A DEW all glaidnes, sport, and play,
Adew fair weill, baith nycht and day—
All thingz that may mak mirrie cheir,
Bot sich rycht soir in hart and say,
Allace to Graif is gone my deir.
My lothsum lyfe I may lament,
With fixit face and mynde attent,
In weiping wo to perseueir,
And asking still for punischement,
Of thame hes brocht to graif my deir.
But lang allace I may complaine,
Befoir I find my deir againe,
To me was faithfull and Inteir,
As Turtill trew on me tuke paine:
Allace to graif is gone my deir.
Sen nathing may my murning mend,
On God maist hie I will depend
My cairfull cause for to vpreir:
For he support to me will send
Althocht to graif is gone my deir.
My hauie hap, and piteous plycht,
Dois peirs my hart baith day and nycht,
That lym nor lyth I may not steir,
Till sum reuenge with force and mycht
The Cruell murther of my deir.
This cureles wound dois grief me soir,
The lyke I neuer felt befoir
Sen Fergus first of me tuke steir,
For now allace decayis my gloir
Throw cruell murther of my deir.
O wickit wretche infortunat,
O Sauage seid Insatiat,
Mycht thow not frantik fule forbeir
To sla with dart Intoxicat,
And cruellie deuoir my deir.
Wa worth the wretche, wa worth thy clan
Wa worth the wit that first began
This deir debait for to vpsteir,
Contrare the Lawis of God and man,
To murther cruellie my deir.
Throw the now Lawles libertie
Throw the mischeif and crueltie
Throw the fals men thair heidis vpbeir
Throw the is baneist equitie,
Throw the to graif is gone my deir.
Throw the ma Kingz than ane dois ring
Throw the all tratourz blyithelie sing,
Throw the is kendlit ciuill weir,
Throw the murther wald beir the swing,
Throw the to graif is gone my deir.
Throw the is rasit sturtsum stryfe,
Throw the, the vitall breith of lyfe
Is him bereft, did with the beir:
Quhen Gallow pin, or cutting knyfe
Suld stranglet the, and saift my deir.
Ungraitfull grome, sic recompence,
Was not condigne to thyne offence,
With glowing gunne that man to teir,
From doggis deith was thy defence:
To the sic mercie schew my deir.
O curssit Cain, O hound of hell,
O bludie bairne of Ishmaell,
Gedaliah quhen thow did steir,
To vicis all thow rang the bell,
Throw cruell murther of my deir.
Allace my deir did not foirsie,
Quhen he gaif pardone vnto the
Maist wickit wretche, to men sinceir
Quhat paine he brocht and miserie,
With reuthfull ruine to my deir.
But trew it is, the godly men
Quhilk think na harme nor falset ken,
Nor haitrent dois to vtherz beir,
Ar sonest brocht to deithis den:
As may be sene be this my deir.
Thairfoir to the I say no moir,
But I traist to the King of Gloir,
That thow and thyne sall zit reteir
Zour Campz with murning mynde richt soir,
For cruell murther of my deir.
O nobill Lordis of Renoun,
O Barronis bauld ze mak zow boun
To fute the feild with fresche effeir,
And dintis douse, the pryde ding doun
Of thame that brocht to graif my deir.
Reuenge his deith with ane assent,
With ane hart, will, mynde, and Intent,
In faithfull freindschip perseueir:
God will zow fauour, and thame schent,
Be work or word that slew my deir.
Be crous ze commouns in this cace,
In auenture ze cry allace,
Quhen murtherars the swinge sall beir,
And from zour natiue land zow chace,
Unles that ze reuenge my deir.
Lat all that fische be trapt in net,
Was counsall, art, part, or reset
With thankfull mynde and hartie cheir
Or zit with helping hand him met
Quhen he to graif did bring my deir.
Defend zour King and feir zour God,
Pray to auoyde his feirfull rod,
Lest in his angrie wraith austeir
Ze puneist be baith euin and od,
For not reuenging of my deir.
And do not feir the number small,
Thocht ze be few, on God ze call
With faithfull hart, and mynde sinceir,
He will be ay zour brasin wall,
Gif ze with speid reuenge my deir.
Remufe all sluggische slewth away,
Lat lurking Inuy clene decay,
Gar Commoun weill zour baner beir,
And peace and concorde it display:
Quhen ze pas to reuenge my deir.
With sobbing sych I to zow send
This my complaynt with dew commend
Desiring zow all without feir,
Me pure Scotland for to defend
Sen now to graif is gone my deir.
