Though this belappit body here
Be bound to servitude and thrall,
My faithful heart is free inteir,

And mind to serve my lady at all.
Wald God that I were perigall1
Under that redolent rose to rest!

Yet at the least, my heart, thou sall Abide with her thou luvis best.

Sen in your garth 2 the lily whyte

May not remain amang the lave, Adieu the flower of haill delyte;

Adieu the succour that may me save; Adieu the fragrant balmie suaif,3 And lamp of ladies lustiest!

My faithfull heart she sall it have, To bide with her it luvis best.

Deplore, ye ladies clear of hue,
Her absence, sen she must depart;
And specially ye luvers true,

That wounded be with luvis dart;
For ye sall want you of ane heart
As weil as I, therefore, at last,

Do go with mine, with mind inwart, And bide with her thou luvis best.

SIR RICHARD MAITLAND.

SIR RICHARD MAITLAND of Lethington (14961586), father of the Secretary Lethington of Scottish history, relieved the duties of his situation as a judge and statesman, in advanced life, by composing some moral and conversational pieces, and collecting, into the well-known manuscript which bears his name, the best productions of his contemporaries. These literary avocations were chiefly pursued in his elegant retirement at Lethington, East Lothian, where a daughter acted as amanuensis to the aged poet. His familiar style reminds us of that of Lyndsay.

Satire on the Town Ladies.
Some wifis of the borowstoun
Sae wonder vain are, and wantoun,
In warld they wait not what to weir:
On claithis they ware mony a croun;
And all for newfangleness of geir.

And of fine silk their furrit clokis,
With hingan sleeves, like geil pokis;
Nae preaching will gar them forbeir
To weir all thing that sin provokis;
And all for newfangleness of geir.

Their wilicoats maun weel be hewit,
Broudred richt braid, with pasments sewit.
I trow wha wald the matter speir,
That their gudemen had cause to rue it,
That evir their wifis wore sic geir.

Their collars, carcats, and hause beidis !1
With velvet hat heigh on their heidis,
Cordit with gold like ane younkeir,
Braidit about with golden threidis ;
And all for newfangleness of geir.

Their shoon of velvet, and their muilis ! 2
In kirk they are not content of stuilis,
The sermon when they sit to heir,
But carries cusheons like vain fulis ;
And all for newfangleness of geir.

And some will spend mair, I hear say,
In spice and drugis in ane day,
Nor wald their mothers in ane yeir;
Whilk will gar mony pack decay,
When they sae vainly waste their geir.

Leave, burgess men, or all be lost,
On your wifis to mak sic cost,
Whilk may gar all your bairnis bleir.3
She that may not want wine and roast,
Is able for to waste some geir.
Between them and nobles of blude,
Nae difference but ane velvet hude!
Their camrock curchies are as deir,
Their other claithis are as gude,
And they as costly in other geir.

Of burgess wifis though I speak plain,
Some landwart ladies are as vain,
As by their claithing may appeir,
Wearing gayer nor them may gain,
On ower vain claithis wasting geir.

ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY.

ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY was known as a poet in 1568; but his principal work, The Cherry and the Slae, was not published before 1597. The Cherry and the Slae is an allegorical poem, representing virtue and vice. The allegory is poorly managed; but some of Montgomery's descriptions are lively and vigorous; and the style of verse adopted in this poem was afterwards copied by Burns. Divested of some of the antique spelling, parts of the poem seem as modern, and as smoothly versified, as the Scottish poetry of a century and a half later.

The cushat crouds, the corbie cries,
The cuckoo couks, the prattling pyes
To geck there they begin ;

The jargon of the jangling jays,
The craiking craws and keckling kays,
They deave't me with their din.
The painted pawn with Argus eyes
Can on his May-cock call;

The turtle wails on withered trees,
And Echo answers all,
Repeating, with greeting,
How fair Narcissus fell,
By lying and spying

His shadow in the well.

The hart, the hind, the dae, the rae,
The foumart and false fox;
The bearded buck clamb up the brae
With birsy bairs and brocks;
Some feeding, some dreading
The hunter's subtle snares,
With skipping and tripping,
They played them all in pairs.
The air was sober, saft, and sweet,
Nae misty vapours, wind, nor weet,
But quiet, calm, and clear,
To foster Flora's fragrant flowers,
Whereon Apollo's paramours

Had trinkled mony a tear;

The which like silver shakers shined, Embroidering Beauty's bed,

Wherewith their heavy heads declined
In May's colours clad.

