichtlyis the Mother that thame bure,
And forȝettis quhat thair Father hes done:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Lichtlyis the Mother that thame bure,
And forȝettis quhat thair Father hes done:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Of this Iniure and dispyte
Wrocht of all cankerit Creature,
I saye Godis wourd hes nocht the wyte:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Wrocht of all cankerit Creature,
I saye Godis wourd hes nocht the wyte:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
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For to behauld this Miserie,
My breist in baill it dois combure,
Sen reuth is none, nor ȝit Pitie:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
My breist in baill it dois combure,
Sen reuth is none, nor ȝit Pitie:
How lang, Lord, wyll this warld indure?
Sen all Estaitis this gois astray,
Lat no man think bot this is sure,
That God wyll Plaig ws but delay,
For thus we can nocht lang indure.
Lat no man think bot this is sure,
That God wyll Plaig ws but delay,
For thus we can nocht lang indure.
Quhairfore, lat euerie Creature,
The Mercyis of grit God procure,
That we may ones Inbrace the Lycht
Of Heauin, quhilk euer sall indure.
The Mercyis of grit God procure,
That we may ones Inbrace the Lycht
Of Heauin, quhilk euer sall indure.
FINIS.
Quod Lauder.
| The minor poems of William Lauder | |