Poesías de la Corte escocesa

A ballade of the Scottysshe Kynge

Kynge Jamy, Jomy your Joye is all go
Ye sommnoed our kynge why dyde ye so
To you no thyng it dyde accorde
To sommon our kynge your souerayne lorde.
A kynge a somner it is wonder
Knowe ye not salte and suger asonder
In your somnynge ye were to malaperte
And your harolde no thynge experte
Ye thought ye dyde it full valyauntolye
But not worth thre skppes of a pye;
Syr squyer galyarde ye were to swyfte.
Your wyll renne before your wytte.
To be so scornefull to your alye,
Your counseyle was not worth a flye.
Before the frensshe kynge, danes, and other
Ye ought to honour your lorde and brother
Trowe ye syr Iames his noble grace,
For you and your scottes wolde tourne his face
Now ye prode scottes of gelawaye.
For your kynge may synge welawaye
Now must ye knowe our kynge for your regent,
Your souerayne lorde and presedent,
In hym is figured melchisedeche,
And ye be desolate as armeleche
He is our noble champyon.
A kynge anoynted and ye be non
Thrugh your counseyle your fader was slayne
Wherfore I fere ye wyll suffre payne,
And ye proude scottes of dunbar
Parde ye be his homager.
And suters to his parlyment,
Ye dyde not your dewty therin.
Wyerfore ye may it now repent
Ye bere yourselfe som what to bolde,
Therfore ye haue lost your copholde.
Ye be bounde tenauntes to his estate.
Gyue vp yovr game ye playe chekmate.
For to the castell of norham
I vnderstonde to soone ye cam.
For a prysoner there now ye be
Eyther to the deuyll or the trinite.
Thanked be saynte Gorge our ladyes knythe
Your pryd is paste ad we good nycht.
Ye haue determyned to make a fraye
Our kynge than beynge out of the waye
But by the power and myght of god
Ye were beten weth your owne rod
By your wanton wyll syr at a worde
Ye haue loste spores, cote armure, and sworde
Ye had bet better to haue busked to huntey bãkes,
Than in Englonde to playe ony suche prankes
But ye had some wyle sede to sowe.
Therfore ye be layde now full lowe,
Your power coude no lenger attayne
Warre with our kynge to meyntayne.
Of the kynge of nauerne ye may take hede,
How vnfortunately he doth now spede,
In double welles now he dooth dreme.
That is a kynge witou a realme
At hym example ye wolde none take.
Experyence hath brought you in the same brake
Of the outyles ye roughfoted scottes,
We have well eased you of the bottes
Ye rowe ranke scottes and drõken danes
Of our englysshe bowes ye haue fette your banes.
It is not fyttynge in tour nor towne,
A somner to were a kynges crowne
That neble erle the whyte Lyon.
Your pompe and pryde hath layde a downe
His sone the lorde admyrall is full good.
His swerde hath bathed in the scottes blode
God saue kynge Henry and his lordes all
And sende the frensshe kynge suche an other fall,

Amen, for saynt charytë
And god saue noble.

To Mistress Margery Wentworth

WITH margerain gentle
Embroidered the mantle
  Is of your maidenhead.
Plainly I cannot glose;
  Ye be, as I divine,
The pretty primrose,
  The goodly columbine.

Benign, courteous, and meek,
  With wordes well devised;
In you, who list to seek,
  Be virtues well comprised.
With margerain gentle,
  The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
  Is of your maidenhead.

To Mistress Isabell Pennell

By Saint Mary, my lady,
Your mammy and your dady
Brought forth a goodly baby!
    My maiden Isabel,
Reflaring rosabell,
The flagrant camamell,
    The ruddy rosary,
The sovereign rosemary,
The pretty strawberry,
    The columbine, the nepte,
The jeloffer well set,
The proper violet;
    Ennewëd your colowre
Is like the daisy flower
After the April shower ;
    Star of the morrow gray,
The blossom on the spray,
The freshest flower of May:
    Maidenly demure,
Of womanhood the lure;
Wherefore I make you sure
    It were an heavenly health,
It were and endless wealth,
A life for God himself,
    To hear this nightingale
Among the birdës smale
Warbeling in the vale,
Dug, dug, jug, jug,
Good year and good luck,
With chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck!

To Mistress Margaret Hussey

Merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentil as falcon
Or hawk of the tower;
    With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness,
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning
In every thing,
Far, far passing
That I can endite
Or suffice to write
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentil as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
    As patient and as still
And as full of good will
As fair Isiphill,
Sweet pomander,
Good Cassaunder;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought;
Far may be sought
Erst that ye can find
So curteise, so kind
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentil as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.