Classic Poem

My Gudame wes a gay wif, bot scho wes rycht gend,
Scho duelt furth fer in to France, apon Falkland fellis;
Thay callit her Kynd Kittok, quhasa hir weill kend:
Scho wes like a caldrone cruke cler under kellis;
Thay threpit that scho deit of thrist, and maid a gud end.
Efter hir dede, scho dredit nought in hevin for to duell;
And sa to hevin the hieway driedless scho wend,
Yit scho wanderit, and yeid by to ane elriche well.
Scho met thar, as I wene,
Ane ask rydand on a snaill,
And cryit, "Ourtane fallow, haill!'
And raid ane inche behind the taill,
Till it wes neir evin.

Sa scho had hap to be horsit to hir herbry,
Att ane ailhous neir hevin, it nyghttit thaim thare;
Scho deit of thrist in this warld, that gert hir be so dry,
Scho neuer eit, bot drank our mesur and mair.
Scho slepit quhill the morne at none, and rais airly;
And to the yettis of hevin fast can the wif fair,
And by Sanct Petir, in at the yet, scho stall prevely:
God lukit and saw hir lattin in, and lewch his hert sair.
And than, yeris sevin
Scho lewit a gud life,
And wes our Ladyis hen wif:
And held Sanct Petir at stryfe,
Ay quhill scho wes in hevin.

Sche lukit out on a day, and thoght ryght lang
To se the ailhous beside, in till an euill hour;
And out of hevin the hie gait cowth the wif gang
For to get hir ane fresche drink, ye aill of hevin wes sour.
Scho come againe to hevinnis yet, quhen the bell rang,
Sanct Petir hat hir with a club, quhill a gret clour
Rais in hir heid, becaus the wif yeid wrang.
Whan to the ailhous agane scho ran, the pycharis to pour,
And for to brew, and baik.
Frendis, I pray you hertfully,
Gif ye be thristy or dry,
Drink with my Guddame, as ye ga by,
Anys for my saik.