THE

BATTLE OF GLENLIVET.

FRAE Dunnoter to Aberdeen
I raise and took the way,
Believing well that it had been
Not half an hour to day.

The lift was clade with clouds gray,
And masked was the moon ;
Which me deceived where I lay,
And made me rise so soon.

In Cow Mouth I met a man,
Well graithed in his gear ;
"What news?" quoth I, then he began
To tell a fite of wear;

Saying, "The ministers, I fear,
A bloody browst have brown;
For yesterday withoutten mair,
On the hill at Stradown,

"I saw three lords in battel fight
Right furiously awhile,

Huntlie and Errol as they height,
Were both against Argyle;

Turn back with me, and ride a mile,
And I shall make it kend,

How they began the form and stile,
And of the battels end."

Then I, as any man would be,
Right curious was to know;
Mair of that tale he told to me,
The which, he said, he saw.
By then the day began to daw,
And back with him I raid:

Then he began the sooth to show,
And on this wise he said.

THE

SHEPHERD'S COVENANT

WITH

HIS OWN HEART.

I

MADE a covenant with my heart, That it and I should never part:

That I would give it unto none,

Until two hearts did join in one.

But straight I spied a shepherdess, Which brought my heart into distress; She was so comely to behold,

That in

my

heart she was inroll'd.

Witness Jove himself can tell,
That I do love her passing well;
Her very name when I did hear,
Did glad my heart with joyful chear.

But how can poor mortals know,
That true love will breed them woe?
My heart most lightsome was as then,
I was as merry as most men.

She vowed unto me true love, Promising she would constant prove, But it did prove contrary wise, Falsehood did put on lovers' guise.

My heart did promise a set place
Unto her comely beauteous face;
But all was taken me before,
And promise writ upon the door,

ANOTHER.

NEXT Sought I in a virgin's breast,
Bold as she told me of a guest,

Wherein I found were rooms

For lords, for knights, pages, and grooms.

At length a gentle seeming maid,
To prove I would not be afraid:
But ah! before that moon grew old,
She, for a toy, herself had sold.

Weary with travel, and with scorn,
Home it return'd where it was born;
She did not stir nor speak to none,
But there did lye and dye alone.