Works, Poem 5 – Poem 6

Works · Poem 5 – Poem 6

The deploratioun of The Deith of Quene Magdalene. ☞ ✚ ☜

O Cruell Deith, to greit is thy puiſſance

Deuorar of all erthlie leuyng thingis

Adam, we may the wyit of this miſchāce

In thy default, this cruell tyrane ringis

And ſpairis nother Empryour nor Kingis.

And now allace hes reft furth of this land

The flour of France, and confort of Scotland.

¶Father Adam allace that thow abuſit

Thy fre wyll, being Inobedient,

Thow cheſit Deith, and leſting lyfe refuſit,

Thy Succeſſioun allace, that may repent

That thow hes maid mankynd ſo Impotent,

That it may mak to Deith, no reſiſtance.

Exemple of our Quene, the flour of France.

O dreidfull Dragoun, with thy dulefull dart,

Quhilk did nocht ſpair, of Feminine the flour,

Bot cruellie did pers hir throuch the hart,

And wald nocht giuegive hir reſpite for ane hour,

To remane with hir Prince, and Paramour,

That ſcho at laiſer, mycht hauehave tane licence,

Scotland on the, may cry ane loud vengeance.

Thow leit Mathuſalem, leif nine houndreth ȝeir

Thre ſcore and nyne, bot in thy furious rage.

Thow did deuore, this ȝoung Princes but peir,

Or ſcho was compleit, ſeuintene ȝeir of age,

Gredie gorman, quhy did thow nocht aſſwage,

Thy furious rage, contrair that luſtie Quene,

Tyll we ſum fruct, had of hir bodie ſene.

O Dame Nature, thow did no diligence,

Contrair this theif quhilk al y^e warld cōfoundis.

Had thow with naturall targis maid defence,

That brybour had nocht cūmit w^tin hir boundis,

And had bene ſauit frome ſic mortall ſtoundis,

This mony ane ȝeir bot quhair was thy diſcretion

That leit hir pas, til we had ſene ſucceſſion.

☞ O Venus, with thy blynd ſone Cupido,

Fy on ȝow baith, that maid no reſiſtance,

In to ȝour Court, ȝe neuer had ſic two.

So leill Luffaris without diſſimulance.

As Iames the Fift, and Magdalene of France,

Diſcending boith of blude Imperiall,

To quhome in lufe, I find no perigall.

☞For as Leander ſwame outthrow the flude,

To his fair Lady Hero, mony nichtis,

So did this prince, throw bulryng ſtremis wode

With Erlis, baronis, ſquyaris, & with knichtis,

Contrair Neptune, and Gol and thare michtis,

And left his Realme in greit diſeſperance,

To ſeik his Lufe, the firſt Dochter of France.

And ſcho lyke prudent Quene Penelope,

Ful cōſtantlie wald change hym for none vther,

And for his pleſour, left hir awin countre,

Without regard, to Father or to Mother,

Takyng no cure of Siſter, nor of Brother,

Bot ſchortlie tuke hir leif, and left thame all,

For lufe of hym, to quhome lufe maid hir thrall.

O dame Fortune quhare was thy greit confort,

Till hir to quhome thow was ſo fauorable,

Thy ſlyding gyftis, maid hir no ſupport,

Hir hie ſynage, nor Riches intellible,

I ſe thy puiſſance bene bot variable,

Quhen hir father the moſt hie criſtinit King,

Till his deir Chyld, mycht mak no ſupporting.

The potent Prince, hir luſtie lufe and knicht,

With his moſt hardie Noblis of Scotland,

Contrair that bailfull bribour had no micht,

Thocht all the men had bene at his command,

Of France, Flanderis, Italie, and Ingland,

With fiftie thouſand Millioun of treſour,

Mycht nocht prolong that Ladyis lyfe ane hour.

O Paris of all Citeis principall,

Quhilk did reſaue our Prince with laud & glorie

Solempnitlie throw Arkis triumphall

Quhilk day bene digne to put in memorie.

For as Pompey efter his Victorie,

Was in to Rome, reſauit with greit Ioy,

So thow reſauit, our richt redoutit Roy.

Bot at his Mariage maid vponupon the morne,

Sic ſolace, and Solempnizatioun,

Was neuer ſene afore, ſen Chriſt was borne,

Nor to Scotland ſic conſolatioun,

Thare ſelit was, the confirmatioun,

Of the weill keipit ancient alliance,

Maid betuix Scotlād, and the realme of france,

I neuer did ſe, one day more glorious

So mony in ſo riche abilȝementis,

Of Silk and gold, with ſtonis precious,

Sic Banketting, ſic ſound of Inſtrumentis,

With ſang, and dance, & Martiall tornamentis,

Bot lyke ane ſtorme, efter ane pleſand morrow,

Sone was our ſolace, changit in to ſorrow.

O traytour deith, quhom none may contramand,

Thow mycht hauehave ſene, the preparatioun,

Maid be the thre Eſtaitis of Scotland,

With greit confort, and conſolatioun

In euerilk Ciete, Caſtell, Toure, and Town,

And how ilk Nobill, ſet his hole intent

To be excellent in Habilȝement.