Some knoping, some dropping
Of balmy liquor sweet,
Excelling and smelling

Through Phoebus' wholesome heat.

ALEXANDER HUME.

ALEXANDER HUME, who died, minister of Logie, in 1609, published a volume of Hymns or Sacred Songs in the year 1599. He was of the Humes of Polwarth, and, previous to turning clergyman, had studied the law, and frequented the court; but in his latter years, he was a stern and even gloomy Puritan. The most finished of his productions is a description of a summer's day, which he calls the Day Estival. The various objects of external nature, characteristic of a Scottish landscape, are painted with truth and clearness, and a calm devotional feeling is spread over the poem. It opens as follows:

O perfect light, which shed away
The darkness from the light,
And set a ruler o'er the day,

Another o'er the night;

Thy glory, when the day forth flies,
More vively does appear,

Nor at mid-day unto our eyes
The shining sun is clear.

The shadow of the earth anon

Removes and drawis by,

Syne in the east, when it is gone,
Appears a clearer sky;

Whilk soon perceive the little larks,
The lapwing and the snipe;

And tune their song like Nature's clerks,
O'er meadow, muir, and stripe.

The summer day of the poet is one of unclouded splendour :

The time so tranquil is and clear,

That nowhere shall ye find,

Save on a high and barren hill,

An air of passing wind.

All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear;

Than they were painted on a wall,
No more they move or steir.

The rivers fresh, the caller streams
O'er rocks can swiftly rin,

The water clear like crystal beams,
And makes a pleasant din.

The condition of the Scottish labourer would seem to have been then more comfortable than at present, and the climate of the country warmer, for Hume describes those working in the fields as stopping at mid-day, 'noon meat and sleep to take, and refreshing themselves with caller wine' in a cave, and 'sallads steeped in oil.' As the poet lived four years in France previous to his settling in Scotland, in mature life, we suspect he must have been drawing on his continental recollections for some of the features in this picture. At length 'the gloaming comes, the day is spent,' and the poet concludes in a strain of pious gratitude and delight:

What pleasure, then, to walk and see
End-lang a river clear,

The perfect form of every tree
Within the deep appear.

The salmon out of cruives and creels,
Uphailed into scouts,

The bells and circles on the weills
Through leaping of the trouts.

O sure it were a seemly thing,
While all is still and calm,
The praise of God to play and sing,
With trumpet and with shalm.

Through all the land great is the gild
Of rustic folks that cry;

Of bleating sheep fra they be killed,
Of calves and rowting kye.

All labourers draw hame at even,
And can to others say,

Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
Whilk sent this summer day.

KING JAMES VI.

In 1585, the Scottish sovereign, KING JAMES VI. ventured into the magic circle of poesy himself, and published a volume, entitled Essayes of a Prentice in the Divine Art of Poesie. Also, Ane Short Treatise containing some Rewlis and Cautelis to be Observit and Eschewit in Scottis Poesie. Kings are generally, as Milton has remarked, though strong in legions, but weak at arguments, and the 'rules and cautelis' of the royal author are puerile and ridiculous. His majesty's verses, considering that he was only in his nineteenth year, are more creditable to him, and we shall quote one, in the original spelling, from the volume alluded to.

Ane Schort Poeme on Tyme.

As I was pansing in a morning aire,

And could not sleip nor nawyis take me rest, Furth for to walk, the morning was so faire, Athort the fields, it seemed to me the best. The East was cleare, whereby belyve I gest That fyrie Titan cumming was in sight, Obscuring chaste Diana by his light.

Who by his rising in the azure skyes,

Did dewlie helse all thame on earth do dwell. The balmie dew through birning drouth he dryis, Which made the soile to savour sweit and smell, By dew that on the night before downe fell, Which then was soukit up by the Delphienus heit Up in the aire: it was so light and weit.

