The Lion and the Mouse

In myddis of June, that joly sweit sessoun,
Quhen that fair Phebus with his bemis brycht
Had dryit up the dew fra daill and doun,
And all the land maid with his lemys lycht;
In a mornyng, betwix midday and nycht,
I raiss and put all sleuth and sleip on syd;
Ontill a wod I went allone but gyd.

Sweit wes the smell of flowris quhyt and reid,
The noyis of birdis rycht delicius,
The be wis bred blumyt abone my heid,
The grund growand with gress gratius;
Of all plesans that place wes plenteus,
With sweit odour and birdis harmony,
The mornyng myld: my mirth wes mair for- thy.

The roisis reid arreyit rone and ryse,
The prymrose and the purpour viola;
To heir it was a poynt of Paradyse,
Sic myrth the mavis and the merle couth ma.
The blosummis blyth brak up on bank and bra;
The smell of herbis and of fowlis cry
Contending quha suld haif the victory.

Me to conserve than fra the sonis heit,
Undir the schadow of ane hawthorne grene,
I lenyt down amangis the flowris sweit,
Syne maid a corse, and closit baith myne ene,
On sleip I fell amang the bewis bene,
And in my dreme me thocht come throw the schaw
The fairest man that evir befoir I saw.

His gown wes of a claith as quhyt as mylk;
His chemeis wes of chamelet purpour broun;
His hood of scarlet, bordowrit with silk,
In hekle wyse, untill his girdll doun;
His bonat round wes of the auld fassoun;
His heid was quhyt; his ene wes greit and gray,
With lokar hair, quhilk our his schulderis lay.

A roll of paper in his hand he bair;
A swannis pen stickand undir his eir;
Ane ynkhorne, with a pretty gilt pennair,
A bag of silk, all at his belt he weir:
Thus wes he gudly grathit in his geir.
Of stature large, and with a feirfull face:
Evin quhair I lay he come a sturdy pace,

And said: " God speid, my sone "; and I wes fane
Of that cowth word, and of his cumpany.
With reverence I salust him agane,
" Welcum Fadir; " and he sat doun me by.
" Displeise yow nocht, my Good Maistir, thocht I
Demand your birth, your faculty and name,
Quhy ye come heir, or quhair ye dwell at hame."

" My sone," said he, " I am of gentill blude;
My natall land is Rome withouttin nay;
And in that town first to the sculis I yude,
And science studeit full mony a day;
And now my winnyng is in hevin for ay:
Esope I hecht; my wrytin and my werk
Is cowth and kend to mony cunnand clerk."

" O Maistir Esope, Poet Laureat,
God wait, ye ar full deir welcum to me ,
Ar ye nocht he that all thir fabillis wrate,
Quhilk in effect, suppois thay fenyeit be,
Ar full of prudence and moralite? "
" Fair sone,'' said he, " I am that samyne man.'"
God wait, gif that my hairt wes mirry than.

I said, " Esope, my Maistir Venerable,
I you beseik hairtly for cherite,
Ye wald dene to tell a pretty fable
Concludand with a gud moralite."
Schakand his heid, he said, " My sone, lat be
For quhat is worth to tell a fenyeit taill,
Quhen hailie preching may nothing now availl?

" Now in this warld, me think, rycht few or nane
Till Godis word that hes devotioun;
The eir is deiff, the hairt is hard as stane,
Now oppin syn without correctioun,
The E inclynand to the erd ay doun;
Swa rowstit is the warld with canker blak,
That my taillis may littill succour mak."

" Yit, Gentill Schir," said I, " for my requeist,
Nocht till displeise your fadirheid, I pray,
Undir the figure of sum brutall beist,
A moral fable ye wald denye to say:
Quha wate nor I may leir and beir away
Sum thing thairby heireftir may availl? "
" I grant," quod he, and thus begouth a taill.

A Lyone At His pray very for-ron
To recreat his lymis and to rest,
Bekand his breist and belly at the son,
Undir a tre, lay in the fair forrest;
Sua come a trip of myse out of thair nest,
Rycht tait and trig, all dansand in a gyse,
And our the Lyon lansit twyse or thryse.

He lay so still, the myse wes nocht afferd,
Bot to and fra attour him tuke thair traise;
Sum tirlyt at the campis of his berd,
Sum sparit nocht to claw him on the face;
Myrry and glaid thus dansit thay a space,
Quhill at the last the noble Lyoun wouk,
And with his pow the maister mouss he tuke.

