Classic Poem

The Preface.

All fay t ful brether that on the Lord dependis,
Mark weill this schedule that I have send you heir,
Pestiferus prelatis, that Papistrie pretendis,
Sic deuils but dout sall in o r dayis appeir;
Yit God forwairnis you be the weidis they weir,
To ken the lupus in a lamb skyn to appeir,
Makand thair godis of warldlie gudis and geir,
The flock new foundit, and thay in furringis happit.

Veneraill pastoris, in vomiting thair fay t ,
Lyk to ane tyke returning to it agane,
Filling thair purses with the spirituall grathe,
Plucking the pellottis or ever the scheip be slane:
Goddis true preceptis and preiching to prophane,
Layand thair cuires in warldlie busines.
Thir are the propheitis, I speik it to you plane,
Coverit with coule of clockit holines.

Lyk to the scrybes, closing the yeattis of heawin,
Sayand the Pope sic power to thame gave;
Hyding the keyis was treuly to the gewin,
Thinking it Christianis shall na entres have,
A scabbit scheip wald fane infect the lave,
Causing sedition into the kirk to ryse.
Heirfoir, bewar what sermond ye resave;
In rottin bosses no balme liquor lyes.

To Bischop Balaam brecking the law of God,
They may succeid weill as his sone and air;
Or Coran, Dathan, reving Aarons rod,
With thair vsurpet priesthood playit no mair.
To Amasias I may them weill copair,
Sleayand the fay t full flock w t out offences;
Tane and incarcerat, keipit heir and there,
Beggit and banist, bearing the wraith of princes.

In Maccabeis, wha ever lykis to luike,
By Alchimas and Jason they may leir,
Mensuorne byschopis that Moses law forsuike,
Renucing God for warldlie gudis and geir,
With Kingis unchristned cuand to the weir,
Contrair thair cosciece and their kyndlie friendis.
What dois our bischopis now, may I no t speir,
Servandis to Sathan for his takkis and teindis?

I may copair the to a plunted fyre,
But heit to warme you in the winteris cauld;
Or to a visioun cled with trym attyre,
Covering a skyn vncomelie to behald.
The pleasan plane-trie will the leavis vnfauld,
With fairest schaddow to save the sone in symer.
Be thir lait bischopis may this teall be tauld,
Bearand no fruite bot barren blockis of tymber.

Vntruethfull teacheris, in thir tymes bypast,
Some hes bene sene from yeir to yeir;
Bot in this latter aige they flock so fast,
That I beleive in deid the day be neir.
Judas Iscariot, for a gleib of geir,
Betrayed his Maister lyk a trato r tod.
Annas and Caiphas, gif they both war heir,
Culd do no mair to slea the sanctis of God.

Blind Baals bischopis, provocking God to yire,
Your sinfull leaving hes the scheip ouersyled;
Compared to swyne returnig to the myre
In thair awin filthes to get thair fames defyled.
Albeit they be now Tulchin bischopis stylit,
Having proude kingis and counsallis to decoir the,
Auld God, is God, and will not be begylit,
When Plutois palice beis provydit for them.

May Scotland beir sic bischoppis for the gallous,
St Androis, Glasgow, for it gait anes grantit,
What have ye lost, forloppen, leying fellowes?
Fraudulent fellowes, that tuyse there fay t recated.
The spreit of God was anes into the planted,
Preiching his doctrine, as indeid they did,
But fra they gat the drapping grise they wald [wanted]
Thair clocket knaverie culd na moir be hid.

Vngratious guydis, it God has never anoynted,
Lyk to our fay t full pastouris past befoir,
But be the devile, I dout not, heir appoyntit;
Godis holie scriptour for to cloik and smoir.
For no rewarde they work but warldlie gloir,
Plaing placebo into princes faces;
With leyis and letteris doing thair devoir,
Pynand true preichouris, for to possess there places.

Voratious woulfis, I wish you to rewolk,
Ere in the den of darknes ye most lye;
Of Godis true mercies, lyk to mercat focke,
Selling for lucre, quha so lykis to by;
Libidinous druckardis they dowe not to denye;
May no man had the be thair yeis and nayis.
Thir are the propheitis, planelie ze may espye,
The Lord called lyers in the latter dayis.

Thair maister, Pluto, hes there spreitis posses,
Who with his Lord in lyk contritione fell.
Thinkand his wit and beautie by the rest,
Against the word of God he wald rebell.
Through his presuptous pryde he past to hell,
Leaving the heavinlie harbrie whair he satt.
Gif they repent no t sone, assure they sall
Receave sic mercie as thair maister gat.

This Adamsone may weill be borne of Eve,
Takand his vices of his wicket mother;
Lykkest to father Adam, I beleive,
Surpassing Cain cursed, or ony vther:
For he slew nothing bot his onlie brother;
And this hes drowned hole dioceis, ye sie.
Wanting the grace, when he shuld gyde the ruther,
He lattis his scheip tak in at luife and lie.

Reforme thair faythis, gif they be found astray
From thair vocatione cleane degenerat;
Preis not to enter be the wrangous way,
As bastard brethren, being reprobat;
With hert cotreit, and handis elevat,
Seik thair salvatione of the samyn sort;
They will not find the father obstinat,
When synnaris knoxis in casting vp the port.

Heirfore, deir Bretherne, I wish you to bewar;
Sen ye are wairned, I wald not ye were blekkit;
To thair deceatfull doctrine come not nar,
Singand lyk syrens to deceave the elected;
Both art and part of Papistrie suspectit,
As ye may see be thair workis inventit.
To Edinburgh baillies my buike salbe directed,
Desyrand lycence to get live to prent it.

Ground you on God, the rocke and corner stane,
As Paull dois speik to the Corrinthianis.
Swa live thir lyars, and thair lawis allane;
Packand thair penche lyk Epicurianis,
Contrair to Christ, lyk Antichristianis,
The plane polluters of his holie teple;
Lyk to Scrybes and fals Pharisianis,
Bellie god bischopis: Quoth your brother Semple.

