Classic Poem

King Hart, into his cumlye castell strang
Closit about with craft and meikill ure,
So semlye wes he set his folk amang,
That he no dout had of misaventure:
So proudlye wes he polist, plane and pure,
With youthheid and his lustye levis grene;
So fair, so fresche, so liklye to endure,
And als so blith as bird in simmer schene.

For wes he never yit with schowris schot,
Nor yit ourrun with rouk, or ony raine;
In all his lusty lecam nocht ane spot,
Na never had experience into paine,
Bot alway into liking, nocht to laine;
Onlye to love, and verrye gentilnes,
He was inclinit cleinlye to remane,
And wonn under the wing of wantounes.

So strang this King him thocht his castell stude,
With mony towre and turat crownit hye:
About the wall thair ran ane water wude,
Blak, stinkand, sour, and salt as is the sey,
That on the wallis wiskit, gre by gre,
Boldning to ryis the castell to confound;
Bot thay within maid sa grit melody,
That for thair reird thay micht nocht heir the sound.