Theif, ſaw thow nocht, the greit preparatiuis,

Of Edinburgh, the Nobill famous toun,

Thow ſaw the peple, labouring for thare lyuis,

To mak triumphe, with trump and Clarioun,

Sic pleſour was neuer in to this Regioun

As ſuld hauehave bene, the day of hir entrace,

With greit propynis, geuin till hir grace.

Thow ſaw makand rycht coſtlie ſcaffalding,

Depayntit weill, with Gold and aſure fyne,

Reddie preparit, for the vpſetting,

With Fontanis flowing, watter cleir and wyne,

Diſagyſit folkis, lyke Creaturis deuyne,

On ilk ſcaffold, to play ane ſyndrie ſtorie,

Bot all in greiting, turnit thow that glorie.

Thow ſaw mony ane luſtie freſche galland,

Weill ordourit for reſauing of thair Quene,

Ilk Craftiſman with bent bow in his hand,

Full galȝeartlie in ſchort clething of grene,

The honeſt Burges, cled thow ſuld hauehave ſene,

Sum in ſcarlot, and ſum in claith of grane,

For till hauehave met thare Lady Souerane.

Proueſt, Baillies, and lordis of the toun,

The Senatouris in ordour conſequent,

Cled in to Silk of Purpure blak and brown,

Syne the greit Lordis of the Parliament,

With mony knychtlie Barroun, and baurent,

In Silk and Gold, in colouris conſortable,

Bot thow allace, all turnit in to ſable.

Syne all the Lordis of Religioun,

And Princes of the preiſtis venerable,

Full pleſandlie in thare Proceſſioun,

With all the cunnyng Clerkis honorable,

Bot thiftuouſlie thow Tyrane treſonable,

All thare greit ſolace, and Solempniteis,

Thow turnit in till dulefull Dirigeis.

Syne nixt in Ordour paſſing throw the toun,

Thow ſuld hauehave hard the din of Inſtrumentis,

Of Tabrone, Trumpet, Schalme, & Clarioun,

With reird redoundand throw the Elementis,

The Herauldis, with thare awfull Veſtimentis,

With Maſeris, vponupon ather of thare handis,

To rewle the preis, with burneiſt ſiluer wandis.

Syne laſt of all in Ordour triumphall,

That moſt Iliuſter Princes honorable,

With hir the luſtie Ladyis of Scotland,

Quhilk ſuld hauehave bene, anie ſycht moſt delectable

Hir rayment to rehers, I am nocht able,

Of Gold and perle, and precious ſtonis brycht

Twynkling lyke ſterris in ane froſtie nycht.

VnderUnder ane Pale of gold, ſcho ſuld hauehave paſt,

Be Burgeſſis borne, clothie in ſilkis fyne,

The greit Maiſter of houſhold all thare laſt.

With hym in ordour all the Kingis tryne,

Quhais ordinance, war langſum to defyne.

On this maner, ſcho paſſing throw the toun.

Suld hauehave reſauit mony beniſoun,

Of Virginis, and of luſtie burges wylffis,

Quhilk ſuld hauehave bene, ane ſycht celeſtiall.

Viue la Royne, cryand for thare lyiffis,

With ane Harmonious ſound Angelicall,

In euerilk corner, myrthis Muſicall,

Bot thow tyrane, in quhome is found no grace,

Our Alleluya, hes turnit in allace.

Thow ſuld hauehave hard, the ornate Oratouris,

Makand hir hienes Salutatioun,

Boith of the Clergy, toun and counſalouris,

With mony Notable Narratioun,

Thow ſuld hauehave ſene hir Coronatioun,

In the fair Abbay of the Holy rude,

In preſence of ane myrthfull multitude.

Sic Banketing, ſic aufull Tornamentis,

On hors & fute, that tyme quhilk ſuld hauehave bene,

Sic Chappell Royall, with ſic Inſtrumentis,

And craftie Muſick, ſinging frome the ſplene,

In this countre, was neuer hard nor ſene,

Bot all this greit ſolempnite and gam,

Turnit thow hes, In Requiem aeternam.

Inconſtant warld, thy freindſchip I defy;

Sen ſtrenth, nor wiſdome riches nor honour

Vertew nor bewtie, none may certefy,

Within thy boundis, for to remane ane hour,

Quhat valith to the king or Empryour,

Sen pryncely puiſſance, may nocht be exemit,

Frō Deith, quhoſe dolour can nocht be expremit.

Sen man in erth, hes na place permanent.

Bot all mon paſſe, be that horrible port,

Lat vsus pray to the Lord Omnipotent,

That dulefull day, to be our greit comfort,

That in his Realme, we may with hym reſort,

Quhilkꝭ from y^e hell, w^t his blude ranſonit bene,

With Magdalene, vmquhyle of ſcotlād Quene.

