Classic Poem

Robin Rome-Raker the Pardoner Parades his Treasures

My patent pardouns ye may see,
Cum fra the Cane of Tartarie,
 Weill seald with oster-schellis.
Thocht ye have na contritioun,
Ye sall have full remissioun,
 With help of buiks and bellis.
Here is ane relict lang and braid,
Of Fine Macoull the richt chaft blaid,
 With teith and all togidder:
Of Colling's cow heir is ane horne;
For eating of Mackonnal's corne,
 Was slaine into Balquhidder.
Here is ane cord, baith great and lang,
Quhilk hangit Johne the Armistrang,
 Of gude hemp saft and sound:
Gude halie peopill, I stand for'd
Wha ever heis hangit with this cord
 Neids never to be dround.
The culum of Sanct Bridis kow,
The gruntill of Sanct Antonis sow,
 Quhilk buir his haly bell:
Quha ever he be heirs this bell clinck,
Gif me ane ducat for till drink,
 He sall never gang to hell,
Without he be of Beliell borne.
Maisters, trow ye that this be scorne?
 Cum win this pardoun, cum.
Quha luifis thair wyfis nocht with thair hart,
I have power them for till part.
 Me think yow deif and dum!
Hes nane of yow curst wickit wyfis,
That halds yow into sturt and stryfis?
 Cum tak my dispensatioun:
Of that cummer I sall mak yow quyte,
Howbeit your selfis be in the wyte,
 And mak ane fals narratioun.
Cum win the pardoun, now let se,
For meill, for malt or for monie,
 For cok, hen, guse or gryse.
Of relicts heir I haif ane hunder.
Quhy cum ye nocht? this is ane wonder.
 I trow ye be nocht wyse.