Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

Though ye have no discretion,
Ye shall have full remission,
With help of books and bells.

Here is a relic lang and braid

Of Fin-mac-Coul the right chaft blade,

With teeth and all togidder;

Of Colin's cow here is a horn,

For eating of Makammel's corn
Was slain into Balquhidder.

Here is the cord, baith great and lang,
Whilk hanged Johnnie Armstrang,

Of gude hemp saft and sound;
Gude haly people, I stand for't,
Whae'er be hanged in this cord,
Needs never to be drowned!

The culum of St Bride's cow,
The gruntle of St Antone's sow,
Whilk bore his haly bell;
Whaever hears this bell clink
Give me a ducat to the drink,

He shall never gang till hell—

Without he be with Belial born:
Masters, trow ye that this be scorn?

Come, win this pardon, come!

Wha loves their wives not with their heart,
I have power them to depart :

Methink you deaf and dumb.

Has none of you cursed wicked wives
That halds you into sturt and strifes ?

Come take my dispensation;

Of that cummer I shall make you quit,
Howbeit yourself be in the wyte,

And make ane false narration.

Come win the pardon! Now let see
For meal, for malt, or for money—
For cock, hen, goose, or grise,

Of relics here I have a hunder,
Why come ye not? This is a wonder;
I trow ye be not wise.

jaw

together

holy

trouble

gossip

blame

Sir Thomas Wyatt.

Born 1503.

Died 1541.

A DISTINGUISHED courtier in the reign of Henry VIII., he was secretly attached to Anne Boleyn, whom he has commemorated in his verse. He was fortunate in escaping the suspicion and tyranny of Henry, and died while on a mission for him in France. His poetical pieces were few.

THE LOVER'S LUTE.

BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound
Of this or that as liketh me;
For lack of wit the Lute is bound
To give such tunes as pleaseth me;
Though my songs be somewhat strange,
And speak such words as touch my change,
Blame not my Lute!

My Lute, alas! doth not offend,
Though that per force he must agree
To sound such tunes as I intend

To sing to them that heareth me;
Then though my songs be somewhat plain,
And toucheth some that use to feign,
Blame not my Lute!

My Lute and strings may not deny,
But as I strike they must obey;
Break not them so wrongfully,

But wreak thyself some other way:
And though the songs which I indite
Do quit thy change with rightful spite,
Blame not my Lute!

Spite asketh spite, and changing change,
And falsed faith must needs be known;
The faults so great, the case so strange;
Of right it must abroad be blown :
Then since that by thine own desert
My songs do tell how true thou art,
Blame not my Lute!

Blame but thyself that hast misdone,

And well deserved to have blame;

Change thou thy way, so evil begone,

And then my Lute shall sound that same:

But if till then my fingers play,

By thy desert their wonted way,

Blame not my Lute!

Farewell! unknown; for though thou break
My strings in spite with great disdain,
Yet have I found out for thy sake,
Strings for to string my Lute again :
And if perchance this silly rhyme
Do make thee blush at any time,

Blame not my Lute!

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. {

Born 1517
Died 1546.

THIS accomplished nobleman was the eldest son of the Duke of Norfolk; he was born about the year 1517, but much obscurity rests on his early life. Surrey bore a distinguished part in the wars with Scotland and France. He was committed to the Tower by the arbitrary Henry VIII., and on a mock charge of quartering the royal arms of Edward the Confessor on his escutcheon, he was beheaded on 21st January 1546. His works consist of songs and sonnets, which are remarkable for correctness of style and purity of expression. He has the distinction of being the first to introduce blank verse into our poetry.

PRISONER IN WINDSOR.

So cruel prison how could betide, alas!

As proud Windsor? where I, in lust and joy,
With a king's son, my childish years did pass,
In greater feast than Priam's son of Troy :

Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour!
The large green courts where we were wont to hove,
With eyes cast up into the Maiden tower,
And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love.

The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue;

The dances short, long tales of great delight,
With words and looks that tigers could but rue,
Where each of us did plead the other's right.
The palm-play, where, despoiled for the game,
With dazed eyes oft we, by gleams of love,
Have missed the ball and got sight of our dame,
To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above.

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.

The gravel ground, with sleeves tied on the helm
Of foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts;
With cheer, as though one should another whelm,

Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts ;
With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth,
In active games of nimbleness and strength,
Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth,
Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length:
The secret groves which oft we made resound,
Of pleasant plaint and of our ladies' praise,
Recording oft what grace each one had found,
What hope of speed, what dread of long delays:
The wild forest, the clothed holts with green,
With reins availed and swift ybreathed horse;
With cry of hounds and merry blasts between,
Where we did chase the fearful hart of force.
The wide vales, eke, that harboured us each night,
Wherewith, alas, reviveth in my breast,
The sweet accord such sleeps as yet delight,
The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest:
The secret thoughts imparted with such trust,
The wanton talk, the divers change of play,
The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just;
Wherewith we passed the winter night away.
And with this thought, the blood forsakes the face,
The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue,
The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas,
Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew:

O place of bliss! renewer of my woes,

Give me accounts, where is my noble fere;
Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose;
To other leef, but unto me most dear:
Echo, alas! that doth my sorrow rue,

Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint.
Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew,

In prison pine with bondage and restraint, And with remembrance of the greater grief To banish the less, I find my chief relief.

31

[graphic]
« ForrigeFortsæt »