The Ballad of Kynd Kittok

My Gudame wes a gay wif, bot scho wes rycht gend,
Scho duelt furth fer in to France, apon Falkland fellis;
Thay callit her Kynd Kittok, quhasa hir weill kend :
Scho wes like a caldrone cruke cler vnder kellis ;
Thay threpit that scho deit of thrist, et maid a gud end.
Efter hir dede, scho dredit nought in hevin for to duell ;
And sa to hevin the hieway dreidless scho wend,
Ȝit scho wanderit, and ȝeid by to ane elriche well.
Scho met thar, as I wene,
Ane ask rydand on a snaill,
Et cryit, " Ourtane fallow, haill ! "
And raid ane inche behind the taill,
Till it wes neir evin.

Sa scho had hap to be horsit to hir herbry,
Att ane ailhous neir hevin, it nyghttit thaim thare ;
Scho deit of thrist in this warld, that gert hir be so dry,
Scho neuer eit, bot drank our mesur, et mair.
Scho slepit quhill the morne at none, et rais airly ;
And to the ȝettis of hevin fast can the wif fair,
And by Sanct Petir, in at the ȝet, scho stall prevely :
God lukit et saw hir lattin in, et lewch his hert sair.
And thar, ȝeris sevin
Scho lewit a gud life,
And wes our Ladyis hen wif :
And held Sanct Petir at stryfe,
Ay quhill scho wes in hevin.

Sche lukit out on a day, and thoght ryght lang
To se the ailhous beside, in till an euill hour ;
And out of hevin the hie gait cought the wif gang
For to get hir ane fresche drink, ȝe aill of hevin wes sour.
Scho come againe to hevinnis ȝet, quhen the bell rang,
Sanct Petir hat hir with a club, quhill a gret clour
Rais in hir heid, becaus the wif ȝeid wrang.
Than to the ailhous agane scho ran, the pycharis to pour,
And for to brew, and baik.
Frendis, I pray you hertfully,
Gif ȝe be thristy or dry,
Drink with my Guddame, as ga by,
Anys for my saik.

Explicit, &c.