My Lord Methwenis tragedie
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THow emptie pen pas but experience
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With dull indyte, and do thy diligence
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This pure complaint with pietie to deploir
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Of Muses vane I ask na Eloquence
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Bot only God of his greit Excellence
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Him to ressaif in Everlasting gloir
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Quhonie dolent deith hes laitly done devoir
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Unlukellie allace, gif man micht mend it
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Slane with ane schot, sa is the gude Lord endit.
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Methwen may murne, and all the bounds about
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For Hary Stewart, that was bauld and stout
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Constant and kynd with qualiteis conding
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In smallest danger nane belevand dout
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Invyous Fortoun swa did waill him out
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Lyke as at Roxburgh raid scho slew our King
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Ane greit foirtakin of ane weill war thing
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To se the saikles puneist sa with roddis
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The scharper scurge is cummand for the Toddis.
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Sic is thair craft in clymming to the Crowne
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The pure King Hary pieteously put downe
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Nocht be thair force, bot fyring of ane trane
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The Erle of Murray murdreist with ane lowne
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And Lennox last ze saw in Striviling Towne.
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Gude George Ruthuen with thay rebalds slane,
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Garleis, Dundas, quhilk wer baith trew & plane
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Dowglas of Lyntoun, & gude Westiraw was last
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With lytill meaning fra the men be past.
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Bot to my taill and Tragedie returne
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The gude Lord Methuen makis me to murne
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That all my senses suddannly doun fais
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Quha hes the breist nor it in baill wald burne?
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To se zone tratoures do sa foule ane turne.
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Gif that our Lords wald craib for ony cais
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Wa worth the tyme he went about zone wais
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Wa worth the Towne, the Castell and the craig
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Sic tyme sall cum, that God sall pour his plaig.
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Wa worth his weirds (gif ony weirds can be)
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Parcas, Lacheses, Atrapus all thre
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Fy on the Fortoun with thy fenzeit smyle
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War deid substantiall maid of stane or tre
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I suld not rest bot me revenge on the.
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Micht thow not spair yat Lord to live a quhyle?
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Ane of the best was borne in all this Ile
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Gif it wald rute, to reckin out sic taillis
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Gude to be war, quhen wickitnes prevaillis.
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Of twentie zeiris, zing and sa discreit
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Meik of his maners, mansuetude and sweit,
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Lord lyke allace, he had ouir lytill feir
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Aganis his fais, ay formest on his feit
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With lammis vult, and with ane Lyouns spreit
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Quha had mair grace to governe men of weir
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And gif I spak, of Culvering, bow, and speir
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He was not borne was better of sic playis
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(War he not Lord) nor lyke him of his dayis.
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Zing, lusty, lufesum, liberall and large
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Ane greit defender of our chosin Barge
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In trublous time yow micht haif steirt ye ruther
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Few better heir bene Chiftane to have charge
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Aganis Lord Greid to beir the goldin Targe
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In all this land thow left not sic ane uther
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The sancts of God may say thay want ane brother
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Sic as at na tyme can thay get for graith
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Sa frak, sa fordwart to defend thair faith.
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In the was wit, wisdome, and worthynes,
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In the was grace, groundit with godlynes,
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In the was meiknes and humilitie,
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In the was fredom, force, and ferynes,
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In the was manly mowis and marynes,
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With mercy, science, and Civilitie,
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To the Dame nature gave abilitie
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Pringnant of wit, of policie but peir,
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Rype of ingyne, with judgement perqueir.
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In honest pastyme was thy haill delyte
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Thow bure the toung that never spak dispyte
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Walkryfe in weirs, and watcheman to the rest
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For na offence culd thow be forsit to flyte
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Aganis thy servandis, thocht thay wer to wyte.
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Bot with thy wysdome weyit it at the best
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Thy houshald trim, and treit weill thay confest
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Quhairfoir thay mys the mair nor all the laif
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Quhen thay remember on the giftis thow gaif.
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Had Stewarts stoutnes, as the mater stands
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Thay wald not faill to fecht it with thair hands,
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To se yame murdreist doun yat dois belang yame
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Bot sum ar feirit for fyring of thair lands
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And sum ar lyand obleist under bands
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That dar not steir, suppois the tother hang yame
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Blist be the barne yat is not borne amang thame
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Thay beand beistis, that hes bene men befoir
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Compairit with Gedds, that dois thair fry devoir
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Fy on the Atholl, quhat dois thow requyre?
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May not thir murthers mufe thy hart to Ire
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Gif thow had mettall man to bring the to
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Thy dowbill faith may not abyde the fyre
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Swa misbeleif sall leif the in the myre.
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Or hes thy wyfe the wyte of it, quhair is scho?
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Defend the caus man quhill the King cum to
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Gif naturall kyndnes kindillis up thy breist
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We beand doun, na dout thow salbe neist.
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God save King James, thow may say allace,
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Except and only God mon gyde thy grace
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For temporall Lords thay leif the few on lyve,
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Thy Father murdreist in ane mischant place
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Syne baith thy Regents of ane Royall race
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With sindrie uther Nobills four or fyve
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And last of all, I laith wer to discryve
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The manly Methwen mischantly put downe
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Slane for thy saik, for saving of thy Crowne.