A Lenhope.

Now, papir, pass; and gif they speir who send the,
Tell thame, a true ma bay t to King and Croun.
Curious poyetis, I knaw, will vilipend the,
Saying, thou fares but of ane saucie lowne.
Yet with the rascall people up and downe,
Finding our friendis, cofess to be myne,
From the New Castle cuing to this towne:
Concluding this, we toome a tas of wyne.

The Legend or Discourse of the Lyfe and
Conbersatione and Qualiteis of the Culchene
Bischope at Sanctandrois. Set furth by R. S.

T O all and sundrie be it sene,
Mark weill this mater quhat I meine,
The legend of a lymmeris lyfe,
Our Metropolitane of Fyffe;
Ane schismatyke, and gude swyne hogge,
Come of the tryb Gog Magoge;
Ane elphe, ane elvasche incubus,
Ane lewrand lawrie licherous;
Ane fals, forloppen, fenyeit freir,
Ane raungard for greid of geir,
Still daylie drinckand or he dyne,
A wirriare of the gude sweit wyne;
Ane baxters sone, ane beggar borne,
That twyse his surnaime hes mensuorne
To be called Costene he tho t schame,
He tuke vp Costantine to name.

Some to the schoolis this knave covoyes;
Beggand his breid amonges the boyes,
He come to letters at the lenth;
Then when he grew to witt and strenth,
He tuike the ministrie on hand,
And servit at Syres vp a land;
Bot through presuptious height and pryde,
He layed that office sone asyde;

Manna and quales he tho t no fude,
The pottis of Egypt was tuyse as gude.
Thinking that poore professione vaine,
He changed his surname over agane;
Now Docto r Adamsone at last.
Whairthrow he ower to Paris past,
As pedagoge to young M'Gill,
Imploying ay his spreit to ill.
To lerne disceat and subtil sawis,
He studeis long tyme in the lawis;
Ilk day devysing sindrie wylis,
Not ane nor tua that he beguyles:
Thair was no Scotisma dwellane thair,
Bot he deceaved them les or mair:
Maitland, Melwill, and Matchevellous,
Learnet never mair knaifrie in a scholehous;
Which tua resembles, as I suppone,
Architophell, and fals Triphone:
Then finding out ane new fas cast,
Amongis the prentaris is he past,
And promeist to set foorth a buike.
Grit sowmes of money from them he tuike;
Bot Bacchus, and the bordall toe,
Maid him sic busines adoe,
That he my t gett na buikis copyld;
And sua the prentaris were beguyld.
Now Holyglass, returnig hame,
To play the sophist, thought no schame:
Through sindrie realmes tho t he had ranged,
Yit nathing in his maneris changed.
Then, heiring tell how Lowrie landit,
The cogregatione him comandit
To serve a kirk, and keip a cure;
Persaving thair professione pure,
He tho t it but ane vaine vocatione.
He thristed, ane easiare occupatione,
Amonges the lawers for to lyve;
Bot fra that rang not in his sleyve,
He wald with thame no mair remane,
Bot maid him for the court agane.
The erle of Lennox, levand then
Our regent, and a worthie man,
Vnto his brother him directed,
With secreit earrandis vnsuspectit,
For pois to pay his men of weir;
Bot how, alace, as ye shall heir,
Betrayed thame bay t with a tryme covoy.
Makand his bargand with a boy,
Was ower to Flanders fled and ferreit,
Cryand out, harmesay, he was herreat;
Lameting sair his lose and skaith;

And this gait he beguylit thame bay t .
Bot yit with tyme his trickis were tryed,
He had nea toung for to denye it.
Than, gif he had not fled for feir,
Gude Matchewell had mist his meir.
To tell how he bestowit his poise,
The faice is weill sene on his noise:
For be his craig ye may weill ken
Gif he be ane of Bacchus men.
Than, whan he had na vther vaine,
He maid him for the kirk againe.
Bot for to tell what test he tuke,
Dysertis Duschet was the buike;
And maid ane sermone, some confydis,
To plesour fock on bayth the sydis.
His mynd was mair on heich promtione,
Groundit on geir, nor gude devotione,
Without respect of true religione,
As we have manie in this regione.
Yet in the pulpet we saw him greit,
Playand the publict hypocreit.
Then men, beholding his cotritione,
Beleavand he had changit coditione.
Then through to Paislay he was send,
Lascivous maneris for to amend.
What fruite come of his ganging thair?
Sic preist, sic pariche; what suld mair?
For, neather with preiching nor w t reiding,
Tuke he that faythless flock in feiding;
Bot meit in campo did comand them,
And left the some war nor he fand them.
To tell you quhat this capo meins,
Thair daylie to the drinck coveins
The obstinat papistis of the toun;
This pasto r with his scheip sat doun;
Bot maid no work, I mak you plane,
To bring the lost scheip bak agane.
To copowt coplene there he calld thame,
Bot never findis whair he forbade thame
Thair vglie aithis abhominable.
They finding him so favorable,
They thankat God that they had fud him.
Ecce qua bonu et qua jucundu
Est habitare fratres in unu.
Freir Johnstoun, and Maquhane about him;
Tua pallartis that the Pope professis,
Rysing at mydnycht to there messis;
Vidi, scivi, sed non audiebam,
Potum meru cu fletu miscebam,
Carruse, and hald the canikin klynclene,
Yit wha were there to sie thair drinking?
They hald it still vp for a mocke,
How Maister Patrick fedd his flock;
Then to the Court this craftie lown;
To be a bytescheip maid him boun;

Becaus S t Androis then dependit,
To heich promotione he pretendit.
The kirk began to tak suspitione,
Then knawing weill the knaifis coditione,
They callit him into thair Assemblie,
Bot not so welcome thair as hamelie.