On

was gentleman-usher to King James; and the poet seems to have inherited his reverence for royalty. No author of any note, excepting, perhaps, Dryden, has been so lavish of adulation as Drummond. Having studied civil law for four years in France, the poet succeeded, in 1610, to an independent estate, and took up his residence at Hawthornden. If beautiful and romantic scenery could create or nurse the genius of a poet, Drummond was peculiarly blessed with means of inspiration. In all Scotland, there is no spot more finely varied-more rich, graceful, or luxuriant— than the cliffs, caves, and wooded banks of the river Esk, and the classic shades of Hawthornden. In the immediate neighbourhood is Roslin Chapel, one of the most interesting of ruins; and the whole course of the stream and the narrow glen is like the groundwork of some fairy dream. The first publication of Drummond was in 1613, Tears on the Death of Maliades, or Henry, Prince of Wales. In 1616 appeared a volume of Poems, of various kinds, but chiefly of love and sorrow. The death of a lady to whom he was betrothed affected him deeply, and he sought relief in change of scene and the excitement of foreign travel. his return, after an absence of some years, he happened to meet a young lady named Logan, who bore so strong a resemblance to the former object of his affections, that he solicited and obtained her hand in marriage. Drummond's feelings were so intense on the side of the royalists, that the execution of Charles is said to have hastened his death, which took place at the close of the same year, December 1649. Drummond was intimate with Ben Jonson and Drayton ; and his acquaintance with the former has been rendered memorable by a visit paid to him at Hawthornden, by Jonson, in the autumn or winter of 1618. On the 25th of September of that year, the magistrates of Edinburgh conferred the freedom of the city on Jonson, and on the 26th of October following he was entertained by the civic authorities to a banquet, which, as appears from the treasurer's accounts, cost £221, 6s. 4d. Scots money. During Jonson's stay at Hawthornden, the Scottish poet kept notes of the opinions expressed by the great dramatist, and chronicled some of his personal failings. For this his memory has been keenly attacked and traduced. It should be remembered that his notes were private memoranda, never published by himself; and, while their truth has been partly confirmed from other sources, there seems no malignity or meanness in recording faithfully his impressions of one of his most distinguished contemporaries. In 1617 was published Drummond's finest poem, Forth Feasting, a Panegyric to the King's Most Excellent Majesty, congratulating James on his revisiting his native country of Scotland. The poetry of Drummond has singular sweetness and harmony of versification. He was of the school of Spenser, but less ethereal in thought and imagination. He excelled in the heroic couplet, afterwards the most popular of English measures. His sonnets are of a still higher cast, have fewer conceits, and more natural feeling, elevation of sentiment, and grace of expression. Drummond wrote a number of madrigals, epigrams, and other short pieces, some of which are coarse and licentious. general purity of his language, the harmony of his verse, and the play of fancy, in all his principal

The

productions, are his distinguishing characteristics. With more energy and force of mind, he would have been a greater favourite with Ben Jonsonand with posterity. Drummond wrote several pieces in prose, the chief of which are The History of the Five Fameses, and A Cypress Grove-the latter not unlike the works of Jeremy Taylor in style and imagery.

The River of Forth Feasting.

What blustering noise now interrupts my sleeps?
What echoing shouts thus cleave my crystal deeps,
And seem to call me from my watery court?
What melody, what sounds of joy and sport,
Are conveyed hither from each night-born spring?
With what loud murmurs do the mountains ring,
Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand,
And, full of wonder, overlook the land?
Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors
bright,

This golden people glancing in my sight?
Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise?
What loadstar draweth us all eyes?

Am I awake, or have some dreams conspired
To mock my sense with what I most desired?
View I that living face, see I those looks,

Which with delight were wont t' amaze my brooks?
Do I behold that worth, that man divine,
This age's glory, by these banks of mine?
Then find I true what I long wished in vain ;
My much-beloved prince is come again.
So unto them whose zenith is the pole,

When six black months are past, the sun does roll:
So after tempest to sea-tossed wights,
Fair Helen's brothers shew their clearing lights:
So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods,
And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods;
The feathered silvans, cloud-like, by her fly,
And with triumphing plaudits beat the sky;
Nile marvels, Serap's priests entranced rave,
And in Mygdonian stone her shape engrave;
In lasting cedars they do mark the time
In which Apollo's bird came to their clime.

