Cryst, yf my love wer in my armys
And I yn my bed agayne!
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Our king he kept a false stewarde,
A falser steward than he was one,Servde not in bower nor hall.He wolde have layne by our comelye queene,Her deere worshippe to betraye;Our queene she was a good woman,And evermore said him naye.Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind,With her hee was never content,Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse,In a fyer to have her brent.There…
The sturdy rock, for all his strength,
The marble stone is pearst at lengthWith littel drops of drizzling raine:The ox doth yield unto the yoke,The steele obeyeth the hammer-stroke.The stately stagge, that seemes as stoutBy yalping hounds at day is set;The swiftest bird, that flies about,Is caught at length in fowler’s net:The greatest fish, in deepest brooke,Is soon deceiv’d by subtill hooke.Yea,…
I sing of a maiden
King of all kingsTo her son she ches.He came al so stillThere his mother was,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass.He came al so stillTo his mother’s bour,As dew in April,That falleth on the flour.He came al so stillThere his mother lay,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray.Mother and maidenWas never none but…
Late at e’en, drinking the wine,
They set a combat them between,To fight it in the dawing.‘What though ye be my sister’s lordWe’ll cross our swords to-morrow.’‘What though my wife your sister be,I’ll meet ye then on Yarrow.’‘O stay at hame, my ain gude lord!O stay, my ain dear marrow!My cruel brither will you betrayOn the dowie banks of Yarrow.’‘O fare…
I
Luxuriantly budding my pride and joy!I will put before the lord of Macreu,That on Wednesday, in the valley of MachawyBlood will flow.Lloegyr’s (England’s) blades will shine.But hear, O little pig! on ThursdayThe Cymry will rejoyceIn their defence of Cymimawd,Furiously cutting and thrusting.The Saesons (Saxons) will be slaughtered by our ashen spears,And their heads used as…
Part the First
To sing a song I will beginne:It is of a lord of faire Scotland,Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.His father was a right good lord,His mother a lady of high degree;But they, alas! were dead, him froe,And he lov’d keeping companie.To spend the daye with merry cheare,To drinke and revell every night,To card and…