Classic Poem

This warld it waggis I wat not how,
And na man may ane vther trow:
And euerie man dois pluke and pow,
And that the pure may finde,
Our Court it is decayit now
The cruikit leidis the blinde.

Althocht the warldlie wise be cruikit,
This commoun weill he hes miscuikit,
Our Lords ar blinde and dois ouerluikit
He gydes thame as he list
Tak thay not tent he will not huikit
To gyde thame in the mist.

He halds our Lords at variance,
He garris the tane put esperance
Thay will get daylie help of France,
This he garris thame confide
Sayis Ingland will bring mony Lance
Unto the vther side.

Our Lords ar now delt in twa sydis,
And euerie faction in him confydis:
Ze will heir tell how he thame gydis,
And ze leit zeiris few
Sen he hes maid sa mony slydis
Trow ze he can be trew.

Fra he in Court in redite grew,
He did ay change the Court anew:
The Quene his doingis sair did rew,
And richt sa did hir Mother,
The counsall kennis gif he was trew
To him that was hir Brother.

In Edinburgh quhen they conuene,
Our Lords to him they gang bedene:
As he war outher King or Quene,
He hes thame at his bidding
His craftie counsall will be sene,
Quhen Doggs barkis on ye midding.

Albeit he haif the Feuer quartane,
He suld be made Knycht of the Gartane,
He rewlis Edinburgh and Dumbartane,
As Maddie dois me tell:
Gif he war Pape I am richt certane
He wald reule heuin and hell.

Gif he gar Atholl do sic schame,
As to consent to bring hir hame:
And gif the gyding to Madame,
They will put downe the King
The Crowne will alter fra that Name,
Than murderars may sing.

He hes gart Hume begin to tyre,
Althocht that he gat his desyre:
Bot he will leid him in the myre
Thocht he hecht to defend him,
And Ingland set his lands in fyre
I wat not quha will mend him.

Als he gat Setoun out of hands,
From forfalting he sauit his lands:
Thocht he be lyand vnder bands
He will not knaw the King:
Sen ze ken how the mater stands,
Suld he haif leif to fling?

Our richt Regent quha was our targe
Laid sindrie things vnto his charge,
The quhilk in deid war verray large
As is kend with anew,
Ze haif geuin him ane plane discharge
And sayis it was not trew.

I wat ze saw neuer ane styme,
And wantit baith ressoun and ryme,
Quhen ze forgaif him all his cryme:
And maid his oddis euin,
Thocht he be fristit at this tyme
He will not be forgeuin.

I pray zow Lordis on ather syde,
That ze his sawis do not confyde,
For I will sweir zow be Sanct Bryde
He susseis not thre strais,
Quha suld be rewlar nor our gyde
May he bruke that he hais.

All thir maters he dois bot mock,
He hes deuysit mony sic block:
He can begyle ane Landwart Jock,
Except he ken him weill:
Thay say he can baith quhissill and cloik;
And his mouth full of meill.

My Lordis quhat is this that ze mene
I thinke the holkis ouergangis zour ene,
I wald sum man wald scheir zow clene
That ze micht ze thir faultis,
And be not blinde as ze haif bene
Nor led with thame that haultis.