The Deploration of the Cruell Murther of James
Erle of Murray, Vmquhile Regent of Scotland,
togidder with ane admonitioun to the
Dammiltounis Committaris thairof, and to all
thair fortifearis, Mantenaris, or assistence, with
ane Exhortatioun to the Lordis and Nobilitie,
keiparis and defendaris of our Kingis Grace
Maiestie.

Q UHILE as with flesche, and blude we go about
The wondrous warkis of God for to discriue
Pans quhil we pleis, we sal not find yame out

In Januar the thre and twentie day,
Befoir midnycht, in Lythquo as I lay,
Tumbling sum tyme on bed abon the clais,
Now heir, now thair, quhylis doun, quhylis up I rais;
Till at the last, in tumkling of ane ee,
Schir Morpheus the Mair assailzeit me,
With all his sluggische suldarts out of number,
Quhilks led me captiue vnto Maister Slumber,
Quha softly said, Gar keip this pure catiue,
And tak from him his speiche and wittis fiue.
Than come Dame Dreming, all clad in blak sabill,
With sweyning nymphis in cullouris variabill;

TOM T ROATH TO THE ENUIOUS .

I F Momus children seke to knowe my name and where I dwell,
I am Tom Troath and my aboade I list not it to tell
For wise men loue not to enquyre, who where, but what is said
And holde themselves therewith content till further proufe be made.

T HE DOUBLE DEALINGE OF THE R EBELLS IN S
COTLAND .

If tongue could tell or pen could write, the craftie cloaked case
Or yet the treasons to recyte of this newe Regents grace

B EINGAT rapfow thocht yow raif
Skorner of poitis and sklanderus knaif
Quhat sayis thow bot we knaw o r sell
In spyte of the and all the laif
The bastard bairne sall beir the bell

Outher thow art ane papist loun
Hepburne or hoitbag Hammiltoun
Gif thie be tha thow callis thi prince.
War zour richt reknit to yi croun
It my t be laid with litill menss.

Blasphemus baird and beggeris get
The regentis self hes nocht forzet
How gude King Willm wes ane bastard
And yow nocht bot ane carlengs pett

My Lordis now gif ze be wyse,

Knaw weil the grace it God hes send zow
Gif to that leuing Lord all pryse,
Pray that from dainger he defend zow,
And na way lat zoure fais offend zow
But gif zow counsell and curage,
Bauldlie togidder all to bend zow,
That ze do nouther swerue nor swage.

Think it is nouther strenth nor fors
That hes set zow a fuite befoir,
Think weill that nouther men nor hors
Off sic ane act sould get the gloir:
Bot he that ringis euer moir
Hes luikit on zoure quarell rycht,
Gif him all thankis now thairfoir,

I Henry Stewart, vmquhile of Scotland King,
Sumtyme in houpe, with reuerence to Ring:
Within this Realme in dew obedience,
Traisting with ane attoure all eirdlie thing
Quha was the ruite quhair of I did spring,
In honour to liue, be kindelie allyance:
Putand in hir sic faith and confidence,
Ingland I left, seducit be ignorance;
Scotland I socht, in houpe for to get hir,
Quhilk I may rew, as now is cum the chance,
And vthers learne be me experience:
In tyme be war, fra ainis the work missit her.

Sumtyme sho thocht, I was sa amiabill,

MANY YEARS AFTER .

I sat beside my fire, lived o'er again
My happy youth, now left so far behind;
Outside I heard the splash of heavy rain,
The ceaseless soughing of the stormy wind,

The melancholy moaning of the sea,
The rush of great waves, breaking on the shore;
When suddenly a loved voice called on me,
A much loved voice I thought to hear no more.

I caught my breath and listened. Softly fell,
In pleading tones, my name upon mine ear;
Then, like a sigh, was breathed the word " Farewell; "

NEXT YEAR .

A twelvemonth since and I was gay;
Now I am sad.
For my lost joys I weep alway, —
Cannot be glad.
My songs are hushed; the roses dead;
Spring gone; the singing birds have fled.

I thought that death alone could part
Those that were true.
That I should bear an aching heart
I little knew.
But idle words were lightly said,
And all my hopes lay withered, — dead.

Since then for my dear love in vain
I've pined. It seems

FIRST DAY .

Life for me is full of gladness!
One long holiday.
Other people talk of sadness;
I am always gay.
Songs to my lips unbidden spring;
I sing because I needs must sing.

Like as the birds, who, winter past,
Pour from bush and tree,
Forgetting its keen chilling blast,
Sweetest melody.
Blackbirds and thrushes all day sing;
Flowers and love come with the Spring.

Like the last prophet, dark December comes,
Uttering the doom of all things. Hear, my soul,
And profit by the teacher. List the roll
Of surging waters. Not an insect hums;
Carols no bird; cold gloom fills up the whole.
The trees, leaf-stript, lift up their arms in vain
To catch the struggling sunshine. On their steeds
The winds are mounted, prancing o'er the plain,
Then up the hills, then down the vales again.
Like a tried friend returning through the meads
He lov'd in childhood, after absence long,
To cheer us with his converse, even so