Classic Poem

God, as thow weill can,
Help the slie court-man;
His banes may I sair ban
First lernt me to ryde.

Thre brether wer we,
All borne of ane cuntre;
The hardest fortoun fell me,
Grit God be my gyde!

The eldest brother was na fule,
Quhen he was young yeid to the scule;
And now he sittis on ane stule,
Ane prelot of pryde.

My secund brother bure the pak,
Ane lytil quhyle upon his bak;
Now he hes gold and warld's wrak,
Lyand him besyde.

Now mon I to the court fayr,
Baith thriftless and threid-bair:
Quhairevir I found, or I fayr
In barrat to byde.

All men makis me debait,
For heirischip of horsmeit;
Fra I be semblit on my feit,
The outhorne is cryde.

Thay rais me all with ane rout,
And chasis me the toun about;
And cryis all with ane schout,
" O traytor full tryde!"

Quhen I have ridden all day,
He wer wyse that can say,
Gif the court-man weil lay;
Na, na be Sanct Bryde.

At nicht is some gaine, —
This is our auld a rayne; —
I am maist wilsum of wane,
Within this warld wyde.

Now man I the court fle,
For falt of meit, and na fe;
With na mair gude na ye se,
Upon this gald glyde.

Syn, but devotioun, furth fair,
And fenye me ane Pardonar,
With bag, and burdone full bayr,
To beg, and nocht byde.

Now in my mind me remordis,
As the court-man recordis,
All my lippining upon lordis
Is layd me besyde.

Man, thow se for thyself;
And purches the sum pelf.
Leyd not thy lyse lyke ane else,
That our feild can flyde.