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For the mantenance of thy lyfe and law
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I note bot few, or nane with sic ovirthzaw
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As only Ruthwen, this my ressoun quhy
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His Father first, gif I the suith suld schaw
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Deit in exyle for honest caus ze knaw
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His douchtie brothers deith can nane deny
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Now Methwen last, belevand sorrow by,
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Quhilk hes mair barrat to his breist inbrocht
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Nor all the laif, gif he culd leif his thocht.
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Thocht we be subject to mortalitie
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Zit God Indewis us with sic qualitie,
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That naturall kyndnes causis us to cair
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Bot let na Carnall Corporalitie
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Complane on Christ for partialitie
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To tak his awin men outher lait or air
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Lat deid to deid, and die not in dispair
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Ryse and revenge the Ruthwen on zone rout
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Quhat will it mend to murne thy senses out.
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As to the Lords that hes begun this actioun
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I feir thair tyme be turnand to detractioun
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Gif thay repent not this I spak befoir
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Exame thair conscience of particular pactioun
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Gif thay be favourers of the tother factioun
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(And gif swa be) thair mys mon be the moir
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God will not be abusit with sic vanegloir,
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The storme approches quhen ye Poills ar fairest
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The langer spairit, the plaigue is ay the fairest.
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The day is neir, as I dar weill deplane zow
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The wraith of God is lyke to gang aganis zow,
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For spairing men of Machevillus Scuillis
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How may ze save zone smaiks yai wald haif slane zow
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And ze wer in yair hands yai wald not hane zow,
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Thay play the men, & ze the febill fuillis
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Quhat is the caus, let se zour curage cuillis?
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Particular proffeit durst I speik it out
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Zit thay ar daylie murdreist doun thay dout.
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To mak sic change, ye wair zour wit in vane
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As thairs for ouris, and ouris for thairs agane
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Thair mon ze grant yair ground als gude as zours
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Bot quhair ze gat thame, wald ze flour the grane
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That beand done, na dout thay wald be fane
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For to renounce thair Law and cum to ours,
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Do ze not sa, ze sall thoill scharper schours
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Sic vane excambion can I not considder
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As marrow tratours and the trew togidder.
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I dar be bauld to say sen this began
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Had we bot usit the victorie we wan
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With gloir to God that gaif thame in our hands
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We nedit not or now to want ane man,
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Bot quhen we tak thame solistacioun than
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Dois clap thair heid, the counsall sa commandis
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Quhairfoir I feir, that God sal burne ye wandis
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As for exempill I can let zow seit
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For spairing sinfull how the saikles deit.
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As Quheit is strukin for the stra besyde
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And silver fyne mon to the Furnes glyde
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To get the dros devydit as we se
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Thocht King Josias did in Christ confyde
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Befoir the plaigue come God will sa provyde,
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He will not thoill the just with thame to die
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Bot quhair he takis away sic men as he
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The riche, the wyse, the Capitane, or the gyde
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Thair sall the pepill punischment abyde.
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Quhat nedit Noy for sin to suffer wrak?
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Nor faithfull Lot, bot for the wickits saik,
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Caleb and Josua in cumming to the land
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For Ophny and Phines that the battell straik
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The Innocent Ely all his banis braik,
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The Ark of God was caryit of thair hand
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And zit thair fais micht better have lattin it stand
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Suppois the saikles slane was for offences
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Zit did the Phelistims faill of thair pretences.
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And gredy Acan for the geir he hid
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Twa goldin braislettis lytill thing he did
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Zit was the pepill puneist for sic playis
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Have we sic wrangous geir? na God forbeid
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As Crowats, Sensours, or ane Challeis leid
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Quhilk will be found na fault now heir a dayis
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For spairing Agag as the Scripture sayis
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The hous of Saule was puneist and his seid
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Not spairing Jonathan for his douchtie deid.
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Siclyke King David thoillit pane and greif
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His wickit barnetyme brocht him to mischeif
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His Capitane Joab Absolone forbure
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Bot far ma Joabs heir for thair releif
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With solistatioun quhen we tak ane theif
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Suppois ze wist he wrocht zour self injure
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Swa sum belevis have baith the sydes sa sure
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And zit I hope thay sall not want thair hyre
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As Absolone set Joabs corne in fyre.
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The King Roboam raschely did ovirluik
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The auld wyse counsall, and the fulische tuik
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Quhairfoir he tynt his kyndlie Trybes ten
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And Jeroboam in that samin buik
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Set up new Idols and his God forsuik,
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Quhill Abiah flew fyve hundreth thousand men
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Swa Bennadab was Captive as ze ken,
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Bot quhair the just dois joyne thame with forsa-kin
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Be war thay get not wickit Acabs takin.
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Quhat dois it proffeit Poetrie prophane?
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Sen trew Preicheours speikis it to zow plane
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Zit never mercy in zour mynd remordis
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As fruteles seid it never growis a grane
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Bot to my taill heir I returne agane
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This Tragedie may staik to tell the Lordis
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Ane thousand fyve hundreth Sempill sa recordis
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Thre scoir and twelf suppois the veirse be vane
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The thrid of marche was worthy Methwen slane.
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FINIS with the Dytone.
Quod Sempill.
The Lord to delyver the laif of this blude
And send us ane sythment of yis suddane slauchter
The King & his counsall inspyre yame with gude
And mak us not an futestuil to our fais lauchter
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