Let mother-earth now decked with flowers be seen,
And sweet-breathed zephyrs curl the meadows green:
Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower,
Such as on India's shores they use to pour :
Or with that golden storm the fields adorn
Which Jove rained when his blue-eyed maid was born.
May never hours the web of day outweave;
May never Night rise from her sable cave!
Swell proud, my billows; faint not to declare
Your joys as ample as their causes are:
For murmurs hoarse, sound like Arion's harp,
Now delicately flat, now sweetly sharp;
And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair,
Strew all your springs and grots with lilies fair.
Some swiftest-footed, get them hence, and pray
Our floods and lakes may keep this holiday;
Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do run,
Which see the rising or the setting sun,
Which drink stern Grampus' mists, or Ochil's snows:
Stone-rolling Tay; Tyne, tortoise-like that flows;
The pearly Don, the Dees, the fertile Spey;
Wild Severn, which doth see our longest day;
Ness, smoking sulphur; Leve, with mountains crowned;
Strange Lomond, for his floating isles renowned;
The Irish Rian, Ken, the silver Ayr,
The snaky Doon, the Orr with rushy hair,
The crystal-streaming Nith, loud-bellowing Clyde;
Tweed, which no more our kingdoms shall divide;
Rank-swelling Annan, Lid with curled streams,
The Esks, the Solway, where they lose their names;
To every one proclaim our joys and feasts,
Our triumphs; bid all come and be our guests;

And as they meet in Neptune's azure hall,
Bid them bid sea-gods keep this festival;
This day shall by our currents be renowned;
Our hills about shall still this day resound:
Nay, that our love more to this day appear,
Let us with it henceforth begin our year.

To virgins, flowers; to sun-burnt earth, the rain;
To mariners, fair winds amidst the main ;
Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn,
Are not so pleasing as thy blest return,
That day, dear Prince.

Epitaph on Prince Henry.

Stay, passenger; see where inclosed lies
The paragon of Princes, fairest frame

Time, nature, place, could shew to mortal eyes,
In worth, wit, virtue, miracle of fame :

At least that part the earth of him could claim
This marble holds-hard like the Destinies-
For as to his brave spirit, and glorious name,
The one the world, the other fills the skies.
Th' immortal amaranthus, princely rose ;
Sad violet, and that sweet flower that bears
In sanguine spots the tenor of our woes,*

Spread on this stone, and wash it with your tears;
Then go and tell from Gades unto Inde
You saw where Earth's perfections were confined.

To his Lute.

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage1 did on thee bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,

Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widowed turtle still her loss complain.

The Praise of a Solitary Life.

Thrice happy he who, by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own.
Thou solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.
O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalmed which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights:
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

To a Nightingale.

Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care.
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.

*Milton has copied this image in his Lycidas:

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe. 1 Warbling (from ramage, French).

What soul can be so sick which by thy songs--
Attired in sweetness-sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays.

Sonnets.

In Mind's pure glass when I myself behold,
And lively see how my best days are spent,
What clouds of care above my head are rolled,
What coming ill, which I cannot prevent :
My course begun, I, wearied, do repent,
And would embrace what reason oft hath told;
But scarce thus think I, when love hath controlled
All the best reasons reason could invent.
Though sure I know my labour's end is grief,
The more I strive, that I the more shall pine,
That only death shall be my last relief:
Yet when I think upon that face divine,
Like one with arrow shot, in laughter's place,
Maugre my heart, I joy in my disgrace.

I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought
In Time's great periods, shall return to nought;
The fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought,
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
I know frail beauty 's like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords,
That love a jarring is of mind's accords,
Where sense and will bring under reason's power:
Know what I list, all this cannot me move,
But that, alas! I both must write and love.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

SIR ROBERT AYTON, a Scottish courtier and poet (1570-1638), enjoyed, like Drummond, the advantages of foreign travel and acquaintance with English poets. The few pieces of his composition are in pure English, and evince a smoothness and delicacy of fancy that have rarely been surpassed. The poet was a native of Fifeshire, son of Ayton of Kinaldie. James I. appointed him one of the gentlemen of the bed-chamber, and private secretary to his queen, besides conferring upon him the honour of knighthood. Ben Jonson seemed proud of his friendship, for he told Drummond that Sir Robert loved him (Jonson) dearly.