Greit oethes he sweiris, w t feinyeit face,
That he suld never inioy that place;
And bad thame hald him vnsuspect,
He was not gewin to that effect.
Bot bettir packet afternone,
The foullest turne that ever was done,
Ben ower the bar he gave a brocht,
And laid among them sic a locket;
With eructavit cor meu ,
He hosted thair a hude full fra him;
For laike of rowme, that rubiature
Bespewit vp the moderator;
While the Assemblie thocht grit schame,
Saying he was seik, and send him hame,
And laid him backwardis in a bed,
But not so weill nurtorit as fed.
Sone efter that, incontinet,
Earle of Mortoun gat the regimet;
Then sett he to, with saill and ayre,
To seik some lowiner harbore thayre,
And caist his anckers on the raid,
And long tyme with the Lord abaid.
His towes, I find, hes bene so fyne,
For all the stormes hes bene sensyne,
His schip come never on the schalde,
But stack still on the ancker halde.
His office daylie was, indeid,
The chapter to expone and reid.
When he that sermone celebrat,
He had a word accustomat;
The propheit meinis this, gif ye mark it,
Auld Captane Kirkburne to him harkit;

Perceaving weill S t Androis vaikit,
And syne how sone the knave was staikit,
To all men levand he compleinis,
I watt now what the propheit menis.
This foirsaid bischope beand deid,
Maister Johne Wynrame was maid heid,
For sowmes of silwer that he had lent the;
Bot he besoght thame to content the:
He cravit na digniteis prophane,
But his awin silver hame agane.
Fra Holiglass sone hard this thing,
He toned his dussie for a spring,
And held the Regent so in hand,
And maid him weill to vnderstand
That he sould pay the foir said sowme,
Gif he were enterit in the rowme;
And mair, as he wald bid him doe,
To give his servantis pensiones toe.
Sua, with his craft, this carlingis pett,
Hes fangit ane grit fisch in his nett.
Bot fra he was a byschope stylit,

M r Johne Wyndrome was beguylit,

Had he no t had a sure probatione,
And cald him on his obligatione.
Bot Docto r Patrick still replyed,
With trickis and delatouris he denyed,
And maid manifest to men of law,
That he had his discharge to schaw.
Bot how his discharge was gotten,
When Holieglass is deid and rotten;
His smaikrie sall not be forgett,
How Docto r Patrick payit his debt.
Ane new coceat this knaif hes tane;
To Willie Vylie he hes gane,
The Regents awin cubicular,
His servant and his secretare,
And him besought to lat him see
Of missive wrytingis tuo or thrie,
Fra Maister Jhone Wydrome to my Lord,
And hecht him crownes for to accord.
This simple boy, suspecting nocht,
Thrie of the wrytingis to him brought.
Ane of thame law subscryvit, ye ken,
As custom is to noble men:
He cuttit off the bill above [abone]
And filled the blank with falset sone,
Discharging him the foirsaid sowmes.
It cuand in the Sessiones thowmes,
To Maister Wyndrome they copleanet,
Wha swair that he had nevir sene it,
And tuike in hand for to impryve it.
Thair Matchewell had bene mischevit,
Were not his falsett was cofessit,
And sic a moyen with him dressit,
Five hudreth merkis he to him gave,
And tuik in hand to pay the leave.
At certane dayis, thair was na doubt,
Bot fra he fand the tyme ryn out,
He pat him off with mowis and mockis,
And had no will to louse the boxe.
The superintendent saw na better,
Bot raid agane, and raisit a letter,
And gat the harlat to the horne.
Bot Howliglass, lang or the morne,
New falsat forged out for to defend him;
Ane fair suspentione he hes send him.
The vther to the Sessione pleinyeit,
And said it was both fals and feinyeit,
And socht inspectione for impriving.
The lymmer, feiring lyfe and leving.
He saw na bute, but bagis to louse,
And swoir he maid it but in mowis:
As Maister Andro Wilsoune wrocht it,
And secreitlie said he forthoght it;
Beseikand him to keip it close,
Or word ran to the comon woice.
The vther wald na mair reprive him,
Bot all men he forbade beleive him,
Or ever to trow ane word he spak,
But Holiglass behind thair back.
So in Sanctandrois happened then,
Ane callit Scot, a mareit man,
Nocht verie riche in worldlie guddis:
Save tua pure aikers of borrow ruddis;
Yit with the glaikis he was owergane,
And in adulterie he was tane;
Maid to be punisit for his paik;
But he was stubburne in his talk;
Iniurit the elders, what suld mair?
This byschop, beand present thair,
Desyrit him hame, and he suld seay
Gif he culd lerne him to obey;
For all his crackis, doe what he can
To knaw the law of God and man.
Sua to his castell tuik him hame,
This dubil drunckerd thought na schame;
Fuorth seereitlie he callis him syne,
And fillit him fow with aill and wyne;
Persuading him to sell his land,
And gat his letters in his hand.
This beand done, as I have said,
Vpon his duschet vpe he played,
Gevand the man so mony terroris,
That brocht him in a thousand erroris,
That for his lyfe was no remeid,
Gif he abaid the law but deid.
The pure man, being fleid for feir,
Gave him the land, and gat na geir;
Maid sayle syne to the Easter sees,
And, lyk ane dyver, thair he deis;
Whairto this bischop tuik reguard,
And enterit sone to Nabothis yaird.
The sillie wedo a quhyle defendit,
But scho grew pure, and so scho endit,
And left hir malisone, cosider,
To Lowrie, and the land together.
Whether hir malisone tuike effect,
Or gif it was the gude wyne sect,
Or surfeating of sundrie spyces,
Or than a scurge for clockit vyces;
Bot sic ane seiknes hes he tane,
That all men trowit he had bene gane;

For leitches my t mak no remeid,
Thair was na bute to him bot deid.
He, seing weill he wald not mend,
For Phetanissa hes he send,
With sorcerie and incantationes,
Reising the devill with invocationes;
With herbis, stanis, buikis, and bellis,
Menis mebers, and south runig wellis;
Palme croces, and knottis of strease,
The paring of a preistis auld tees;
And, in principio , sought out syne,
That vnder ane alter of stane had lyne,

