Classic Poem

And, thus as we wer talking to and fro,
We saw a boustius berne cum ouir the bent,
But hors, on fute, als fast as he mycht go,
Quhose rayment wes all raggit, revin, & rent,
With visage leyne, as he had fastit lent:
And fordwart fast his wayis he did advance,
With ane rycht malancolious countynance,

With scrip on hip, and pyikstaff in his hand,
As he had purposit to passe fra hame.
Quod I: gude man, I wald faine understand,
Geve that ye plesit, to wyt quhat wer your name.
Quod he: my Sonne, of that I think gret schame;
Bot, sen thow wald of my name have ane feill,
Forsuith, thay call me Ihone the Comoun Weill.

Schir Commoun Weill, quho hes yow so disgysit?
Quod I: or quhat makis yow so miserabyll?
I have marvell to se yow so supprysit,
The quhilk that I have sene so honorabyll.
To all the warld ye have bene proffitabyll,
And weill honorit in everilk Natioun:
How happinnis, now, your tribulatioun?

Allace, quod he, thow seis how it dois stand
With me, and quhow I am disherisit
Off all my grace, and mon pas of Scotland,
And go, afore quhare I was cherisit.
Remane I heir, I am bot perysit.
For thare is few to me that takis tent,
That garris me go so raggit, revin, and rent.

My tender friendis ar all put to the flycht;
For polecey is fled agane in France.
My Syster, Justice, almaist haith tynt hir sycht,
That scho can nocht hald evinly the ballance.
Plane wrang is plane capitane of Ordinance,
The quhilk debarris Laute and reassoun,
And small remeid is found for oppin treassoun.

In to the south, allace, I was neir slane:
Over all the land I culd fynd no releiff;
Almoist betwix the Mers and Lowmabane
I culde nocht knaw ane leill man be ane theif.
To schaw thare reif, thift, murthour, and mischeif,
And vecious workis, it wald infect the air:
And, als, langsum to me for tyll declair.

In to the Hieland I could fynd no remeid,
Bot suddantlie I was put to exile.
Tha sweir swyngeoris thay tuke of me non heid,
Nor amangs thame lat me remane ane quhyle.
Als, in the oute Ylis, and in Argyle,
Unthrift, sweirnes, falset, povertie, and stryfe
Pat polacey in dainger of hir lyfe.

In the Law land I come to seik refuge,
And purposit thare to mak my residence.
Bot singulare proffect gart me soune disluge,
And did me gret injuris and offence,
And said to me: swyith, harlote, hy the hence;
And in this countre se thow tak no curis,
So lang as my auctoritie induris.

And now I may mak no langer debait;
Nor I wate nocht quhome to I suld me mene;
For I have socht throw all the Spirituall stait,
Quhilkis tuke na compt for to heir me complene.
Thare officiaries, thay held me at disdane;
For Symonie, he rewlis up all that rowte;
And Covatyce, that Carle, gart bar me oute.

Pryde haith chaist far frome thame humilitie;
Devotioun is fled unto the freris;
Sensuale plesour hes baneist Chaistitie;
Lordis of Religioun, thay go lyke Seculeris,
Taking more compt in tellyng thare deneris
Nor thay do of thare constitutioun,
Thus ar thay blyndit be ambitioun.

Oure gentyll men ar all degenerate;
Liberalitie and Lawte, boith, ar loste;
And Cowardyce with Lordis is laureate;
And knychtlie curage turnit in brag and boste;
The Civele weir misgydis everilk oist.
Thare is nocht ellis bot ilk man for hym self,
That garris me go, thus baneist lyke ane elf.

Tharefor, adew; I may no langer tarye.
Fair weill, quod I, and with sanct Ihone to borrow.
Bot, wyt ye weill, my hart was wounder sarye,
Quhen Comoun Weill so sopit was in sorrow.
Yit, efter the nycht cumis the glaid morrow;
Quharefor, I pray yow, schaw me, in certane,
Quhen that ye purpose for to cum agane.

That questioun, it sall be sone desydit,
Quod he: thare sall na Scot have confortyng
Off me, tyll that I see the countre gydit
Be wysedome of ane gude auld prudent kyng,
Quhilk sall delyte hym maist, abone all thyng,
To put Justice tyll exicutioun,
And on strang tratouris mak puneisioun.

Als yit to the I say ane uther thyng:
I se, rycht weill, that proverbe is full trew,
Wo to the realme that hes ouir young ane king.
With that, he turnit his bak, and said adew.
Ouer firth and fell rycht fast fra me he flew,
Quhose departyng to me was displesand.
With that, Remembrance tuk me be the hand,

And sone, me thocht, scho brocht me to the roche,
And to the cove quhare I began to sleip.
With that, ane schip did spedalye approche,
Full plesandlie saling apone the deip,
And syne did slake hir salis, and gan to creip
Towart the land, anent quhare that I lay:
Bot, wyt ye weill, I gat ane fellown fraye.

All hir Cannounis sche leit craik of at onis:
Down schuke the stremaris frome the topcastell;
Thay sparit nocht the poulder, nor the stonis;
Thay schot thare boltis, & doun thar ankeris fell;
The Marenaris, thay did so youte and yell,
That haistalie I stert out of my dreme,
Half in ane fray, and spedalie past hame,

And lychtlie dynit, with lyste and appityte,
Syne efter, past in tyll ane Oritore,
And tuke my pen, and thare began to wryte
All the visioun that I have schawin afore.
Schir, of my dreme as now thou gettis no more,
Bot I beseik God for to send the grace
To rewle thy realme in unitie and peace.