Ane Exhortatioun

My Sonne, now mark weil in thy memory,
Of this fals Warld the trublous transitory,
Quhose dreidfull dayis drawis neir ane end.
Tharfor, call God to be thy adjutory ;
And every day, my Sonne, Memento Mori ;
And watt not quhen, nor quhare that thow sal wend.
Heir to remaine I pray thee nocht pretend ;
And, sen thow knawis the tyme is verray schort,
In Christis blude sett all thy hole comfort.

Be nocht too myche solyst in temporall thyngis ;
Sen thow persavis Pape, Empriour, nor Kyngis
In to the erth haith no place permanent,
Thow seis that Deith thame dulefully doun thryngis,
And reivis thame from thare rent, ryches, and ringis,
Tharefor, on Christ confirme thyne hole intent;
And of thy callyng be rycht weill content.
Than God, that fedis the fowlis of the air,
All neidfull thyng for thee he sall prepair.

Consydder, in thy contemplatioun,
Ay, sen the warldis first creatioun,
Mankynd hes tholit this misery mortall,
Ay tormentit with trybulatioun,
With dolour, dreid, and desolatioun.
Gentiles, and chosin peple of Israell,
To this unhap, all subject ar, and thrall ;
Quhilk misery, but doute, sall ever indure,
Tyll the last day : my Sonne, thareof be sure.

That day, as I have maid narratioun,
Salbe the day of consolatioun
Tyll all the childryng of the chosin noumer :
Thare endit beis thare desolatioun.
And als, I mak thee supplycatioun,
In erthlye materis tak thee no more cummer.
Dreid nocht to dee; for Deith is bot ane slummer :
Leve ane just lyfe, and with ane joyous hart,
And of thy guddis tak plesandlye thy part.

Of our talkeing now latt us mak ane end.
Behald quhow Phebus dounwart dois discend,
Towart his palyce in the Occident.
Dame Synthea, I se, scho dois pretend
In tyll hir wattry regioun tyll ascend,
With vissage paill, up frome the Orient.
The dew now donkis the rosis redolent :
The mareguildis, that all day wer rejosit
Of Phebus heit, now craftelly ar closit.

The blysfull byrdis bownis to the treis,
And ceissis of thare hevinlye armoneis :
The cornecraik in the crofte, I heir hir cry ;
The bak, the howlat, febyll of thare eis,
For thair pastyme, now in the evenyng fleis ;
The nychtyngaill, with myrthfull melody,
Hir naturall notis persith throw the sky,
Tyll Synthea, makand hir observance,
Quhilk on the nycht dois tak hir dalyance.

I se Pole Artike in the North appeir,
And Venus rysing, with hir bemis cleir :
Quharefor, my Sonne, I hald it tyme to go.

COURTEOUR.
Wald God, said I, ye did remane all yeir,
That I mycht of your hevinlye lessonis leir :
Of your departyng I am wounder wo.

EXPERIENCE.
Tak pacience, said he ; it mone be so :
Perchance, I sall returne with deligence.
Thus I departit frome Experience :

And sped me home, with heart sychyng full sore,
And enterit in my quyet Oritore.
I tuke paper, and thare began to wryt
This Miserie, as ye have hard afore.
All gentyll Redaris hertlye I implore
For tyll excuse my rurall rude indyte,
Thoucht Phareseis wyll have at me dispyte,
Quhilkis wald not that thare craftynes wer kend :
Latt God be Juge ! And so I mak ane end.