The Deploratioun of the Deith of Quene Magdalene

O Crewell Deith ! too greit is thy puissance,
Devorar of all erthlie levyng thingis :
Adam, we may thee wyit of this mischance,
In thy default, this cruell tyrane ringis ;
And sparis nother Empryour, nor Kingis :
And now, allace ! hes reft furth of this land,
The flour of France, and confort of Scotland.

Father Adam, allace ! that thow abusit
Thy fre wyll, being inobedient
Thow chesit deith, and lestyng lyfe refusit :
Thy successioun, allace ! that may repent,
That thow hes maid mankynd so impotent ;
That it may mak to deith no resistance,
Exemple of our Quene, the flour of France.

O dreidfull dragoun ! with thy dulefull dart,
Quhilk did nocht spair of femynine the flour ;
Bot, crewellie, did perse hir throuch the hart,
And wald nocht give hir respite for ane hour,
To remane with hir Prynce, and paramour,
That scho at laiser, mycht have tane licence :
Scotland on thee, may cry ane loud vengeance.

Thow leit Methusalem leif nine houndreth yeir,
Thre score and nyne, bot in thy furious rage
Thow did devore this young Princess, but peir,
Or scho was compleit sevintene yeir of age.
Gredie gorman ! quhy did thow nocht assuage
Thy furious rage, contrair that lustie Quene,
Till we sum fruct had of hir bodye sene.

O dame Nature ! thow did na deligence,
Contrair this theif, quhilk all the warld confoundis;
Had thow with naturall targis maid defence,
That brybour had nocht cummit within hir boundis,
And had been savit, frome sic mortall stoundis,
This mony ane yeir, bot quhare was thy discretioun
That leit hir pas, till we had sene successioun.

O Venus ! with thy blind sone, Cupido,
Fy on yow baith ! that maid na resistance ;
In to your court, ye never had sic two,
So leill luffaris, without dissimulance,
As James the Fyft and Magdalene of France,
Discendyng baith of blude Imperiall,
To quhome in lufe, I find na paregall.

For, as Leander swame outthrow the flude,
To his fair Lady Hero, mony nichtis,
So did this Prynce, throw bulryng stremis wode,
With erlis, baronis, squyaris, and with knychtis,
Contrair Neptune, and Eoll, and thair mychtis,
And left his Realme, in greit disesperance,
To seik his lufe, the first Dochter of France.

And scho, like prudent Quene Penelope,
Full constantlie wald change him for none uther,
And for his plesour left hir awin countre,
Without regard to Fader, or to Mother,
Taking no cure of sister, nor of brother ;
Bot schortlie tuke hir leif, and left thame all,
For lufe of him to quhom lufe maid hir thrall.

O dame Fortune ! quhare was thy greit confort
Till hir, to quhome thow was so favorabill ?
Thy slyding giftis maid hir na support,
Hir hie lynage, nor riches intellebill,
I se thy puissance bene bot variabill ;
Quhen hir Father, the maist hie Cristin King,
Till his deir chyld, micht mak no supportyng.

The potent prince, hir lustye lufe, and knycht,
With his maist hardie Noblis of Scotland,
Contrair that bailfull bribour had no micht,
Thocht all the men had bene at his command
Of France, Flanderis, Italie, and Ingland,
With fiftie thousand millioun of tresour,
Micht nocht prolong that Ladyis lyfe ane hour.

O Paris ! of all citeis principall,
Quhilk did resave our Prince, with laud, and glorie
Solempnitlie throw arkis triumphall,
Quhilk day bene digne, to put in memorie ;
For as Pompey, efter his victorie,
Was into Rome resavit, with greit joy,
So thow resavit our richt redoutit Roy.

Bot, at his mariage, maid upon the morne,
Sic solace, and solempnizatioun
Was never sene afore, sen Christ was borne,
Nor to Scotland sic consolatioun ;
Thare selit was the confirmatioun
Of the Weill keipit ancient Alliance,
Maid betuix Scotland and the realme of France.

I never did se one day mair glorious,
So mony, in so riche abilzementis
Of silk, and gold, with stonis precious,
Sic bankettyng, sic sound of instrumentis,
With sang, and dance, and martiall tornamentis.
Bot, lyke ane storme, efter ane plesand morrow,
Sone was our solace changit in to sorrow.

O traytour Deith ! quhome none may contramand,
Thow mycht have sene the preparatioun
Maid be the Thre Estaitis of Scotland,
With greit confort and consolatioun
In everilk cietie, castell, toure, and town,
And how ilk Nobill set his haill intent,
To be excellent in abilzement.

Theif ! saw thow nocht the greit preparatyvis
Of Edinburgh, the nobill famous toun,
Thow saw the peple, labouring for thair lyvis,
To mak triumphe, with trump, and clarion ;
Sic plesour was never, in to this regioun,
As suld have bene the day of hir entrace ;
With greit propynis, gevin till hir Grace.