Adew fair weill, baith nycht and day—
All thingz that may mak mirrie cheir,
Bot sich rycht soir in hart and say,
Allace to Graif is gone my deir.
My lothsum lyfe I may lament,
With fixit face and mynde attent,
In weiping wo to perseueir,
And asking still for punischement,
Of thame hes brocht to graif my deir.
But lang allace I may complaine,
Befoir I find my deir againe,
To me was faithfull and Inteir,
As Turtill trew on me tuke paine:
Allace to graif is gone my deir.
Sen nathing may my murning mend,
On God maist hie I will depend
My cairfull cause for to vpreir:
For he support to me will send
Althocht to graif is gone my deir.
My hauie hap, and piteous plycht,
Dois peirs my hart baith day and nycht,
That lym nor lyth I may not steir,
Till sum reuenge with force and mycht
The Cruell murther of my deir.
This cureles wound dois grief me soir,
The lyke I neuer felt befoir
Sen Fergus first of me tuke steir,
For now allace decayis my gloir
Throw cruell murther of my deir.
O wickit wretche infortunat,
O Sauage seid Insatiat,
Mycht thow not frantik fule forbeir
To sla with dart Intoxicat,
And cruellie deuoir my deir.
Wa worth the wretche, wa worth thy clan
Wa worth the wit that first began
This deir debait for to vpsteir,
Contrare the Lawis of God and man,
To murther cruellie my deir.
Throw the now Lawles libertie
Throw the mischeif and crueltie
Throw the fals men thair heidis vpbeir
Throw the is baneist equitie,
Throw the to graif is gone my deir.
Throw the ma Kingz than ane dois ring
Throw the all tratourz blyithelie sing,
Throw the is kendlit ciuill weir,
Throw the murther wald beir the swing,
Throw the to graif is gone my deir.
Throw the is rasit sturtsum stryfe,
Throw the, the vitall breith of lyfe
Is him bereft, did with the beir:
Quhen Gallow pin, or cutting knyfe
Suld stranglet the, and saift my deir.
Ungraitfull grome, sic recompence,
Was not condigne to thyne offence,
With glowing gunne that man to teir,
From doggis deith was thy defence:
To the sic mercie schew my deir.
O curssit Cain, O hound of hell,
O bludie bairne of Ishmaell,
Gedaliah quhen thow did steir,
To vicis all thow rang the bell,
Throw cruell murther of my deir.
Allace my deir did not foirsie,
Quhen he gaif pardone vnto the
Maist wickit wretche, to men sinceir
Quhat paine he brocht and miserie,
With reuthfull ruine to my deir.
But trew it is, the godly men
Quhilk think na harme nor falset ken,
Nor haitrent dois to vtherz beir,
Ar sonest brocht to deithis den:
As may be sene be this my deir.
Thairfoir to the I say no moir,
But I traist to the King of Gloir,
That thow and thyne sall zit reteir
Zour Campz with murning mynde richt soir,
For cruell murther of my deir.
O nobill Lordis of Renoun,
O Barronis bauld ze mak zow boun
To fute the feild with fresche effeir,
And dintis douse, the pryde ding doun
Of thame that brocht to graif my deir.
Reuenge his deith with ane assent,
With ane hart, will, mynde, and Intent,
In faithfull freindschip perseueir:
God will zow fauour, and thame schent,
Be work or word that slew my deir.
Be crous ze commouns in this cace,
In auenture ze cry allace,
Quhen murtherars the swinge sall beir,
And from zour natiue land zow chace,
Unles that ze reuenge my deir.
Lat all that fische be trapt in net,
Was counsall, art, part, or reset
With thankfull mynde and hartie cheir
Or zit with helping hand him met
Quhen he to graif did bring my deir.
Defend zour King and feir zour God,
Pray to auoyde his feirfull rod,
Lest in his angrie wraith austeir
Ze puneist be baith euin and od,
For not reuenging of my deir.
And do not feir the number small,
Thocht ze be few, on God ze call
With faithfull hart, and mynde sinceir,
He will be ay zour brasin wall,
Gif ze with speid reuenge my deir.
Remufe all sluggische slewth away,
Lat lurking Inuy clene decay,
Gar Commoun weill zour baner beir,
And peace and concorde it display:
Quhen ze pas to reuenge my deir.
With sobbing sych I to zow send
This my complaynt with dew commend
Desiring zow all without feir,
Me pure Scotland for to defend
Sen now to graif is gone my deir.