Sanct Jhones nutt, and the for' e levit claver,
With taill and mayn of a baxter aver.
Had careit hame heather to the oyne.
Cutted off in the cruik of the moone;
Halie water, and the laber beidis,
Hyntworthe, and fourtie vther weidis:
Whairthrow the charmig tuik sic force,
They laid it on his fatt whyte horse.
As all men saw, he sone deceissit:
Thair Saga slew ane saikles beast.
This wald not serve; he sought ane vther,
Ane devill duelling in Anstruther,
Exceading Circes in coceattis,
For changene of Wlisses meatis:
Medusa's craftis scho culd declair,
In making eddars of her hair:
Medea's practicques scho had plane,
That could mak auld men young agane.
By Achates, the witches god,
Mercurius, with his charmed rod,
The aunciet king of Bactria,
That first inventit magica,
Could not so weill of stowen geir tell.
As could this vglie hund of hell.
With this, the word yead through the toun,
How lurcan Lowrie played the lowne:
Heiring how witches wrang abusit him,
The kirkmen calld him and accused him,
And scharplie of theis pointis reproved him,
That he in sorcerie beleavit him,

Whairthrough his saule my t come to skay t .
The witche and he cofessing bayth,
Scho tuike some part of white wyne dreggis,
Wounded rayne, and blak hen eggis,
And maid him droggis that did him gude.
His ansr. being rashe and rude:
Suppoise the devill maid that graith,
The seiknes sua oversett my faith,
At that tyme, to asswage my sair,
I wald have tane it, I tauld thame thair,
Then did the elders him desyre
Vpon the morne to mak a fyre,
To burne the witches both to deid:
Bot or the morne he fand remeid.
He dred sa sair they suld have schawin
How his knaverie was to the vnknawin;
Laich in a lyncbus, whair thay lay,
Then Lowrie lowsit the, long or day,
And had no will they were corrected;
Yit with the people he was suspected,
Trowing the teallis befoir was spocken,
Becaus they saw no presone brocken.
There was his pretticques weill espyed;
But with his ansr: he replyit,
And said, na man, at his comand,
Wald tak the presone hous in hand;
Into that dugeon was sic din,
As Beelzebub had bene therin;
That nevir a man durst stire qll: day:
And sua he neckit thame with may,
And brocht the teale bravelie about,
How Pluto come and pullit the out.
Yit few or nane this Lourie beleavit,
Becaus they culd not get it previt:
They prayit him to amend his lyfe,
And trow na witchcraft in a wife.
For oght the kirk culd him forbid,
He sped him sone, and gat the thrid;
Ane carling of the Quene of Phareis,
That ewill win geir to elphyne careis;
Through all Braid Abane scho hes bene,
On horsbak on Hallow ewin;
And ay in seiking certayne nyghtis,
As scho sayis, with sur sillie wychtis;
And names out ny t bo r is sex or sewin,
That we belevit had bene in heawin.
Scho said scho saw thame weill aneugh,
And speciallie gude auld Balcleuch
The secretare, and sundrie vther;
Ane William Symsone, hir mother brother,
Whom fra scho hes resavit a buike,
For ony herb scho lykis to luike:
It will instruct hir how to tak it;
In sawis and sillubs how to mak it;
With stones that mekle mair can doe
In leich craft, whair scho layis them toe.
A thowsand maladeis scho hes medit.
Now being tane and apprehendit,
Scho being in the bischopis cure,
And kepit in his castell sure,
Without respect of warldlie glamer,
He past into the witchis chalmer,
Closing the dure behind his bak,
And quyetlie to hir he spak,

And said, his work lome was no t worthe,
Lowsing his poyntis, he laid it furth.
Scho sayned it with hir halie hand;

The pure pith of the pryo r is wand:
To help that raipfull scho hes rest him,
Whairfore, ye say, my ladie left him.
For scho had sayned it tuyss or thrise,
His rubigo began to ryiss
Then said the bischop to Jhone Bell,
Goe, tak the first seye of hir yor sell.
The witche to him her weschell gave,
The Bischops blessing to resave.
What dayis of pardone then scho wan!
The relicques of that holie man
Micht save her saule from purgatorie.
His wyfe, coceiving jelowsie,
Cryed out his deid, when it was done,
Ran through the tovn, and tauld it sone.
Ane syiss was socht sone to the wyfe.
Whairas ane aunciet laird of Fyiffe,
Of gude report, that may be trowit,
Befoir this Bischope weill awowit,
Eather at Semblie or at Sessione,
As he wha hard the wyffis cofessione,
That this was suirlie thair proceiding.
Whair sic men gettis a flock in feeding,
The sillie scheip wilbe devorit,
And Goddis true doctrine daylie smorit.
This beand done, he thought sic schame,

He my t not tarie weill at hame,
But ower to Edinburgh he hes past,
Procured a licence, at the last,
To ryde to Londoun with a letter,
Becaus they culd not get a better.
Wist he what his comissione bure,

He my t weill serve for sic a cuire.
Sic lipps, sic lattouce, lordis and lownes,
Auld creased workis payit with crackit crownes.
Bot heir I will no mair remane,
Returnig to my text agane.

It may no t be no more forborne,
How he beguylit pure David Horne,
Ane honest man, ane messinger,

And was S t Androis pensioner.
To all the Bischopis thair befoir,
He doing daylie his devoir,
He gat allowance, being leill,
Ane pensione of a chalder of meill.
Our to this Bischop now is he gane;
His letter of tak hes with him tane;
Sayand, ye man be gude, my Lord,

And to yo r man misericord.
This angle noble in my neife
Vnto yo r Lordschip I will gife,
To cause you to renew my tackis.
The vther little answer makkis.
The Angle noble first he tuike,
And syne the letters for to luike:

With it hes byknife furth hes tane,
And maid him tuetie tackis of ane,
In litle crownes began to cut them;
The vther gaid hame backwards but them,
Sichand, and durst say no mair,
And left his angle noble thair.
With thir, and mony sic lyke trickis,
The haill coutrie this coutrie covictis.

