Classic Poem

Thir Lenterne dayis ar luvely lang,
And I will murne ne mair,
Nor for no mirthles may me mang
That will not for me cair.
I wil be glaid and latt hir gang
With falsat in hir fair.
I fynd ane freschar feir to fang,
Baith of hyd, hew and hair.

The wintter nycht is lang but weir;
I may murne gif I will.
Scho will not murne for me, that cleir;
Thairfoir I wil be still.
O King of Luve that is so cleir,
I me acquyt you till.
Sa scho fra me and I fra hir,
And not bot it be skill.

O Lord of Luve, how lykis the
My lemmen's laitis unleill?
Scho luvis ane uthir bettir than me;
I haif caus to appeill.
I pray to him that deit on tre,
That for us all thold baill,
Mot send my lemmane twa or thre,
Sen scho can not be leill.

Uthir hes hir hairt. Sowld scho haif myne,
Trewly that war grit wrang.
Quhen thay haif play, gif I haif pyne,
On gallowis mot I hang,
Or for hir luve gif I declyne.
Thocht scho ewill nevir so lang,
Quhen I think on hir foirheid fyne,
Than mon I sing ane sang.

Of all the houris of the nycht
I can not tell you ane;
So murne I for my lady bricht
Fro sleip haif me ourtane.
Fro scho be past out of my sicht
The casting of ane stane,
I haif no langour, be this licht;
I love God of his lane.

Allace that evir fader me gat,
Or moder me wend in clais,
Gif I sowld for ane woman's saik
My lyfe thus leid in lais.
For ye saw nevir so fair a caik
Of meill that millar mais,
Bot yit ane man wald get the maik.
As gud luve cumis as gais.