Scho gaif a cry, and all the laif agast
Thair dansing left, and hid thame heir and thair;
Scho that wes tane cryit and weipit fast,
And said, " Allais! for now and evirmair,
Now am I tane a wofull presonair,
And for my gilt trestis incontinent
Of lyfe and deth to thoill the jugement."

Thane spak the Lyone to that cairfull mouss:
"Thow catyve wreche, and vyle unworthy thing,
Our malapart and our presumpteuus
Thow was, to mak out our me thy tripping.
Knew thow nocht weill I wes baith Lord and King
Of all the beistis?" "Yis," quod the Mouss, " I knaw;
Bot I misknew, because you lay so law.

" Lord! I beseik thy kingly ryalte,
Heir quhat I say, and tak in patience;
Considdir first my semple poverte,
And syne thy michty he magnificens;
Se als how thingis done by negligence,
Nocht of malyse nor of promissioun,
Ever suld haif grace and remissioun.

" We wer repleit and had grit haboundance
Of alkyn fude, sic as till us effeird;
The sweit sessoun provokit us to dans,
And mak sic mirth as nature to us leird.
Ye lay so still and law upon the erd
That, be my saul, we wend ye had bene deid,
Ellis wald we nocht have dansit our your heid."

" Thy false excuse," the Lyoun said agane,
" Sail nocht availl a myt, I undirta;
I put the caise, I had bene deid or slane,
And syne my skin bene stoppit full of stra,
Thocht thow had fund my figuor lyand swa,
Becaus it bair the prent of my persoun,
Thow suld for dreid on kneis haif fallin doun.

" For thy trespas thow can mak na defens,
My noble persoun thus to vilipend;
Of thy feiris, nor thyne awin negligens,
For till excuse, thow can na cause pretend;
Thairfoir thow suffer sail a schamefull end,
And deid, sic as to tressoun is decreit,
On to the gallowis hangit be the feit."

" A mercy! Lord, at thy gentrice I ase
As thow art king of beistis coronat,
Sobir thy wreth and lat thi yre ourpass,
And mak thy mynd to mercy inclinate.
I grant offens is done to thyne estait,
Thairfoir I worthy am to suffer deid
Bot gife thy kingly mercy reik remeid.

" In every juge mercy and rewth suld be
As assessouris and collaterall;
Without mercy justice is crewelte,
As said is in the lawis spirituall:
Quhen rigour sittis in the tribunal,
The equity of law quha may sustene?
Rycht few or nane, bot mercy gang betwene.

" Also ye knaw the honor triumphall
Of all victor upon the strenth dependis
Of his compeir, quhilk manly in battell
Throw juperdy of armis lang defendis.
Quhat price or lowing, quhen the battell endis,
Is said of him that ourcumis a man,
Him to defend that noudir may nor can?

" A thousaud myss to kill and eik devoir,
Is littill manheid untill a strong lyoun;
Full littill wirschep haif ye won thairfoir,
To quhais strenth is na comparisoun:
It will degraid sum pairt of your renoun
Till slay a mouss, quhilk may male na defens,
Bot askand mercy at your excellence.

" Also it semys nocht to your Celsitud,
Quhilk usis daylie meitis delicius,
To fyle your teith or lippis with my blude,
Quhilk to your stomok is contagius:
Unhelsum meit is of a sary mouss,
And namely till a noble Strang Lyoun,
Wont to be fed with gentill venysoun.

" My lyfe is littill worth, my deith is less,
Yit and I leif, I may, peraventour,
Supple your Hienes, beand in distress;
For oft is sene a man of small stature
Reskewit hes a lord of he honour,
Keipit that was in poynt to be ourthrawin
Throw misfortoun: sic caise may be your awin."

Quhen this wes said, the Lyon his langege
Pasit, and thocht according till ressoun,
And gart mercy his ere well yre assuege,
And to the mouss grantit remissioun;
Oppynit his pow, and scho on kneis fell doun,
And baith hir handis unto the hevin upheld,
Cryand, " Almychty God mot yow foryeld! "

Quhen scho wes gone, the Lyon yeid to hunt,
For he had nocht, bot levit on his pray,
And slew baith tame and wyld, as he wes wunt,
And in the cuntre maid a grit dirray;
Till at the last the peple fand the way
This crewall lyon how that thay micht tak.
Of hempin coirdis Strang nettis couth thay mak,

And in a rod, quhair he wes wont to rin,
With rapis rude fra tre to tre it band;
Syne kest a raing on raw the wod within,
With hornis blast, and cannettis fast calland.
The Lyon fled, and throw the rone rynnand,
Fell in the net, and hankit fut and heid;
For all his strenth he couth mak na remeid.

