Cruikit liedis the blinde
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THis warld it waggis I wat not how,
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And na man may ane uther trow:
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And everie man dois pluke and pow,
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And that the pure may finde,
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Our Court it is decayit now
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The cruikit leidis the blinde.
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Althocht the warldlie wise be cruikit,
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This commoun weill he hes miscuikit,
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Our Lords ar blinde and dois overluikit
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He gydis thame as he list
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Tak thay not tent he will not huikit
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To gyde thame in the mist.
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He halds our Lords at variance,
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He garris the tane put esperance
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They will get daylie help of France,
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This he garris thame confide
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Sayis Ingland will bring mony Lance
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Unto the uther side.
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Our Lords ar now delt in twa sydis,
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And everie faction in him confydis:
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Ye will heir tell how he thame gydis,
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And ye leif yeiris few
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Sen he hes maid sa mony slydis
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Trow ye he can be trew.
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Fra he in Court in credite grew,
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He did ay change the Court anew:
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The Quene his doingis sair did rew,
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And richt sa did hir Mother,
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The counsall kennis gif he was trew,
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To hun that was hir Brother.
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In Edinburgh quhen they convene,
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Our Lords to him they gang bedene:
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As he war outher King or Quene,
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He hes thame at his bidding
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His craftie counsall will be sene,
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Quhen Doggs barkis on the midding.
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Albeit he haif the Fever quartane,
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He suld be made knycht of the Gartane
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He rewlis Edinburgh and Dunbartane,
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As Maddie dois me tell:
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Gif he war Pape I am richt certane
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He wald reule hevin and hell.
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Gif he gar Atholl do sic schame,
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As to consent to bring hir hame:
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And gif the gyding to Madame,
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They will put downe the King
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The Crowne will alter fra that Name,
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Than Murderars may sing.
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He hes gart Hume begin to tyre,
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Althocht that he gat his desyre:
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Bot he will leid him in the myre
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Thocht he hecht to defend him,
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And Ingland set his lands in fyre
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I wat not quha will mend him.
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Als he gat Setoun out of hands,
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From forfalting he savit his lands:
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Thocht he be lyand under bands
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He will not knaw the King:
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Sen ye ken how the mater stands,
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Suld he haif leif to fling?
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Our richt Regent quha was our targe
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Laid sindrie things unto his charge,
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The quhilk in deid war verray large
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As is kend with anew,
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Ye haif gevin him ane plane discharge
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And sayis it was not trew.
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I wat ye saw never ane styme,
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And wantit baith ressoun and ryme,
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Quhen ye forgaif him all his cryme:
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And maid his oddis evin,
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Thocht he be fristit at this tyme
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He will not be forgevin.
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I pray yow Lordis on ather syde,
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That ye his sawis do not confyde,
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For I will sweir yow be Sanct Bryde
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He suffeis not thre strais,
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Quha suld be rewlar nor our gyde
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May he bruke that he hais.
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All thir maters he dois bot mock,
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He hes devysit mony sic block:
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He can begyle ane Landwart Jock,
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Except he ken him weill:
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Thay say he can baith quhissill and cloik,
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And his mouth full of meill.
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My Lordis quhat is this that ye mene
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I thinke the holkis overgangis your ene,
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I wald sum man wald scheir yow clene
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That ye micht se thir faultis,
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And be not blinde as ye haif b[e]ne
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Nor led with thame that haultis.
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