The Spur to the Lordis.
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QUhat menis thir mischant murtherars?
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In muifing mair mischeif,
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Thir Ruggars, Reifars, Romeraikars,
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Waitting of na releif.
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The mark that God gaif in his greif
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To Cains cursit kin,
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Sall brod thir Burriois in the beif
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For thair maist schamefull Sin.
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Bot breifly for to breif in bill,
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Thay seme to be overluikit:
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Seing our Lordis sa lang ly still,
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Men meinis thay will miscuikit.
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Zour silver beis na langer huikit
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Gar pay zour men of weir,
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Zone bludy Boucheours or thay bruikit,
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Fordwart zour selsis but feir.
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Thay Renigats, thay Rubiatouris
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Hes stollin our Regentis lyfe,
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Thay treuthles Tygars, thay trinfauld Tra-tours
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Hes steirit up this stryfe.
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Of thame sall nouther man, bairne, nor wyfe
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Eschew mischevous chance:
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Thay Ruffyis be thay never sa ryfe,
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Thay get na helpe of France.
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That dolorous deid had bene to done
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Had concord knit togidder,
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The Lordis and Counsall of this Rome,
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Of lait that war growin lidder,
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That gart our Enemeis confidder,
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His deith for to conspyre:
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Clyde banks thairfoir thay sall find slidder,
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Quhen kindlit is Gods Ire.
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Fra he was gane, thay thocht that nane
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Thair fences micht ganestand,
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For why say thay thair is not ane
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Dar tak the deid on hand.
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That ar not knit all in a band,
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We may the Crowne attane,
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Zour Counsall we sall contramand,
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And Crowne zow Kingis of baine.
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Frome lyfe to deith, gif siclyke change,
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Had happinit ony of zow,
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And he zit leving to Revenge
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It had not bene till now.
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Revenge ze not his deid I trow,
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Gods vengeance is decreittit:
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For giltles blude ze knaw not how
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Denuncit to retreittit.
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Argyle and Boyde sall to zow cum
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To gar feche hame the Quene:
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My Lords I pray zow all and sum
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To mark weill quhat I mene.
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It suld zow mufe all to be tene
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Quhen ze the message heir,
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Sen hautie wordis bot spokin bene
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To gar zow tak sum feir.
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Ze haif deposit hir as indeid,
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Not worthie for to ring,
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God was zour ground, weill did ze speid,
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And haif set up the King.
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Gif ze depois him of his Ring,
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Ze grant the former wrang:
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And syne the Quene agane inbring,
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Na dout scho will zow hang.
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Bewar thairfoir or ze conclude,
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That scho in Scotland cum:
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For be my trouth gif that ze dude,
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It semis zour glas is rune.
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Better it war that ze war dum,
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Nor speik zour awin mischeif,
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And lippin for na gude to cum
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Gif ze wirk hir releif.
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Argyle and Boyde befoir war with zow,
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And promysit to byde,
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And now thay tak on hand to gre zow
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With all the tother syde.
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Bot I pray God zour hartis to gyde,
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For quhen thay find zow rype:
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Thay sall not meiknes mix with pryde,
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And playis on Dysartis pype.
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Fordwart thairfoir with fyre and swords,
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For to revenge this cryme,
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And lippin lytill in leing words:
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For thocht I speik in ryme.
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Treuth it was only to dryve tyme,
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That thay war hidder sent:
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And had thay force or it war pryme
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Ze wald se thair Intent.
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Zour counsalls or thay be concludit,
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The Borderis will be brokin,
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Than will thay, gif ze understuidit,
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On pure trew men be wrokin.
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With speiris (in sport) thocht it be spokin,
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This murther sone Revenge:
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Thir haistie heitis sa sall ze slokin,
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Thocht it seme never sa strange.
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Not on that reuthles rageing Rebell,
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And his unhappy band,
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With creuell causers craifing hell,
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Gods bludy curs dois stand
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Bot on the countrie of Scotland,
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Till that misdeid be mendit:
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Thair is na mendis bot sweir in land,
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With speid till thay be spendit.
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This Rakles Robert did report,
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In raggit Ruffyis ryme
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Sen Sempill solace to this sort
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Availlis maist in this tyme.
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With hardy hart, Revenge this cryme,
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I say na mair Amen,
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Ga speik of Eger and Schir Gryme,
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And lat the Lordis alaine.
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