The pure men plentis it duellis besyde him,
How creipis in a hoill to hyde him,

And barris them fast w t out the yettis,
When they come there to crave there debtis;
For kaill, candle, and knocked beir,
Herbis to the pot, and all sic geir,
He never payis ane peny he takkis.
To heir the mone the pure folk makkis,
What malisones are to him gevin,
Cryand a wengance from the hewin,
Come doun on this deceatful Lowrie;
I wald not for the carse of Gowrie
To be a bischop in his esteat.
To heir, when he gangis throw the gait,
How everie wyffe on vther puttis,
Bidding the bischop pay for his guttis,
And cryis, gar pay me for my eall,
Ane vther for candle, the thrid for caill:
The fourt cryis out for knocked beir,
How dar this dastard hud our geir?

A vengeance fall his feinzit fay t ,
For poinding of the pure folkis graith.
Efter my Lord this larwme ringis,
For this and mony sic lyke thingis,
Suppose it stude on all thair lyffis,
He will not get amongis the wyffis
Ane pynt of aill in all the tovne,
Except the silver be laid down.
Then gif ze knew his duble tackis
Amonges the coutrie men he mackis;
With feinyeit seillis and antideatis,
And tuentie vther tryme coceatis,
Setting the coutrie be the earis,

And takis no tho t of ny t bo r is weiris,
Se he be sure to fill his hand,
How meikle blood be in the land.
Gif siclyk bischopis be admittit,
Grit God and all the warld sall wit it;
This makis his trickis, his feinyeit toyes,
What clocked knaverie he covoyes.
His wattir drincking, his seiknes feinyeit,
Fearand the kirk shuld on him pleinyeid.
It coes to licht now, at the last,
Fra tyme the ministers are past,
The trick of Guisians devysit,
He hes bene ane to interpryse it;
Ane waikrife devill daylie to wirk,
To saw seditione in the kirk,
Learning a lessone at ald Frogmortene,
As he cofessit at his departing
To conterfute that fals coceat,
And speik the Quenis Grace be the gait,
He fand his seikness was so sair,
Throw all his bodie heir and thair,

That nathing my t his panes repell,
Except it were some sacred well
In Lorane, or the well of Spaa:
Bot his comissione na man saa:
Which text cotenit na vther thing
Bot comendationes fra our Kyng
Vnto the Quene of Englandis Grace,
Beseikand hir to help his case,
And to send new support aganist him.
Mortone, sayis he, the lawis hes slaine him,
And Gowrie hes gottin a codigne syse,
Conformig to his interpryse,
With sindrie vtheris that loves thair factione,

That daylie dois mentene it actione:
As Anguse, Mar, and Maister of Glames,
Tak thir thrie for na saikles lambes,
But proude ambitious bangesters,
With some seditious ministers,
Cotempneris of our authoritie,
Subscryvit aganist our Maiestie,
For to destroy our realme and regione,
Without respect of true religione;
Beleivand we should bring hame the mess
Luke what religione ye profess;
I salbe bude therby to byde,
Under grit God ye salbe guyde,
My tutrix in my tendir yeiris,
Sen none in earth to me so deir is
As ye my kindlie cusines.
Gif I had gritter bussines,
I think ye aucht for to defend me,

With succo r and support to send me.
To bring this mater to ane end,
My sacred bischop I have send,
As Semple sayis, ane subtile tod,
To bring me hame the word of God
From Italie and Almainie,
In Geneva and Germanie,
To seik the trew experiece,
For libertie of coscience.
Give ye think gud, I hald it best

That bay t our realmes my t live in rest.
With this and vther siclyk wairis,
Befoir the cousal he declairis
A fals, deceatfull, feinyeit taill,
Bot alwayis for thair awin availl.
Boy yit, or he bound to the read,
How that his packmatie was mead,
I thing it best for to declair.
His blew clock beand worne so bair,

He causit an talyeo r turne it and mak it
Into wich maill; a frind he packt it.
His sarkis, his schone, his ganging gowne,
Ane fitt case for a feinyeit lowne;
Na dentie geir this Doctor seikis;
Of tottis russet his ryding breikis;
Ane hamelie hat, a cott of kelt,
Weill beltit in ane lethrone belt;
A bair clock, and a bachlane naig,
His ruffe curfufled about his craig;
The one end to his belt hang doun.
The vther stude above his crovn.

Thair was a brave embassado r
Befoir so noble ane audito r ,
The Quene of Englandis Maiestie,
His cousall and nobilitie.
In hir triumphand palice placit,
May sic fellowis be defacit.
Allace, that Scotland had no schame,
To send sic howfing carles from hame!

Now o r embassado r is boune,
With bag and bagag off the toun,
All ny t in Seytoun he remaned,
Whair wyne and aill was nothing hayned;
And fra my Lord he gat a letter,
To cause him to be treat the better,
To Monsier, to mak him speid,

The Frenche embassado r indeid,
That daylie yit in Londoun lyis,
Wha can an evill turne weill devise;
And syne to Berwick on the morne,
Whair all men leuch my Lord to scorne;
Na mulettis thair his cofferis caries,
Bot lyk a court of auld cashmaries,
Or cadyers cuig to ane fair;
And yit some honest men gaid thair,

For fewis and takkis it he sic sett thame,

Beleivand in it towne to get thame,
Bot may gaip lang or he get them;
As they have sped, ye may speir at them.
Tuiching his awin tryne, ye shall heir,
The vicar of on a meir,
That wonder weill can turne a can,
A ganeand maister for sic a man,
With vthere fellowis tuo or thrie;
Gude Robert Melwene of Carnebie,
I shuld not racken in with thea;
Of honest men he had na mea.
But he may ruse him of his ryding,
In Londoun for his longsome byding.
Thair Holieglas begane his gaidis,
As he was learned amangis the laidis.
To Maist: Hanam sone he past,
And sowmes of silver fra him him ast
In borrowing while he come bak,
The man beleivand it he spak,
Vnto this sophist sone cosentit;
But he had efterward repentit,
Were not a man amongis the sell,
Whose coscience causit him to tell,
And quyetlie his cousall gave him,
That Holieglas wald sone deceave him.
The man perceaving it was sua,
Gave him the gek, and lute him gea,
Thankand his God, and gud men baith,

