As beefe, meale, butter, and cheese,
Or quhat we haif, or that ye pleese,
To send your brethren & habete.
As now nocht ellis but valete,

Be Thomas your bruther at command,
A culrunne kythit throuch mony a land.
Alex. Cunninghame, Earl of Glencairn.

THE SOLSEQUIUM;

OR, THE LOVER COMPAIRING HIMSELF TO A SUN-FLOWER.

Lyk as the dum Solsequium with cair owrecum

Dois sorrow, quhen the sun gois out of sight,

Hings doun his heid, and droupis as deid, and will not spreid,

But lukis his levis throw langour all the nicht,

Til fulisch Phæton aryse with quhip in hand

To

purge the christal skyis, and licht the land. Birds in thair bower wait on that hour,

And to thair King ane glade gude-morrow gives,
Frae than that flowir lists not to lour,

But laughs on Phebus lowsing on his levis.

Swa stands with me, except I be quhair I may se
My lamp of licht, my lady and my luve,

Frae scho depairts, a thousand dairts in sindrie airts
Thirle thruch my heavy heart, bot rest or ruve.

My countenance declairs my inward grief,

And houp almaist dispairs to find relief.

I die, I dwyne, play dois me pyne,

I loth on every thing I luke, allace!

Till Titan myne upon me schyne,

That I revive thruch favour of hir face.

Frae scho appeir into hir sphere, begins to cleir

The dawing of my lang desyrit day.

Then courage cryis on houp to ryse quhen he espyis

The noysum nicht of absens went away;

No noyis, frae I awalke, can me impesche,
But on my staitly stalk I flurische fresche,
I spring, I sprout, my leivis ly out,
My collour changis in ane hairtsum hew;

Na mair I lout, but stand up stout,
As glad of hir for quhome I only grew.

O happy day, go not away, Apollo stay
Thy chair frae going doun unto the west,
Of me thou mak thy Zodiac, that I may tak
My plesour to behald quhome I love best.
Thy presens me restoris to lyfe from deth,
Thy absens lykways schoris to cut my breth.
I wiss in vain, thee to remain.

Sen primum mobile says me always nay,
At leist thy wane bring sune again,
Fareweil with patiens per forss till day.

Alex. Montgomerie.

THE SEGE

OF THE

CASTEL OF EDINBURGH.

Buschment of Beruik, mak zow for the gait,
To ring zour drumis, & rank zour men of weir;
Addres zour armour round zou for debait,
With sound of trumpet mak zour steids to steir,
Sen ze ar freikis that weil dar fecht but feir:
As, for exampill, we haue sene zow ellis,
Lyk as the last tym, that your camp come heir,
Lend vs ane borrouing of zour auld blak bellis.

Zour camp conuoyit but cumer throw the land,
In gude array, and rewlit by thair rank,
Reddie to pas, as plesit vs command,
Throw all our bounds, to the west sey bank;
Thocht sum men say ze serue bot lytill thank,
Suppose occatioun cum first of thame sellis,
As thay haue brouin that bargane, sa thay drank,
And rewis that tyme that euer they saw zour bellis.

The walis wes heich, we culd not weil pursew thame;
Bot quhen we gat thame doun, full deir thay bocht it :
Be syde the woll, at sundrie tymes, we slew thame :
That euer they saw vs, sum of thame forthocht it,
Ane poysonit woll to drink, quhat docht it?
Infekit watter sowllit thame, cheik and chin:
Persauing that sorrow, mair they socht it,
Bot keppit standfulis at the sklatis thair in.

The castel segit, and all beset about
With fowseyis wyde inuironit be slycht,
Montanis and myndis, leit neuer man luik out;
For ordinance thay dang at day and nycht,
By weirlyk volyis; thocht the wallis wes wycht,
Zit dowball battrie brak thame all in inschis:
Of Daueis toure, in all the toune menis sycht,

Thay riggan stanes come tumland ouir the trinschis.

The vehement schot zeid in at either syde,

By threttie cannonis plasit at partis seuin;

Quhill thay thair in mycht not thair heidis hyde,
For pot gun pellettis falland from the heuin :
The bumbard stanis directit fell sa euin,
That in to dykes by dint it deidly dang thame ;
Quhill all the houssis in the place wes reuin,
The bullatis brak sa in to bladis amang thame.

*

Lord Sempill.

THE PACK-MAN'S PATER-NOSTER.

Pack-man.

But good Sir John, where learn'd our Lady her
Latins?

For in her days were neither mass nor matins,
Nor yet one Priest that Latin then did speak,
For holy words were then all Hebrew and Greek.
She never was at Rome, nor kiss'd Pope's toe:
How came she by the mass, then I would know ?

Priest. Pack-man, if thou believe the Legendary, The mass is elder far than Christ or Mary:

For all the Patriarchs, both more and less,

And great Melchisedeck himself said mass.

Pack-man. But, good Sir John, spake all these fathers Latin? And said they mass in surplices and satin?

Could they speak Latin, long ere Latin grew ?

And without Latin no mass can be true.

And as for heretics that now translate it,

False miscreants, they shame the mass, and slight it.
Priest. Well, Pack-man, faith thou art too curious,
Thy purblind zeal, fervent, but furious,

I'd rather teach a whole convent of monks,

Than such a Pack-man with his Puritan spunks.

Sir James Sempill.

EPITAPH ON HABBIE SIMPSON.

Kilbarchan now may say alace!
For scho hes lost hir game and grace,
Bayth Trixie and the Maidin-trace,

Bot quhat remeid!

For na man can supply his place;

Hab Simpson's deid.

Now quha shall play, The day it dawis,
Or, Hunt up, quhen the cock he crawis;
Or quha can, for owr kirk-townis caus,
Stand us in steid?

On bag-pypis now na body blawis,

Sen Habbie's deid.

Or, quha will caus our scheirers scheir?
Quha will bang up the bragis of weir,
Bring in the bellis, or gude play meir,

In time of need?

Hab Simpson cou'd. Quhat neid ye speir?

But now he's deid.

Sae kyndly to his nichbouris neist,
At Beltane and Sanct Barchan's feast,
He blew, and then hald up his briest
As he war weid;

But now we neid na him arreist,

For Habbie's deid.

At fairis he playit befoir the speir-men,
All gaillie graithit in thair geir, quhen
Steill bonetis, jakis, and swordis sa cleir then,
Lyke ony beid;

Now quha shall play befoir sic weir-men
Sen Habbie's deid?

At Clark-playis, quhen he wont to cum,
His pype playit trimlie to the drum;
Lyke bykes of beis he gart it bum

An tuneit his reid;

Bot now our pypes may a' sing dum,

Sen Habbie's deid.

And at hors racis mony a day,

Befoir the blak, the brown, and gray;

He gart his pypis quhan he did play,

Bayth skirl and screid;

Now al sic pastymis quyte away,

Sen Habbie's deid.

He countit was ane weild wicht man,

And ferslie at fute-ball he ran:

At everie game the gre he wan

For pith and speid;

The lyke of Habbie was na then;

But now he's deid.

And then besyde his valyiant actis,
At bridalis he wan mony plackis;
He bobbit aye behind fowks bakis,

And schuke his heid;

Now we want mony merrie crackis

Sen Habbie's deid.