Classic Poem

Amang folyis ane grit folye I find:
Quhan that ane man, past fyftie yeir of age,
Can in his vane consait [eir] grow sa blind
As for to join himself in maryage
With ane young lass, quhais blude is in ane rage;
Thinkand that he may serve hir appetyte;
Quhilk gif he fail, than will scho him dispyte.

Still ageit men sould jois in moral talis;
And nocht in tailis. For folye is to mary,
Fra tyme that bayth thair strenth and nature falis;
And tak ane wyf to bring thameself in tarye.
For fresche Maii, and cauld January,
Agreeis nocht upon ane sang in tune:
The tribbil wants that sould be sang abune.

Men sould tak voyage at the larkis sang,
And nocht at evin, quhen passit is the day.
Ester mid-age the luifar lyis full lang,
Quhen that his hair is turnit lyart gray.
Ane auld gray beird on ane quhyte mouth to lay
Into ane bed, it is ane peteous sycht!
The ane crys Help ! the uther hes no mycht.

Till have bene merchand, bigane mony yeir,
In Handwarp burges, and the toun of Bervie;
Syne in the deip for to tyne all his geir;
With vane consal to pure himselfe, and herrie!
Grit peral is for to pas our the ferrie,
Into ane lekand bott, nocht nalit fast;
To beir the sail nocht havand ane steif mast.

To tak ane maling, that grit lawbour requyris;
Syne wantis grayth for to manure the land;
(Quhen seid wantis than men of teling tyris;)
Than cumis ane; findis it waist lyand:
Yokis his pleuch; telis at his awin hand.
Bettir had bene the first had never kend it,
Nor thoil that schame. And sa my tale is endit.