Na mair I lout, but stand up stout, O happy day, go not away, Apollo stay Sen primum mobile says me always nay, Alex. Montgomerie. THE SEGE OF THE CASTEL OF EDINBURGH. Buschment of Beruik, mak zow for the gait, Zour camp conuoyit but cumer throw the land, The walis wes heich, we culd not weil pursew thame; The castel segit, and all beset about Thay riggan stanes come tumland ouir the trinschis. The vehement schot zeid in at either syde, By threttie cannonis plasit at partis seuin; Quhill thay thair in mycht not thair heidis hyde, Lord Sempill. THE PACK-MAN'S PATER-NOSTER. Pack-man. But good Sir John, where learn'd our Lady her Latins ? For in her days were neither mass nor matins, Nor yet one Priest that Latin then did speak, Priest. Pack-man, if thou believe the Legendary, The mass is elder far than Christ or Mary: For all the Patriarchs, both more and less, And great Melchisedeck himself said mass. Pack-man. But, good Sir John, spake all these fathers Latin? And said they mass in surplices and satin? Could they speak Latin, long ere Latin grew? And without Latin no mass can be true. And as for heretics that now translate it, False miscreants, they shame the mass, and slight it. I'd rather teach a whole convent of monks, Than such a Pack-man with his Puritan spunks. Sir James Sem pill. EPITAPH ON HABBIE SIMPSON. Kilbarchan now may say alace! For scho hes lost hir game and grace, Bot quhat remeid! For na man can supply his place; Hab Simpson's deid. Now quha shall play, The day it dawis, On bag-pypis now na body blawis, Sen Habbie's deid. Or, quha will caus our scheirers scheir? Hab Simpson cou'd. Quhat neid ye speir? Sae kyndly to his nichbouris neist, But now we neid na him arreist, For Habbie's deid. At fairis he playit befoir the speir-men, Now quha shall play befoir sic weir-men At Clark-playis, quhen he wont to cum, An tuneit his reid; Bot now our pypes may a' sing dum, Sen Habbie's deid. And at hors racis mony a day, Befoir the blak, the brown, and gray; He gart his pypis quhan he did play, Bayth skirl and screid; Now al sic pastymis quyte away, Sen Habbie's deid. He countit was ane weild wicht man, And ferslie at fute-ball he ran: At everie game the gre he wan For pith and speid; The lyke of Habbie was na then; But now he's deid. And then besyde his valyiant actis, And schuke his heid; Now we want mony merrie crackis Hee was convoyer o' the bryde, The ring to leid; Now we maun gae but ony guyde, For Habbie's deid. Sa weill's he keipit his decorum, And yet the man wan hame befoir him, Aye quhen he playit, the lassis leuch Withoutein dreid; Quhilk efter wan hym gear eneuch, Aye quhan he playit the gaitlings gedderit, In the Kirk-yeird his meir stude tedderit, Alace! for him my heart is sair, But gyle or greid; We need not look for pyping mair Sen Habbie's deid.* Robert Sempill. * We refer to the Visitor, published at Greenock, for Notes, explanatory of this Epitaph, and also to the Paisley Repository.-Editor. H |