O Deith, thocht thow the bodie may deuore

Of eueryevery man, ȝit hes thow no puiſſance,

Of thare vertew, for to conſume the glore,

As ſalbe ſene, of Magdalene of France,

Vmquhyle our quene, quhom Poetis ſal auance

And put hir in perpetuall memorie,

So ſail hir fame, of the hauehave Victorie.

Thocht thou hes ſlane y^e heuinly flour of France

Quhilk Impit was, in to the Chriſſill kene,

Quharein all Scotland ſaw thair hail pleſance,

And maid the Lyoun reioyſit frome the ſplene,

Thocht rute be pullit frome the leuis grent,

The ſmell of it, ſall in diſpyte of the,

Keip ay twa Realmes, in Peice and Amite.

Quod Lindeſay.

The Anſwer quhilk ſchir Dauid Lindeſay maid to y^e Kingis Flyting. ☞✚☜

REdoutit Roy, ȝour ragment I hauehave red,

Quhilk dois perturb my dull Intendemēt.

From ȝour flyting, wald God, y^t I wer fred.

Or ellis ſum Tygerris toung wer to me lent.

Schir, pardone me, thocht I be Impacient,

Quhilk bene ſo w^t ȝour prunȝeand pen detractit,

And rude report, frome Venus Court deiectit.

Luſtie Ladyis, that ȝour Libellis lukis

My cumpanie, dois hald abhominable,

Commandand me beir cumpanie to the Cukis,

Moiſt lyke ane Deuill, thay hald me deteſtable.

Thay banis me ſayand, I am nocht able

Thame to compleis, or preis to thare preſence.

Apon ȝour pen, I cry ane loud vengeance,

Wer I ane Poeit, I ſuld preis with my pen

To wreik me on ȝour wennemous wryting.

Bot I man do, as dog dois in his den,

Fald baith my feit, or fle faſt frome ȝour flyting.

The mekle Deuil may nocht indure ȝour dyting.

Quhare for, Cor mundum crea in me, I cry,

Proclamand ȝow, the Prince of Poetry.

Schir with my Prince, pertenit me nocht to pley.

Bot ſen ȝour grace, hes geuin me ſic command,

To mak anſwer, it muſt neidis me obey,

Thocht ȝe be now ſtrang lyke ane Elephand,

And in till Venus werkis maiſt vailȝeand,

The day wyll cum, and that within few ȝeiris,

That ȝe wyll draw at laiſer with ȝour ferris.

Quhat can ȝe ſay forther, bot I am tailȝeit

In Venus werkis, I grant ſchir, that is trew.

The tyme hes bene, I wes better artailȝeit,

Nor I am now, bot ȝit full fair I rew,

That euer I did Mouth thankles ſo perſew.

Quhare for tak tent, and ȝour fyne powder ſpair.

And waiſt it nocht, bot gyf ȝe wit weill quhair.

Thocht ȝe rin rudelie, lyke ane reſtles Ram,

Schutand ȝour bolt, at mony ſindrie ſchellis,

Beleif richt weill, it is ane bydand gam.

Quharefore bewar, with dowbling of the bellis,

For mony ane dois haiſt thair awin ſaule knellis.

And ſpeciallie, quhen that the well gois dry,

Syne can nocht get agane, ſic ſtufe to by.

I giuegive ȝour counſale, to the feynd of hell,

That wald nocht of ane Princes ȝow prouide.

Tholand ȝow rin ſchutand frome ſchell to ſchell,

Waiſtand ȝour corps, leitand the tyme ouerſlyde

For lyke ane boiſteous Bull, ȝe rin and ryde

Royatouſlie lyke ane rude Rubeatour,

Ay fukkand lyke ane furious Fornicatour.

On Ladronis for to loip, ȝe wyll nocht lat,

Howbeit the Caribaldis cry, the corinoch.

Remember how beſyde the maſking fat,

Ȝe caiſt ane quene, ov er thort ane ſtinking troch

That feynd with fuffilling of hir roiſtit hoch,

Caiſt doun the fat, quharthrow drink draf & iuggis

Come rudely rinnād dōn about ȝour luggis.

Wald God the Lady that luffit ȝow beſt

Had ſene ȝow thair ly ſwetterand lyke twa ſwyne.

Bot to indyte how that duddroun wes dreſt,

Drowkit w^t dreggꝭ, quhimpecād w^t mony quhryne,

That proces to report, it wer ane pyne.

On ȝour behalf, I thank God tymes ten ſco…e,

That ȝow preſeruit, frō gut, & frome grandgore.

Now ſchir fairweill, becauſe I can nocht flyte.

And thocht I could, I wer nocht tyll auance,

Aganis ȝour ornate Meter to indyte.

Bot ȝit be war, with lawbouring of ȝour lance.

Sū ſayis thare cūmis ane bukler furth of france.

Quhilk wyll indure ȝour dintis, thocht thay be dour

Fairweill of flowand Rethorik y^e flour.

Quod Lindeſay in his flyting

Aganis the Kingis dyting.