For his delyvering of it skeath.
O Holieglass! thought thou no schame,
And thou but laitlie come frome hame?
Vpon the secund day at morrow,

Suld our embassado r gea borrow,
And Want or ever he wyn ower Tweid?
Bot God be praisit he come no speid.
To Londoun Lowrie tuke the geat,
With traine my t staik for his estait,
His wantone vicare on a meir,
Twa vther fellowis to turse his geir;
Bot never ane honest man had he,
Save Robert Melwene of Carnebie,
That with that bischop went about,
To sett his feinyeit falsett out;
Bot als gude he had sittin idle,
As there ower land to leid his brydle,
Considering what reward he gatt,
Still on his owne cott taill he satt,
As salbe tauld you or we tuyne,
In loco quo it shall come in.
To tell all ludgene whair he lay,
And ay on be the brek of day,
Wald be ower langsome to collect;
I wilbe brief in that respect.
Bot yit the menstrallis and the bairdis,
Thair trowand to obtene rewardis,
About his ludgene loudlie played;
Bot menstrallis, serving man, and maid,
Gat Mitchell in an auld pocke nucke,
Save dira adew his leive he tuik.

He be the gait with murmo r passis,
Allace, I have forget the lasses!
Bot yit thay shall not want a plak;
Will God give I returne abak.
This was to cloik his waine coceat,
For he come home ane vther gait;
As Culen Kyngis that Christ adorned,
Per aliam viam he returned.
In Londone he ane ludgene tuike,
In inkeiper, a comon cuike,

Ane tapster bay t of aill and wyne,
That weill my t staik for sic a tryne.
Vnto the court the word is gane,
That he had sic ane ludgene lane.
Little they said, what evir they thought.
Vnto this bischop there was brought
Ane new-maid coische for to decore him;
Ane serving gentlema send for him,
That stude ane long ho r at his yeatt,
Or he could ony entres geatt,
While he was grathed into his geir,
Siclyke as he was wont to weir,
As I befoir have specifeit,
And Maister Willie will verefeit.
The man that was his messinger,
The Quenis Grace Latin secretare,
Being eschamit fra ever he saw him,
Said to himself, a vengeance faa him.

To this our brave embassado r ,

Whome to we doe sic hono r ,
That I am send for to hir Grace,
A cowe bust in a bischops place:
Yit in the cosche he lap at last.
Into the palice are they past,
Which callit is the fair White hall,
the palice wall
and wald no t spair,
Which is a thing inhibit thair.
Ane porter sone did him persave,
And to the bischop his blissing gave
Betuixt the schoulders a royall route,
Turning him wodderschins about.
To scape the fray he was so fane,
He put vp club in scheath agane.
Cuing to presence of the Quene,
Becaus he had not sic thingis seine,
He wist not weill how to behave him,
Bot as some vthers counsall gave him;
And that was of a semple sort,
As I can tell by true report
Of gentlemen that stude besyde him,
That he had na mair grace to guyde him
Nor it had bene ane hieland quow,
Lurcane and lowring I wat not how.
Then his comissione being red,
Out of the palice he was sped,
Then to the wall agane gois he,
To part of honestie.
The portars publictlie reprovit him,
And doubtless they had thair mischevit him,
Were not the gentle men excuset him,
And thame forbade to stryke a stranger.
He beand scapit of that danger,
Hame through the past, and wald not spair;
Thay maid a midwyfe of him thair;
They bring thame farre on abeling foiles,
Bot send thame hame throw on thair soilles.
Tuo moneth he tareit efter that,
But never presence agane he gat.
With bischops he began to fleich,
Desyring licence for to preich.
Of his auld sermon he had perquier,
Bot they had never hard thame heir.
Of omnigatherene now his glose,
He maid it lyk a Wealchma hose;
Tempora mutantur , was his text.
The bischops vicar being vext
To ruse his maister, and set him out,

Sayand to thame it stude about,
Gif ye his preiching could persave,
My maister is a lerned knaif:
Placebois part behind his bak,
Vnto the people this he spak:
The preiching done, the chapter red,
They baith gaid fow aneuch to bed.
This poysoned preicheo r of Godis word
Is not vnlyk a suple suord;
For in the fyire when ye have heat it,
To ony syde you lyk to sett it,
It will go worth and stand therto,

So will this duble docto r doe.
For greid of geir, and warldly graith,
On baith the gaitis he gruds his fayth.
For daylie we may se his dress,
When Monseir gaid vnto his mess,
Into ane gallerie neir besyde;
Thair wald this halie bischope byde,
Saying, forsuith, it was not smittel.
I think he weyit the mater litle,
How mony messis there was done,
Sa he wer packed weill at none;
For daylie thair he gaid to dyne,
To gett his fill of gude white wyne.
The denner done, he wald not spair,
Downe to a house, tuo myle and mair,
To Lambeth. bischope of Canterberrie,
Vpon his feit, but not to ferrie;
For archness to had in a grote,
He had no will to fie a bote;
Bot or he come neir hand the yeatt,
Vpon ane dyke doun was he sett
Into a secreit out of sicht,
And sat thair till his schone wes dicht.
He gave thame leive to dicht his schone;
To sponge his cloak durst not be done.
It hurt the woole, and wrought it bair;
Puld off the mottes, and did no mair;
He had na will to weir his cleathis;
Then to that bischop in he geas.
With mony flattering taill and fals,
He held that bischop in the hals,
Seiking the secreit of his wittis,
And ay besydis he fillis his guttis,
Wachting the wyne, for it was wycht.

