The tragical end and death of the Lord James
Regent of Scotland, lately set forth in Scottish, and printed at Edinburgh. 1570.
And now partly turned into English.
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JAMES Earle of Murray Regent of renowne
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Now lieth dead, and wofully put downe,
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Murdred without mercy, mourning for remaid
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Who lost his life in Lythquo by a Clowne,
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Giltles God wot, betrayed in to that towne.
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Was slayne by gunshot, and sodainly put to death,
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Done by the Papists our foes, through fellonous faith.
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Hangman to Harry, now Burrio to their brother,
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Well may this murther manifest the tother.
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What wight alyve would not lament his losse?
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Wo is me to want him, is the common voyce:
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For such a Prince shal never poore man have,
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Kylled by a Traytour, stealing upon him close,
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Purposing of purpose, life for life to lose,
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But no comparison twixt a Kinges sonne and a Knave
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Sith he is gone, we cannot againe him crave.
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Through al our realme I dare wel make this choise,
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Raigned not his fellow since buried was the Bruise.
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To keepe good rule he rode, and tooke no rest,
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Both South and North, and somtime East and West,
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All to decore our common wealth men know:
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By whom let us see, was Pirates so opprest?
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Or yet the theeves so throwne downe and drest?
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Argyle and Huntlye hid them both for aw,
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And when he might, he was tendant at Law,
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Twyse on a day, and sleeped not in sleuth,
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To see no fauters should beare them by the treuth.
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Of this foule fact suppose our foes be fayne,
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Yet after Moyses, Josua comes agayne,
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To guide the people, geve glory therfore to GOD.
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Should they succeede, that have Lord James so slayne?
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Beware of that, least that ye feele the payne,
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And have your weake ones wyried with the Tode.
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Thinke ye with reason that such should rule the rod,
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Which with double murder have made us such ado
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And with our Kyng would play like cousonage to?
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Pray, if you please, I warrant you ye have neede,
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To keepe our King from kankred Kedzochis seede,
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That dayly wayes inventes to put him downe:
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His Graundsire slayne at Lythquo as I it reede,
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His Gudsire thrise did leave this land in deede,
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Harry at midnight murdred in this towne,
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His Cousin now last, and yet they claime the crowne.
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Blinde Jocke may gesse, if these be godly deedes,
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Brude by that Bishop in whom this mischiefes breedes
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Cut of that Papist Prothogal partes,
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That with his leesings all the Laitie pervartes,
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Straight joyne your forces to the fieldes without feare,
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Because ye take your stoutnes al in startes,
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To Hammilton in hast while ye have hartes.
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Devise some way to pay your men of warre,
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For if they once begon, ye neede not gather geare.
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Fight well, and war them, and win the riches thore,
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And if ye doe thus, indeede ye neede no more.
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Curst be ye both, Bishop and Bothwell ech,
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For this foule deede, your neckes the halter stretch,
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If ye two want the withy, they do much wrong you:
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Lythquo lament, your Burgeses may looke bleach,
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In their sayd time your Burrow rueth the leach,
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Because of this murther lately made among you,
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For if I thought it helped ought to hang you,
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So should ye die, and set your towne on fire,
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As some part of punishment to asswage Gods ire.
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Over these two houses for these deedes inding,
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The hand of GOD doth over their heades hing,
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Them to destroy, I dout not in these our daies:
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Hepburnis wil go to wracke, for wyrring of the King,
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But Hamiltons fye, this was a fouler thing.
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Is this your firme religion, yea is, yea is?
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Such a time shall come I trow as Thomas saies:
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Heardmen shal hunt you up through Garranis hill,
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Casting their Plates and let the plough stand still.
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Apparantly these plages are poured out,
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To wreake this world, and wot ye where about?
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Because we want no vice under the heaven:
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Sith double murder makers seeke to rule the rout,
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With the Ninivites to our GOD let us go cry and shout,
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For to retreate that sentence justly geven.
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Yet thou good Lord, that judgeth al thinges even,
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Seing the perril that over the people standes,
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Let not their blood be sought at giltles handes.
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Now Lordes & Lordings assembled in this place,
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Over long we talke of Tragedies, alas,
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Away with care, with comfort now conclude:
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As good in paper, as speake it to your face,
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If murtherers for this geare get any grace,
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Ye shal be shent, thinke on, I say for good,
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Sith arte and part are gilty of his blood,
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Why should ye feare, or favor them for fleiching?
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Ye herd yourselves what Knox spake at the prea-ching.
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First on the fieldes, make shortly to le[?]
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We lacke but one, and what the woorse are wee?
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Sith GOD was pleased to take him out of pine:
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Al men on moold are marked for to dye,
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In time and place appointed, so was he.
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Let not in care your couragies decline,
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For want of one I would not al should tine.
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Go seeke at Roxbrugh when the King was slaine
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And yet one woman wan the house agayne.
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Sith then by women doughty deedes were done,
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Ye Barrons be blithe, and hold your harts above,
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And let us heare wherefore ye hapned hither,
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They are no great partie, and ye speede you soone,
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Albeit that boyd be dayly in Denone,
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Lang or Argyle be gathered in together,
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When al is done, the Counsaile may consider,
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What is the most those murtherers may do,
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Suppose that Huntly would come & help them to.
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Had we one head would stoutly undertake it,
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The Barrons sayes they should be boldly backed,
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Mought they with speedines travel to these townes:
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Why stand ye afeard of Traitours twise detracted?
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Thinke ye not shame to heare your Lordships lacked?
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Some feares their flesh, som gins to gather crownes
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Some hides their heads, som girds them up in gownes
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Looke how your enmies prides them in their spurring
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Keping the fields, and frees not in their furring.
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Wo worth the wives that fostred you and fed,
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Ye do nothing love but lye on soften bed,
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And keepe you fro cold, with cloutes in your shoo:
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I thinke great wonder how ye can be so dred,
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Or fray at them that last before you fled.
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Wanting their Quene, sith God is gaynst them too.
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Why lye ye here, having here litle to do?
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The Barrons bids you shortly bide, or els begone,
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Courage decaies if Scotishmen tary long.
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Have Lions lookes, and then make way forth cleare,
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Be Hannibals, and hoyse your harts with cheare.
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But be not still, while those Knaves do enclose you.
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He needes not worke that hath one good overseeer,
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Nor ye neede fight, so that your hartes were freeer.
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But by my soule myselfe could never ruse you:
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I know wel for this crime Christ shal accuse you.
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For sparing Agag, Saul was punished sore,
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So shal he you, I dare not say no more.
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The Lord of hostes that heaven & earth commaundes,
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Keepe our yong King from al unhappy handes,
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And that good Queene of England, and her Counsel to.
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Ye feare the Frenchmen should overlay these landes,
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But I heare say by some that understandes,
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The Doctours doubt but they have more ado.
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Our Queene is kept straightly, her power is igo,
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England wil help you, and ye wil help yourselves,
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And be the contrair, crave of them nothing els.
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Thus fare ye wel, I spare not to offend you,
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In simple verse this Schedul that I send you,
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Beseching you to scanne it if ye may.
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Steale ye away, the wives wil vilypend you,
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And if ye byde, the Barrons wil commend you.
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Best were it I thinke, we might prevent that day,
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Their meeting is on Sonday I heare say,
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In Glasgow towne, thinking to fight or flee,
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It lookes wel there, ye get no more of mee.
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