Thow saw makand rycht costlie scaffalding,
Depayntit weill, with gold and azure fine,
Reddie preparit for the upsetting,
With fontanis, flowing watter cleir, and wyne,
Disagysit folkis, lyke creaturis divyne,
On ilk scaffold, to play ane syndrie storie,
Bot, all in greiting turnit thow that glorie.

Thow saw mony ane lustie fresche galland,
Weill ordourit for resaving of thair Quene :
Ilk craftisman, with bent bow, in his hand,
Full galzeartlie in schort clething of grene :
The honest Burges, cled thow suld have sene,
Sum in scarlot, and sum in claith of grane,
For till have met thair Lady Soverane.

Provest, Baillies, and Lordis of the toun,
The Senatouris, in ordour consequent,
Cled into silk of purpure, blak, and brown ;
Syne the greit Lordis of the Parliament,
With mony knychtlie Barroun, and Banrent,
In silk, and gold, in colouris confortable ;
Bot, thow, allace ! all turnit into sable.

Syne all the Lordis of Religioun,
And Princes of the preistis venerable,
Full plesandlie in thair processioun,
With all the cunnyng Clerkis honorable ;
Bot, thiftuouslie, thow tyrane tresonable,
All thair greit solace, and solempniteis,
Thow turnit in till dulefull Diregeis.

Syne nixt, in ordour, passing throw the toun,
Thow suld have hard the din of instrumentis,
Of tabrone, trumpet, schalme, and clarioun,
With reird redoundand, throw the elementis :
The Herauldis, with thair awful vestimentis,
With Maseris, upon ather of thair handis,
To rewle the preis, with burneist silver wandis.

Syne, last of all, in ordour triumphall,
That most illuster Princess honorable,
With hir the lustie ladyis of Scotland,
Quhilk suld have bene ane sicht most delectable ;
Hir rayment to rehers, I am nocht able,
Of gold, and perle, and precious stonis brycht,
Twinklyng lyke sterris, in ane frostie nycht.

Under ane pall of gold, scho sulde have past,
Be burgessis borne, clothit in silkis fyne,
The greit maister of housholde, all thare laste,
With hym, in ordour, all the Kingis tryne,
Quhais ordinance war langsum to defyne ;
On this maner, scho passing throw the toun
Suld have resavit mony benisoun,

Of virginis, and of lustie burges wyiffis ;
Quhilk suld have bene ane sicht celestiall ;
Vive la Royne ! cryand for thair lyiffis.
With ane harmonious sound angelicall ;
In everilk corner, myrthis musicall :
Bot thow tyrane, in quhome is found no grace,
Our Alleluya hes turnit in Allace !

Thow sulde have hard the ornate Oratouris,
Makand hir Hienes salutatioun,
Baith of the Clergy, Toun, and Counsalouris,
With mony notable narratioun :
Thow suld have sene hir Coronatioun,
In the fair Abbay of the Haly Rude,
In presence of ane myrthfull multitude.

Sic banketting, sic awfull tornamentis,
On hors, and fute, that tyme quhilk suld haif bene ;
Sic Chapell Royall, with sic instrumentis,
And craftie musick, singing from the splene,
In this countre, was never hard, nor sene :
Bot, all this greit solempnitie, and gam,
Turnit thow hes, In Requiem æternam.

Inconstant warld ! thy freindschip, I defy ;
Sen strenth, nor wisdome, riches, nor honour,
Vertew, nor bewtie, none may certefy,
Within thy boundis, for to remane ane hour ;
Quhat vailith to be Kyng, or Empryour,
Sen pryncely puissance may nocht be exemit
From deith, quhais dolour can nocht be expremit !

Sen man in erth hes na place permanent,
Bot all mon passe be that horrible port ;
Lat us pray to the Lord Omnipotent,
That dulefull day to be our greit confort,
That in His realme, we may with Him resort,
Quhilkis from the hell, with His blude ransomit bene,
With Magdalene, umquhyle of Scotland Quene.

O Deith ! thocht thow the bodie may devore
Of every man, yit hes thow na puissance,
Of thair vertew, for to consume the glore,
As salbe sene of Magdalene of France,
Umquhyle our Quene, quhome Poetis shall avance,
And put hir in perpetuall memorie,
So sall hir fame of thee haif victorie.

Thocht thow hes slane the hevinly Flour of France,
Quhilk impit was in to the Thrissill kene,
Quhairin all Scotland saw thair haill plesance,
And maid the Lyoun rejoysit frome the splene :
Thocht rute be pullit frome the levis grene,
The smell of it sall, in despyte of thee,
Keip ay twa Realmes in peace, and amitie.