Classic Poem

Still under the levis grene,
This hinder day, I went alone:
I hard ane may sair murne, and meyne;
To the KING OF LOVE scho maid hir mone.
Scho sychit sely soir;
Said LORD , I luif thi lore.
‘Mair wo dreit never woman one.
‘O langsum lyfe, and thow war gone,
‘Than suld I murne no moir!’

As rid gold-wyir schynit hir hair;
And all in grene the may scho glaid.
Ane bent bow in hir hand scho bair;
Undir hir belt war arrowis braid.
I followit on that fre,
That semelie wes to se.
Withe still murning hir mone scho maid.
That bird under a bank scho baid,
And lenit to ane tre.

Wanweird, scho said, ‘Quhat have I wrocht,
‘That on me kytht hes all this cair?
‘Trew lufe so deir I have thé bocht!—
‘Certis so sall I do na mair.
‘Sen that I go begyld
‘With ane that faythe has syld.—
‘That gars me oftsyis sich full sair;
‘And walk amang the holtis hair,
‘Within the woddis wyld.

‘This grit disese for luif I dre—
‘Thair is no toung can tell the wo!—
‘I luse the luif, that luses not me;
‘I may not mend—but murning mo.
‘Quhill God send sum remeid,
‘Throw destany, or deid.
‘I am his freind—and he my fo.
‘My sueit, alace! quhy dois he so?
‘I wrocht him never na feid!

‘Withoutin feyn I wes his freynd,
‘In word, and wark. Grit God it wait!
‘Quhair he wes placit, thair list I leynd,
‘Doand him service ayr and late.
‘He kepand estir syne
‘Till his honour and myne.
‘Bot now he gais ane uther gait:
‘And hes no e to my estait;
‘Quhilk dois me all this pyne.

‘It dois me pyne that I may prufe,
‘That makis me thus murning mo.—
‘My luis he lufes ane uther lufe—
‘Alas, sweithart! Quhy does he so?
‘Quhy sould he me forsaik—
‘Have mercie on his maik!—
‘Thairfoir my hart will birst in two.
‘And thus, walking with da and ro,
‘My leif now heir I taik.’

Than wepit scho, lustie in weyd;
And on hir wayis can scho went.
In hy eftir that heynd I yeyd,
And in my armis culd hir hent.
And said, “Fayr lady at this tyde,
“With leif ye man abyde.
“And tell me quho yow hidder sent?
“Or quhy ye beir your bow so bent
“To sla our deir of pryde?

“In waithman weid sen I yow find
“In this wod walkand your alone,
“Your mylk-quhyte handis we sall bind
“Quhill that the blude birst fra the bone.
“Chairgeand yow to preisoun,
“To the king's deip dungeoun.
“Thai may ken be your fedderit flane
“Ye have bene mony beistis bane,
“Upon thir bentis broun.”

That fre answerd with fayr afeir,
And said, ‘Schir, mercie for your mycht!
‘Thus man I bow and arrowis beir,
‘Becaus I am ane baneist wycht.
‘So will I be full lang.
‘For God's luif lat me gang;
‘And heir to yow my treuth I plycht,
‘That I sall, nowder day nor nycht,
‘No wyld beist wait with wrang.

‘Thoch I walk in this forest fre,
‘With bow, and eik with fedderit flane,
‘It is weill mair than dayis thre,
‘And meit or drink yit saw I nane.
‘Thoch I had never sic neid
‘My selfe to wyn my breid,
‘Your deir may walk, schir, thair alane.
‘Yet wes I nevir na beistis bane.
‘I may not se thame bleid.

‘Sen that I never did yow ill,
‘It wer no skill ye did me skayth.
‘Your deir may walk qubairevir thai will:
‘I wyn my meit with na sic waithe.
‘I do bot litil wrang,
‘Bot gif I flour is fang.
‘Gif that ye trow not in my aythe,
‘Tak heir my bow and arrowis baythe,
‘And lat my awin selfe gang.

“I say your bow and arrow is bricht!—
“I bid not have thame, be Sanct Bryd.
“Bot ye man rest with me all nycht,
“All nakit sleipand be my syd.”
‘I will not do that syn!’
“Leif yow this warld to wyn!—
“Ye ar so haill, of hew and hyd,
“Luif hes me sangit in this tyd.
“I may not fra yow twyn.”

Than lukit scho to me, and leuch;—
And said, ‘Sic luf I rid yow layne.
‘Albeid ye mak it never sa teuch,
‘To me your labour is in vane.
‘Wer I out of your sycht,
‘The space of halfe a nycht,
‘Suppois ye saw me never agane—
‘Luif hes yow streinyeit with litle paine
‘Thairto my treuth I plycht.’

I said, “My sueit, forsuythe I sall
“For ever luif yow, and no mo.
“Thoch uthers luif, and leif, with all:
“Maist certanlie I do not so.
“I do yow trew luif hecht,
“Be all thi bewis bricht!
“Ye ar so fair be not my fo!
“Ye sail have syn and ye me slo
“Thus throw ane suddan sycht.”

‘That I yow sla, that God sorscheild!
‘Quhat have I done, or said, yow till?
‘I wes not wont wapyns to weild—
‘Bot am ane woman—gif ye will.
‘That suirlie feiris yow,
‘And ye not me, I trow.
‘Thairfor, gude schir, tak in none ill:
‘Sall never berne gar breif the bill
‘At bidding me to bow.

‘Into this wode ay walk I sall,
‘Ledand my lyf as woful wycht;—
‘Heir I forsaik bayth bour and hall,
‘And all thir bygings that are brycht!
‘My bed is maid full cauld,
‘With beistis bryme and bauld.—
‘That gars me say, bayth day and nycht,
‘Alace that ever the toung sould hecht
‘That hart thocht not to hauld!’

Thir words out throw my hart so went.
That neir I wepit for hir wo.
But thairto wald I not consent;
And said that it sould not be so.
Into my armis swythe
Embrasit I that blythe.
Sayand, “Sweit hart, of harmis ho!
“Found sall I never this forest fro,
“Quhill ye me comfort kyth.

Than knelit I befoir that cleir;
And meiklie could hir mercie craif.
That semelic than, with sobir cheir.
Me of hir gudlines forgaif.
It wes no neid, I wys,
To bid us uther kys.
Thair mycht no hairts mair joy resaif,
Nor ather culd of uther haif.
Thus brocht wer we to blys.