Classic Poem

Kyng Jamy / Jamy your Joye is all go
Ye sommnoed our kynge why dyde ye so?
To you nothyng it dyde accorde
To sommon our kynge your soverayne lorde.
A kynge a somner it is wonder
Knowe ye not salt and suger asonder?
In your sommynge ye were to malaperte
And your harolde no thynge experte.
Ye thought ye dyde it full valyauntolye
But not worth thre skippes of a pye.
Syr squyer galyarde ye were to swyfte
Your wyll renne before your wytte.
To be so scornefull to your alye
Your counseyle was not worth a flye.
Before the frensshe kynge / danes / and other
Ye ought to honour your lorde and brother.
Trowe ye syr James his noble grace
For you and your scottes wolde tourne his face
Now ye prode scottes of gelawaye
For your kynge may synge welawaye.
Now must ye knowe our kynge for your regent
Your soverayne lorde and presedent
In hym is figured melchisedeche
And ye be desolate as armeleche.
He is our noble champyon
A kynge anoynted and ye be non,
Thrugh your counseyle your fader was slayne
Wherfore I fere ye wyll suffre payne
And ye proude scottes of dunbar
Parde ye be his homager
And suters to his parlyment
Ye dyde not your dewty therin.
Wyerfore ye may it now repent
Ye bere yourselfe som what to bolde
Therfore ye have lost your copholde
Ye be bounde tenauntes to his estate
Gyve up your game ye playe chekmate
For to the castell of norham
I understonde to soone ye cam.
For a prysoner now ye be
Eyther to the devyll or the trinite.
Thanked be saynte Gorge our ladyes knythe
Your pryd is paste adwe good nyght.
Ye have determyned to make a fraye
Our kynge than beynge out of the waye
But by the power and myght of god
Ye were beten with your owne rod.
By your wanton wyll syr at a worde
Ye have lost spores, cote armure, and sworde
kes
Than in England to playe ony suche prankes
But ye had som wyle sede to sowe
Therefore ye be layde now full lowe,
Your power coude no longer atteyne
Warre with our kynge to meyntayne
Of the kynge of naverne ye may take hede
How unfortunately he doth now spede,
In double welles now he doeth dreme.
That is a kynge witou a realme
At hym example ye wolde none take
Experyence hath brought you in the same brake
Of the out yles ye rough foted scottes
We have well eased you of the bottes
ken danes
Of our englysshe bowes ye have fette your banes.
It is not syttynge in tour nor towne
A somner to were a kynges crowne
That neble erle the whyte Lyon,
Your pompe and pryde hath layde a downe
His sone the lorde admyrall is full good
His swerd hath bathed in the scottes blode
God save kynge Henry and his lordes all
And sende the frensshe kynge suche an other fall
Amen / for saynt charyte
And god save noble
Kynge / Henry /