Ane Supplicatioun directit to the Kingis Grace, in contemptioun of Syde Taillis

Schir ! thocht your Grace hes put gret ordour,
Baith in the Hieland, and the Bordour ;
Yit mak I Supplicatioun,
Till have sum reformatioun
Of ane small falt, quhilk is nocht tressoun,
Thocht it be contrarie to ressoun.
Because the mater bene so vyle,
It may nocht have ane ornate style ;
Quharefor, I pray your Excellence,
To heir me with greit patience :
Of stinkand weidis maculate,
Na man may mak ane rois chaiplate.
Soverane, I mene of thir Syde Taillis,
Quhilk throw the dust, and dubbis traillis,
Thre quarteris lang behynd thair heillis,
Expres agane all Commounweillis.
Thocht Bischopis, in thair pontificallis,
Have men for to beir up thair taillis,
For dignitie of thair office ;
Richt so ane Quene, or ane Emprice ;
Howbeit thay use sic gravitie,
Conformand to thair Majestie :
Thocht thair rob royallis be upborne,
I think it is ane verray scorne,
That every lady of the land
Suld have hir taill so syde trailland ;
Howbeit thay bene of hie estait
The Quene, thay suld nocht counterfait.
Quhare ever thay go, it may be sene,
How kirk, and calsay, thay soup clene ;
The imagis in to the Kirk,
May think of thair syde taillis irk :
For quhen the wedder bene maist fair,
The dust fleis hiest in the air,
And all thair facis dois begarie,
Gif thay culd speik, thay wald thame warie.
To se I think ane plesand sicht,
Of Italie the ladyis bricht,
In thair clething maist triumphand
Above all other Christin land :
Yit, quhen thay travell throw the townis,
Men seis thair feet beneth thair gownis,
Four inche abone thair proper heillis,
Circulat about als round as quheillis ;
Quhare throw thare dois na poulder ryis,
Thair fair quhyte lymmis to suppryis.
Bot, I think maist abusioun,
To se men of religioun,
Gar beir thair taillis throw the streit,
That folkis may behald thair feit,
I trow Sanct Bernard, nor Sanct Blais,
Gart never man beir up thair clais;
Peter, nor Paule, nor Sanct Androw,
Gart never beir up thair taillis, I trow.
Bot, I lauch best to se ane Nun,
Gar beir hir taill abone hir bun,
For no thing ellis, as I suppois,
Bot for to schaw hir lillie quhyte hois :
In all thair Rewlis, they will nocht find,
Quha suld beir up thair taillis behind.
Bot I have maist in to despyte,
Pure claggokis cled in roiploch quhyte,
Quhilk hes skant twa markis for thair feis,
Will have twa ellis beneath thair kneis :
Kittok, that clekkit wes yestrene,
The morne, wyll counterfute the Quene :
Ane mureland Meg, that milkit the yowis
Claggit with clay abone the howis,
In barn, nor byir, scho wyll nocht byde,
Without hir kyrtyll taill be syde.
In burrowis, wantoun burges wyiffis,
Quha may have sydest taillis stryiffis,
Weill bordourit with velvoit fyne :
Bot following thame it is ane pyne,
In somer quhen the streittis dryis,
Thay rais the dust abone the skyis ;
None may ga neir thame at thair eis,
Without thay cover mouth and neis,
Frome the powder to keip thair ene,
Considder gif thair cloiffis be clene.
Betuixt thair cleving and thair kneis,
Quha micht behald thair sweitie theis,
Begairit all with dirt, and dust,
That were aneuch to stanche the lust
Of ony man that saw thame naikit :
I think sic giglottis ar bot glaikit
Without profite to have syc pryde
Harland thair claggit taillis so syde :
I wald thae Borrowstounis barnis had breikkis,
To keip sic mist fra malkinnis cheikkis ;
I dreid rouch malkin die for drouth,
Quhen sic dry dust blawis in hir mouth.
I think maist pane efter ane rane,
To se thame towkit up agane ;
Than, quhen thay step furth throw the streit,
Thair faldingis flappis about thair feit
Thair laithlie lyning furthwart flypit,
Quhilk hes the muk and midding wypit ;
Thay waist mair claith, within few yeiris,
Nor wald cleith fyftie score of freiris.
Quhen Marioun from the midding gois,
Frome hir morne turne, scho strypis the nois,
And all the day, quhare ever scho go,
Sic liquour scho likkith up also :
The turcumis of hir taill, I trow,
Micht be ane supper till ane sow.
I ken ane man, quhilk swoir greit aithis,
How he did lift ane Kittokis claithis,
And wald have done, I wat nocht quhat,
Bot sone remeid of lufe he gat ;
He thocht na schame to mak it wittin,
How hir syde taill was all beschittin ;
Of filth sic flewer straik till his hart
That he behovit for till depart.
Quod scho, Sweit schir, me think ye rew.
Quod he, Your taill makis sic ane stew,
That be Sanct Bryde, I may nocht byde it,
Ye were nocht wyse, that wald nocht hyde it,
Of Taillis I will no more indyte,
From dreid sum duddroun me despyte :
Nochtwithstanding, I wyll conclude,
That of syde taillis can cum na gude,
Syder nor may thair hanclethis hyde,
The remanent proceidis of pryde,
And pryde proceidis of the devill,
Thus alway thay proceid of evill.
Ane uther falt, Schir, may be sene,
Thay hyde thair face all bot the ene,
Quhen gentill men biddis thame gude day,
Without reverence thay slyde away,
That none may knaw, I you assure,
Ane honest woman, be ane hure ;
Without thair naikit face I se,
Thay get na mo Gude dayis of me.
Haile ane Frence lady quhen ye pleis,
Scho wyll discover mouth, and neis ;
And with one humill countenance,
With visage bair, mak reverence.
Quhen our ladyis dois ryde in raine,
Suld no man have thame at disdane,
Thocht thay be coverit mouth and neis :
In that case thay will nane displeis,
Nor quhen thay go to quiet places,
I thame excuse, to hyde thair faces,
Quhen thay wald mak collatioun,
With ony lustie companyeoun,
Thocht thay be hid than to the ene,
Ye may considder quhat I mene ;
Bot, in the Kirk, and market placis,
I think thay suld nocht hide thair facis :
Without this faltis be sone amendit,
My Flyting, Schir, sall never be endit.
Bot wald your Grace my counsall tak,
Ane proclamatioun ye suld mak,
Baith throw the Land, and Borrowstounis,
To schaw thair face, and cut thair gounis ;
Nane suld fra that exemptit be,
Except the Quenis Majestie :
Because this mater is nocht fair,
Of rethorik it man be bair.
Wemen will say, this is no bourdis,
To wryte sick vyle and filthy wordis ;
Bot wald thay clenge thair filthy taillis,
Quhilk ouir the myris and middingis traillis,
Than suld my wryting clengit be,
None uther mendis thay get of me ;
The suith suld nocht be holden clos,
Veritas non quærit angulos.
I wait gude wemen that bene wyse,
This rurall ryme wyll nocht dispyse ;
None wyll me blame, I you assure
Except ane wanton glorious hure,
Quhais flyting I feir nocht ane fle :
Fair weill ! ye get no more of me.