Then, when this turn cott tuke gude ny t
Half way hameward vp the calsay,
Said to his servandis for a quha say.
Alace, the porter is foryett,

But sorrow mair the men my t gett.
Then to a sowters chope he past,
And for a pair of schone he ast.
Bot or he sperit the price to pay the,
His thovmbis was on the soillis to say them;
Then with his knockles he on them knockit;
Eftir that he had long tyme blockit,
With grit difficultie he tuik thame,
And pat thame on; ewill mocht he bruik them.
With Monsier then he moyen maid,
Lameting sair his lang abaid,
Thinking to borrow a hundreth pundis,
And oblist him for to be bund
To pay or he past off the toun.
The vther, na dowt, had laid it downe,
Were not bechance he had a man,
That with his maister roundit than:
My Lord, I kend yone lowne in Parise,
He weill betydis that sometymes careis;

And codigne docto r to all townes,
My mother lent him fyftene crownes;
Besydes some vtheris nychbo r is thair,
Some lent him less, some lent him mair.
Work what we willit was in vaine,
We uald nevir gett a grote agane.
The vther said nothing for schame,
But held his toung while he turned hame.
Ten pundis slidling furth he tuike,
And knit it in a neapkin nucke,
Saying, forsuith, I have no mair
Now at this present I may spair.

But when he gettis it geir agane,
Thair will na river ryse for raine,
And porter, porter of hellis yeattis,
That day this docto r payis his debtis.
This wald not serve his turne he tho t ;
Some vther moyen sone he socht.
The Scottis merchandis were lyand thair;
I find he maid thair baggis all bair,
And promised, vnder pane of schame,
To pay so sone as he come hame.
Bot as he payit, ye may speir,
Gif Gilbert Donaldsone were heir;
Or Patrick Quhyt, he weill can tell,
Sayand, thair is no devill in hell
Could find sic falset for to deceave him,
As he, when ever he come to crave him.
Ane vther London paik he playit,
Sending some letters, as he said,
With Patrick Quhyt, as he declairis,
Bearing the wecht of grit affairis,
To come in Scotland to the King.
The man mensueris he saw sic thing.
Suppose the teale be fals and feinyeit,
Yit to the Kingis Grace he has pleinyeit.
Havand the court at his comand,
He gart the pure ma leave the land:
For all the fyve bairnes and the wyffe,
This Metropolitane of Fyiffe
Is enterit on his hous and geir;
But how this happened, ye sall heir,
Thought it be tedious for to tell.

The ma duellis in S t Androis sell,
He lent this lowne thrie hundreth mek;
Bot when he craveth Cok his clerk,
He culd not find ane vther gait,
Bot fred him with this fals coceat.
Gif this be weill, the warld shall ken
To raise sic schiftis on saikles men.
Than Robert Melwin hame to gang,
On his awin charges lyand lang,
Sayand this burgh I may not bruik,
His precept of pensione furth he tuike,
Biddand my Lord subscryve ane letter,
And swa he did, but not the better.
Hame to the prowest he was directit;
But ye shall heir whow he was geckit.
Hame to the prowest when he past,
It greived him, and he was agast;
Who tuke him by the lap, and lewch,
Ye ken his knaverie weill aneuche.
Of all his teyndis, both meill and beir,
I have discharges for a yeir;
He gart me pay thame or I ledd thame:
The vther tuke thame vp and redd thame,
He sayned him, but he said no mair:
Tak up his Londone wsayage thair,
Ane burges man there beand bound,
Having a trve schop in the toun;
Vnto this Bischope sone he socht,
To get a licence gif he mocht,
For fortie last of Inglis beir:
Said, ten pund Stirveling I have heir,
And mair, when misteris you comand.
The Bischop tuke it weill on hand:
To Secretare Welschingame gois he,
The pearle and flowre of courtasie;

With signato r in neif alreddie,
He send him to his Soverane Ladie
For fourtie last of Englis beir.
Bot what ane leesing made he heir?
He said, to serve his house at hame,
But it was sauld in want of schame;
And not with him that he began,
He happened on ane vther man,
And tuentie pund Stirveling fra him tuke:
The first merchant he cleane forsuike;
Gave him the geck, and lat him gea;
Gud threttie pundis he coqueist sea.
Amongis the Bischopis of the towne,
He played the beggar vp and downe,
Without respect of honestie,
Or office of embassadrie.
Ane scaffing warlot, wanting schame,
Thrie of thair haikneis he tuik hame.
He beggit buikis, he beggit bowis;
Tacking in earnest, asking in mowes;
As Maister Jhone Dowglass weill can tell,
How slealie he deceavit him sell;
Borrowing ane coffer to keip his claythis,
Bot with this baggage hame he geas.
This turn cott now returnig bak,
Trowand some great reward to tak;
Bot Englis men are not so daft,
Bot they perceaved his clocked craft.
They knew him for a sembling baird,
Whome to they wald give no rewarde;
Considering as he sett him furth,
They gave him mair then he was worthe,
Seing his copburde come to nocht,
Tua leathering bosses he hes bought;
Thay will not brek, albeit they fall,
Thir strapis of trie destroyis vs all,

They brek so mony, I may no t byde it;
Heir all the inspraich he provydit.
Returnig hame, as ye hard tell,
He baid behind a day him sell,
The simple servantis to beguyle,
Sayand, he wald ryde furth a whyle,
To seay a bow that was suthing wicht;
Syne come agane, and tak gud nycht;
Bot on lap he, and went to wair;
Fairweill; adewe; they gat na mair.
Gif this be honest, ye may ken,
And, namelie, to sic honest men,
Our Legat Lord in primacie,
Besydis his grit embassadrie,
To vse swa in vncouth places;
Litle merwell, in teporall cases,
He had na will to give reward,
That to his saule had no regard.
For, lying in periculo mortis ,
Tua of the Kirk to him resortes;
Balcanquhall, as ane Christiane brother,
And Maister Andro Melwill was the other:

Both being fay t full, fearing God.
Went to persuade this subtile tod,
Lascivous maneris to amend,

Sen na man knawis the ho r nor end.
This, at the lenth, he lent them eiris,
And brusted out in a blus of tearis.
Brother, he sayis, I schame to tell
Sa oft as I misvsit my sell,
In guyding of the giftis of grace;
Gif God wald lend me tyme and space,

Tua ho r is in pulpit to deploir it,
My synfull lyfe sall no t be smorit:
With this agane began to greit.
The bretherene, seing him cotreit,
Gave thankis to God for his repentence:
But now, for all his auld acquetance,
He playit the turnecot for to deceave them,
Denyand plane that ever he spak them.
To George Durrie he played a juike,
That will not be foryet this oulke:
Foure hundreth merkis he gart him get him,
For tackis of kirkis he hecht to set him,
And syne set vther men the teindis.
The vther, having forse of freindis,
Concludit schortlie for to slea him,
For vyling of his syluer fra him:
As they had done, no dout, in deid,
Were not he sped him there with speid,
And fand sic moyen for to meis them,
Promissand profeit for to pleis them.