Volvand about with hiddeous rumissing,
Quhyle to, quhyle fro, gif he nycht succour get;
Bot all in vane, that velyeit him na thing;
The mair he flang, the faster wes the net;
The rapis rude was so about him plet,
On every syd, that succour saw he nane
Bot still lyand thus murnand maid his mane.

" O lamit Lyoun liggand heir sa law,
Quhair is the mycht of thy Magnificens,
Of quhom all brutall beist in erd stud aw,
And dred to luke unto thy excellens?
But howp or help, but succour or defens,
In bandis Strang heir man I byd, allace!
Till I be slane, I se nane uthir grace.

" Thair is na wy that will my harrais wraik
Nor creatur do comfort to my crown.
Quhasall mebute? Quha sail thir bandis brek?
Quha sail me put fra pane of this presoun? "
Be he had maid this lamentatioun,
Throw aventure the littill mouss come neir,
And of the Lyone hard the pietuous beir.

And suddanly it come in till hir mynd
That it suld be the Lyone did hir grace,
And said, " Now wer I fals and rycht unkynd,
Bot gife I quit sum pairt thy gentilnes
Thow did to me: " and on with that scho gais
Till hir fellowis, and on thame fast can cry,
" Cum help, cum help! " and thay come on in hy.

" Lo! " quod the Mouss, " this is the same Lyone
Quhilk grantit grace to me'quhen I wes tane;
And now is fast heir bundin in presone,
Brekand his hart with sair murnyng and mane;
Bot we him help, of succour wait he nane;
Cum help to quyte a gud turn for ane uthir,
Go, lowse him sone." And thay said, " Ye, gud bruthir."

Thay tuke na knyfe, thair teith wes scherp ennuch.
To se that sicht, forsuth it wes grit wondir,
How that thay ran amangis the raipis tuche,
Befoir, behind, sum yeid abone, sum undir,
And schure the raipis of the mastis in schundir;
Syne bad him ryse; and he stert up anone,
And thankit thame; syne on his way is gone.

Now is the Lyone fre of all danger,
Lowse and deliverit till his libertie,
Be littill beistis of ane small power,
As ye haif hard, because he had pete.
Quod I, " Maister, is thair a moralite
In this fable? " " Ya, sone," said he, " rycht gud,"-
" I pray yow, Schir," quod I, " ye wald conclud."

Moralitas

As I suppose, this mychty gay Lyoun
May signify a prince or empriour,
A potestat, or yit a king with crown,
Quhilk suld be walkryfe gyd and govirnour
Of his peple, that takis na labour
To reull and steir the land, and justice keip,
Bot lyis still in lustis, sleuth, and sleip.

The fair forrest with levis loun and le,
With fowlis sang, and flowris ferly sweit,
Is bot the warld and his prosperite,
As fals plesance myngit with cair repleit.
Rycht as the rose with frost and wintir weit
Faidis, so dois the warld, and thame dissavis
Quhilk in thair lustis maist confidens havis.

Thir littill myss ar bot the commonte,
Wantone, unwyse, without correctioun;
Thir lordis and princis quhen that thay se
Of justice mak non executioun,
And disobey; for-quhy thay stand nane aw;
That garris thame thair soverains to misknaw.

Be this fable, ye Lordis of Prudens
May considder the vertew of pete;
And to remyt sum tyme a grit offens,
And mitigate with mercy crueltie:
Oft tyme is sene a man of small degre
Hes quyt a commoun, baith for gude and ill,
As lordis has done rigour or grace him till.

Quha wait how sone a lord of greit renown,
Rolland in warldly lust and vane plesance,
May be ourthrawin, distroyit or put down
Throw fals fortoun, quhilk of all varians
Is haill maistres, and leder of the dans
Till unjust men, and bindis thaim so soir
That thay no perrell can provyd befoir.

Thir crewall men, that stentit hes the nett,
In quhilk the Lyone suddanely wes tane,
Waitit alway amendis for till get,
For hurte men wrytis in the marble stane.
Moir till expone as now I latt allane,
Bot King and lord may weill wit quhat I mene;
Figure heirof oftymes hes bene sene.

Quhen this was said, quod Esope: "My fair chyld,
Persuaid the Kirkmen ythandly to pray
That tressone of this cuntre be exyld,
And justice ring, and lordis keip thair fey
Unto thair Soverane Lord baith nycht and day."
And with that word he vaneist, and I woke;
Syne throw the schaw my j urney hamewart tuke.