Classic Poem

In till this tyme that I of tell,
That this tressoune in Ingland fell,
In Scotland fell neire the like cais
Be Fynlaw Makbeth that than was,
Quhen he had murtherist his aune eme
Throu hope at he had of a dreme,
That he saw forow that in sleping,
Quhen he wes dwelland with the king,
That tretit him fairely and weill
In all that langit him ilk deill;
Becaus he wes his sister sone,
His yarnying oft he gert be done.
A nycht him thocht in his dremyng
That he wes sittand neire the king,
At a seit in hunting swa,
And in a lesche had grewhundis twa.
Him thocht, till he wes sa sittand,
He saw thre women by gangand,
And thai thre women than thocht he
Thre werd sisteris like to be.
The first he herd say gangand by:
" Lo, yonder the thayne of Crumbaghty!"
The tother sister said agane:
" Off Murray yonder I see the thayne."
The thrid said: " Yonder I se the king."
All this herd he in his dremyng.
Sone efter that, in his youth heid,
Off thai thayndomes he thayne wes maid;
Than thocht he nixt for to be king,
Fra Duncanis dais had tane ending.
And thus the fantasy of this dreme
Muffit him for to sla his eme,
As he did falsly in deid,
As ye have herd befor this reid;
Syne with his awne emys wif
He lay, and with hir led his lif,
And held hir baith his wif and quene,
Rycht as scho forouth that had bene
Till his eme the king liffand,
Quhen he wes king with croune regnand
For litill taill that tyme gaif he
Off the greis of affinite.
And thusgatis quhen his eme wes dede,
He succedit in his steid,
And xvii. winter wes regnand
As king with croune in till Scotland.
Yit in his tyme thar wes plente
Off gold and silver, catall and fee.
He wes in justice rycht lauchfull,
And till his liegis rycht awfull.
Quhen Leo the tend wes pape of Rome,
In pilgrimage thidder he come,
And in almus he sew silver
To pure folkis that had gret mistere;
Yit usit he oftsys to wirk
Proffitably till haly kirk;
Bot as we fynd in his storyis
That he wes gottin on selcouth wis.
His moder to woddis wald oft repair
For the delite of hailsum aire.
Sa, as scho went apon a day
To wod all be hir ane to play,
Scho met of cais with a faire man,
Never nane sa faire, as scho thocht than,
Sa mekle, sa strang, sa faire by sycht,
Scho never nane befor, I hecht,
Proportiound weill in all mesour,
Off lyme and lyth a faire figour.
In sic aquayntans thare thai fell
That, schortly tharof for to tell,
Thare in thare gamyn and thare play
That persone by that woman lay,
And on hir that tyme a sone gat,
This Makbeth, that efter that
Grew to gret stait and to hicht,
And to gret powere and to mycht,
As befor ye haif herd said.
And fra this persone had with hir plaid,
And had the jurnay with hir done,
And gottin had on hir a sone,
He said he a devill wes at him gat,
And bad hir nocht be fleit of that,
For he said at his sone suld be
A man of hie stait and pouste,
And na man suld be borne of wif
Off power to reif him his lif;
And thare apon in takynnyng
He gaif his lemman thare a ring,
And bad at scho suld keip it weill,
And for his luf had that joweill.
And efter that oft usit he
To deill with hir in prevate,
And tald hir mony things suld fall
That scho trowit suld haif bene all.