Whairto it turnes I can no t tell:
But sua he sophist savit him sell.
To him I can find na copair;
Save anes in France, when I was there,
Gud Clemet Marit had a lowne,
A knaif that cubart all the towne;
With spreitis employed to everie vice,
As whoredome, drincking, cartis and dyce;
To sweir, to ban, to steill and tak,

Ane never my t trow a word he spak:
In everie ludgene whair he wald licht,
Taking his leive without gud nicht;
Garring the wyfis sing wallaway,
Lyk to the Bischop of Galloway:
But he was sum thing pure and needie;
And this is feinyet, fals and griedie.
Galloway with no mater meld him,
Except necessitie copeld him:
Taking the warld as God wald send it,
Having ane noble hart to spend it.
Bot ay the mair this smatcher gettis,
The closser garris be keip the yettis;
Feiding his bellie and his bryde,
Begging and borrowing ay besyde.
Galloway was a man of gude,
Discendit of a noble blude;
Franck with his freind, fordward and stout,
Having gude maneris to set them out:
And this is but ane cairle, ye sie,
Ane baxteris son of bas degrie;
Feable and fleid; and nothing worth,
Wanting a face to set him furth.
What suld I lyble of this lowne?
Not all the paper of this towne,
And blek it baith vnder and abone,
May had the half that he hes done,
Wha could cleirlie descryve his cases
In Parise, and in vther places,

Gif men my t tyine and laser get?
Some thingis, indeid, I have forget:
Parceaving that he was scant of clathis,
To Londone Bischop sone he geathis,
Desyring the borrowing of a gowne,
He said, to preich in through the towne.
The Bischop, obeying the first comand,
Send for his wardrop man fre hand.
Tuiching that part I ma comend him;
Ane diligat gowne indeid he send him:
Bot when that gowne comes hame agane,
Winter salbe butt wind and raine.
Albeit I was not there to see,
He weiris it yit, to verefie;
Growgraine of silk, bot it is gray,
When ever ye see it, siris, ye may say,
He gat that gowne, with this ingyne,
Weill lyned with costly furringis fyne.
How he beguylit Jhone Harper of York,

Ane Scottis tailyeo r , lives on his work,
Aff fra a merchant he gart him tak
New brekis and dowblat, for to mak,
Of Turkie taffatie, na war geir;
Bot as he payeth him, ye sall heir.
This turne cott with his trickis begane,
Growand familiar with the man,
Sayand forsuith my silver is done;
But Londone will me releive sone:
For in that toun I tak na cair;
The Scottis merchants will meit me thair,
With monie, als mekle as I will tak.
Whairfore, to my returnig bak,
Ye wald doe weill gif ye wald thrist me,
And at this present not molest me.
Ye salbe payit; tak ye no thought:
Your tristene sall not be for nought
At our nixt meiting. What suld mair?
The vther saw him speik so fair;
To crave him forder he thoght schame.
Bot turne cott, now returnig hame,
Fand cat some vther gait to gea:
Sewin pund he payit this pure ma sea.
Some sayes he played ane fouller thing,
Bespewed the pulpit befoir the king;
Or ever the preiching was midpart done,
He neither held vnder nor abone.
Na ferlie; his cotagious stomack
Was sa owersett with Burdeous drumake;
And George Gipsones iskie bae
Had all the wyte he womit sae.
Sone after that, for sowmes of debt,

A meas r vpon the gait him mett,
Gewing him charges to obey,
To enter in warde, or els to pay.
This lowrie little ans r mackis,
Bot on a gray bonnet he tackis;
A scheip hewit clock to cover his cleathis;

But lad or boy to Ley t he geathis;
Lapp in a bott, and maid him boun;
Sen syne he come not in the toun.
Ane vther trick, as I remember;
The threttene day of this November,
Vnto his bed he bownit so fow,
Sleipping and snoring lyk a sow;
Dreamand some devill he had sene,
Out of the bed he wald have bene;
But on the flure he gat a fall,
While doun came Cannabie and all
Vpon his bellie, with sic a brattle,
The houshold, hearing sic a rattle,
Mervelit mekle what it s u ld be;
Lychtit candles, and came to sie,
And fand him lyand lyk a swyne,
Bayth bak and syde bespewit with wyne.
Seeing it rid, they waxt so red,
Believing it had bene blood he bled;
Cryand out, harmesay, he was stickit,
While ane pat doun his hand and lickit.

This is not blude, tho t it be hewit,
But Burdeous wyne, that he has spewit,
With schame and lack I will not lane,
They laid him in his bed agane.
Therefore I wald ye vnderstude,
We have na tyme for to coclude:
For ay the longare Lowrie leivis,
As fassione is of feinyit theivis,
They wilbe daylie for doing ill.
Ewin sa I will augment my bill,
As I gett witt in mair and mair
Of his proceidingis heir and thair.
I sall leive blankis for to imbrew thame,
That he a nosebitt my beleive thame,
Whome to my buik salbe directit.
Being in Paris lait suspected
For art and part of mubling messis,
Thought he hypocrysie professis:
Albeit this be not weill set furth,
Becaus the mater was no t worth,
Desyre the Bischope to be cotent,
Becaus I am no t eloquent.
I have tane trawell for his saik,
And ryme may for a raipfull staik.
Mind ye thir heidis that I rehers:
I sall not faill to mend my vers.